#these pieces have been a nice break in between all the painting!

[weatherera]

Your decisions

[stellorc]

Returning to tumblr after a break is so chaotic. Suddenly there's new interests, mutuals changing handles to match it, new gif sets from a media you never heard of, a bunch of new games (in this economy??), obscure references you don't get and weeks worth of good art to catch up with. I love you guys so much this is the best <3

[eyesxxyou]

First Time 💋

🩸・・・l. howlett x fem!reader

rating. m

word count. 3.5k

synopsis. you were everything logan shouldn't want. young, religious, and innocent. you were sweet to everyone. and you've never been touched. logan wants to be your first everything.

warnings. age gap relationship (reader is 21, Logan is nearing 50) , religious reader, innocent reader, explicit consent, blood, taking of virginity, a bit of toxic relationship dynamics, logan is not a good person, not edited

↳ pt.1 / pt.2 / pt.3

You were dealing with the devil in disguise and you didn't even know it. For even the devil was once an angel, the most beautiful angel in heaven. That’s the way he tempts even the purest souls into damnation. And you were his latest victim.

Your purity was hanging by the thinnest thread called “virginity” which you were steadfast in not giving up. Logan wasn't pushing it by any means. Slowly but surely, you were giving up pieces of yourself to him. Giving away slices of your precious soul until before even you knew it, you had given him your entire cake. In fact, he had taught you how to give a blow job, confined you to let him hump against your clothed pussy, then eventually against the bare thing.

Logan was growing ever closer to obtaining you, possessing you wholly.

You had already gone home for the night when there was a steady, polite knock at his door. Logan, with a cigar hanging from between his lips, initially thought it was you. That was how you knocked, with a small rhythm and a tender politeness.

But much to his dismay, when he opened the door, Logan found that it was not you, but your father standing before him, still dressed in his Sunday best.

Now, for a moment, Logan thought that this was it. You had either been caught or in some sort of religious guilt, you had confessed everything. Either way, he was sure he had been busted and your father had come to wreak havoc upon him. Either way, he wasn't scared. At the end of the day you were two grown people who had made their decisions. 

“Mr. Howlett, nice to see you again.” Your father smiled. There was no malice or ill intent. You were both in the clear. Logan took his cigar from his mouth and put it out in the ashtray beside the door. “I hope I’m not disturbing your night.” He could see where you got your politeness from. Your father was a good, mild-mannered man. Average on all accounts. But he made a spectacular girl of you.

“Not at all, Reverend.”

Your father, with his hands crossed nicely at his front, was smiling politely. Logan wondered if he knew you had just been here. He wondered if he knew that he had his daughter on her knees with his dick in her mouth. Did he know that he came on your face? Did he know that your mouth felt like heaven?

“I was wondering if you could come by my house tomorrow. Unfortunately we have a bit of an issue with the pipes in our kitchen. I wanted to know if you could take a look.” It was innocent enough but the idea of being in your house made Logan almost swell and explode. He tried to hide the smile, the enthusiasm behind his “sure, I can take a look”.

“Great, thank you for your kindness, Mr. Howlett.” Logan can almost hear your voice in his. Small, quaint, unassuming. “You can come over in the morning. My family and I will be out but we'll leave the door unlocked so you can get in.”

Logan closed the door as your father walked off his porch, already looking forward to tomorrow morning. He thought of how he’d make his way through your house, into your room. He imagined going into your drawers and taking a pair of your pretty little panties to keep for himself. He imagined getting in your bed and jerking off until he came, right on your pillow.

He was up bright and early the next morning. With a small handle of whiskey to wake him up, Logan was out the door by 10 am with his toolbag in hand, a cigar hidden away so he could smoke out the back when he needed to take a break.

Your house was far different than his, bigger, painted a light blue with pastel yellow shudders and a white trim. It was the picture perfect house containing a picture perfect family. What a terrible person he must be to infiltrate such a home.

Your Father said the door would be unlocked. Your family car wasn't in the driveway, you all must have left already. Logan, with laborious steps, made his way up your porch, white wood, a few rocking chairs and a table where you must have put out lemonade and watched the sun go down.

He welcomed himself inside. Your house smelled like wilting roses and antiques. There were crosses everywhere, Bible verses on boards and Rae Dunn as far as the eye could see. Standard, religious, suburban home. He saw nothing out of place from your old brown couch to your wallpaper, pretty and bright.

Logan considered if he should work on your faulty pipes first or take his sick pleasure in your room. After a moment, he adjusted his grip on his toolbag and made his way through your living room and into your kitchen. He’d wait until he got the job done, then take his sweet time in your room. He’d make it a reward.

As it turns out, it was quite simple. You had the wrong piece for the pipe under your kitchen sink and it was connected incorrectly. Logan was halfway beneath your sink when he heard bare feet padding about the hardwood in the living room. He came out, a large hand on the counter to help himself up. His bones weren't what they used to be.

You had come rounding the corner into the tiled kitchen, dressed in nothing but a pretty, little, pale, pink nightgown that stopped at your mid-thigh. You paused at the sight of him, eyes wide and startled like a deer in headlights. “Mr. Howlett?” Sweet little thing, your arms went to cross over your chest, obviously not covered by a bra as he could see the peaks of your nipples poking against the fabric.

Stumbling back a bit, you swallowed. “What are you– my dad said you wouldn't be here until later when he came back.” You watched with your fawn eyes as he stood with a grunt in his white tank top, rough, blue jeans, and steel-toed boots. You were vulnerable, fully and entirely. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Naked under your nightgown besides just a pair of tiny panties.

“Wanted to get this out of the way. Didn't think you’d be here, doll.” Logan took a step towards you and you didn't dare take one back. Your gaze flickered to the side. “I was gonna go but I wasn't feeling well.” You’re all soft and meek and sweet. As if to prove your point, you let out a little cough. He could just devour you.

Logan looked back at his work. “Well– I figured out what's wrong. Should be a simple fix once I get the right part for it.” He looked back to you, eyes all soft. “I'm free for the rest of the day, babydoll.” You know what he was trying to get at. You were home alone, practically naked, the idea wasn't so far beyond you anymore.

You bit your lip. “You want to see my bedroom? I just redid it.” 

A smile twitched at Logan's lip. “Yeah, doll. Show me your bedroom.” You reached out and took his hand in yours, large and calloused. You guided him with your padded feet, occasionally looking back at him as if he’d disappear from behind you. If you were Orpheus, he’d already be gone by now.

You took him up the stairs and around the banister into your room done up in white, floral wallpaper. Your bed was neatly made with a single giant stuffed bear sitting against the pillows. It was obviously old and well-loved. Your room was just like you, soft and quaint.

Letting go of his hand, you went and you sat on the edge of your bed while Logan took his time examining this space you call yours. “It’s nice, really. Pretty, like you.” He stood in the center of your room, looking at you. You were fiddling your fingers in your lap, looking anywhere but him. You were thinking, thinking hard. Your lips twitched.

“What are you thinking about, dollface?” Logan made his way to you and grasped your chin in his fingers. He made you look at him with your doll eyes and your doll lips which you pursed softly. Silently, you stood from the edge of your bed, pressed between it and Logan's solid body. With your hands against his chest, you got up on your toes to reach his face and carefully pressed your lips to his in a tender kiss.

Your hands caressed his face softly, his beard prickly under your fingertips. You were still awkward and timid while kissing, but you were getting better at it. Still on your toes, you broke away from the kiss and wrapped your arms around Logan's neck. “I think I'm ready,” you whispered, voice quivering.

A better man would have asked, “are you sure?” A good man would have told you to wait until you were absolutely sure or even, to stick to your morals and wait until marriage. But Logan was not a good man and all he wanted was you, your entirety, resting in his palms like a baby bunny.

Logan dipped down and kissed you harder than before, with a feverish desire to take your soul straight from your body. His hands slid under your little nightgown, palms against your flesh, groping at you. Your breasts, your ass, the plush of your hips. You whimpered at how rough he was with you and Logan swallowed every squeak.

“Please…be gentle.” You pleaded with him. Your body shuddered as you felt the rumble of Logan's chest. He chuckled lowly.

“Oh, doll– I’m not known for being a gentle man.” There was something a bit feral in his throat as he spoke. “Come on, let's get this off of you.” He tugged at the hem of your nightgown, up and over your head, leaving you partially naked. Your hand immediately shot to your chest, shivering like a scared puppy.

Logan grabbed your wrist, despite his words, he was trying his best to be gentle with you. He didn't want to break you. What was the good in breaking something he wanted to possess? No, no, he didn't want to break you. Logan wanted you to be so thoroughly his that you'd never question him, your loyalty to him was what he wanted.

He took your hands from your breasts to get a good view of them. They were perfectly sized, soft looking. Your whole body was tender and sweet, with plush flesh and sweet curves all where they ought to be. Logan salivated like a pavlovian dog. He kissed you and palmed at your little, cotton panties, tucking his thumbs in and tugging them down.

You whined. “S-slow down.” Pleading as he removed them from you and carefully pushed you onto your bed. You felt too vulnerable nude before him. But Logan was already on his knees, between your legs, kissing and licking down your trembling thighs. “What are you doing?”

He put his mouth against your little love and you let out a sharp yelp. “Wait!” You never thought someone would put their mouth down there. It felt dirty. It felt good too. He pushed his tongue past your wet lips and licked your pussy before sloppily making out with your cunt.

Logan was a messy eater. All tongue and lips, licking and suckling against your most sensitive parts. His large, rough hands gripped at your thighs to keep them parted and pressed to your chest.

You never had your pussy ate and it was easy to tell. You were so sensitive to every touch of his tongue. Every flick against your swollen clit made your entire body shudder and a sweet mewling squeal left your lips. Your back arched from the bed, your toes curled into the air over your head. “Mr. Howlett!” You let out in a long, drawn out moan, your hand in his hair, tugging.

You tasted like heaven. Like he could find the meaning of life between your legs. He drooled all over your cunt like it was the most delectable thing he's ever had the honor of tasting, slurping and panting between rough licks. Logan felt that he could easily become addicted to this if he allowed himself to, the sweetness of you, the way you quivered.

But Logan didn't want you cumming just yet. He needed you to be on his dick first. He offered a few more desperate licks to your pussy before kissing your clit and bringing himself up to stand between your legs. His large, bear-like hands worked at the buckle of his belt. “You know when your parents will be home?”

You shook your head slowly, lips rolled.

“Then we’ll have to be quick.” It wouldn't be the ideal for a girl’s first time but if you wanted “ideal” you shouldn't have chosen someone like him to give up your virginity to.

You watched him pull his cock from his pants, half hard and almost beautiful as he pumped it in his hand. He was large, larger than anything you’ve ever taken before. You could hardly handle two of his fingers before crying. How could you possibly take a thing like that inside you and still remain composed? You were terrified out of your mind and as Logan pulled you by the hip towards the edge of the bed, you were starting to reconsider.

“What if it doesn't fit?”

Logan glanced at you. “I’ll make it fit.” He should tell you that it’s going to hurt at first, that there might be blood from your hymen breaking, but he didn't want you to back out. So he stayed silent, stroking himself to complete hardness until it could stand straight on its own. “Open your legs, doll.”

You hesitated but you were never one to disobey. Trembling, already on the brink of tears from the mere fear of pain, you spread your legs apart just enough for Logan to slot in between them and hold your hips. He looked at you and thought it best to reassure you. “Don't freak out. It’ll only hurt for a minute. I’ll be right here.” It was all vapid. He just wanted your virginity, your sweet, little cunny. He wanted to wear your purity around like a trophy.

Logan was not a good man. You should have known this.

He spat on your cunt, let the saliva dribble from his lips and land on your clit where it traveled its way down to your entrance. Logan played with it with the tip of his length, spreading it all across the rose between your legs. You whimpered like a puppy, writhing at the hips as he slapped his cock against your love and teased at all the possibilities of entering you.

He was right. It did hurt when he started easing his way into you. His cock, long and thick, stretched you out to a point you had never gone to before. You almost screamed or maybe you did. Tears swelled in your eyes as you squirmed against his hold. “It hurts!”

“I know. Just hold on.” He pushed his hips to yours and settled there for a moment. You were too tense. It would only hurt more if he continued before you adjusted. “Relax for me. It’ll only keep hurting if you don't calm down.” You were gasping, sobbing. “I– I can't!”

“Yeah, you can. Just breathe. Stop crying, doll.” Logan rubbed your hip with his hand and cooed at you. He rolled his hips against yours, coaxing you into whining. You let out a deep, panting breath, fingers gripping at the sheets of your bed. You reached out and grabbed your teddy bear to hold for comfort.

You pressed your face into the side of the bear’s head and nodded. “Go slow, please.” Your eyes glistened as you looked at him, cheeks still wet with tears. Your fingers grip into your teddy as Logan grunts lowly. “Sure thing, babydoll.” He grabs your thighs like you grip that stuffed animal, for dear life. You’re so fucking tight, gripping him like a fucking vice as he pulls his hips back.

There's a bit of blood on his cock. He ruptured your hymen with just one thrust. Logan pressed your legs to your chest as he fucked you, starting slow as you requested. He reveled in every desperate cry that clawed at your lips, every pined whimper that fell away into pleasure. Your toes pointed then curled, pointed, curled.

The pain didn't last too long, the blood still wet on his cock as you mewled. You looked quite cute holding your bear, your knees beside your ears, and you can't spread out around his slick length. Logan almost growled with each rut into your soft, silky pussy clinging to him.

It took everything in him not to brutalize you. Not to show you exactly what intentions he had with you. You were nothing serious, but you were his and his alone. He was not the type to marry but if it meant diving into a cunt like this every night, he just might put a ring on your finger to keep you satisfied and placid.

You were so dizzy with dick you might as well have fallen in love with Logan. Maybe you were in love with him. You were certain you were. You would have never given up your virginity to him if you hadn't believed that maybe, just maybe this might go somewhere.

Your father might let you marry him. He’s far older than you but Logan has a good reputation. He might not be a church man, but most accept him within the community. If you pleaded enough, if you told him Logan stole your virginity, he’d demand you two get married to save the family's reputation.

You let out a steady “ah, ah, ah” and “ohhhh!” with each thrust that takes the wind out of you. Logan likes the noises you make, how surprised they sound. You know nothing of this, of his evil, of his hellish ways. “Keep moaning like that. You're gonna make me cum, babydoll.” His hand slithered between your legs, thumb finding your clit toy with.

You squeaked, squealing. “No, no, no! I gonna–” you could hardly get it out before it happened, a great fountain of clear liquid coming from you and landing all over Logan's front. You always found your squirting embarrassing. You were mortified that you had got it all over Logan, still mostly clothed. Some of it even got on his face.

He bared his teeth, licking his lips like some starved animal. You were hazy-eyed and shaking with an orgasm so intense, you might as well have died and come back to life. “Logan– Logan, please.” You huffed, breathless and tired and begging him for something, anything, everything.

“Please what, doll?” Logan was rather amused by the way you writhed beneath him, holding your teddy so tight he thought you might rip it apart. He was so close to cumming, you made it impossible not to do it fast.

You shook your head with a great sob, tossing an arm over your face. “Please…don't cum in me! My dad will kill me if I get pregnant.” You couldn't handle the thought of disappointing your parents. They’d disown you, they’d…they’d…you didn't know what they'd do.

You sniffled as Logan chuckled at your request. “And what if I did, huh? What if I came deep inside you and put a baby in you, then what?” He liked how hard you sobbed, how you cried and moaned at the same time. Despair and pleasure all wrapped into one neat, little bow.

“Please, don’t.”

Logan groaned lowly, faltering with his thrust as his hips shuddered and his cock pulsed in the sweet tightness of your cunt. Just at the last second, he pulled out and came all over your pelvis and lower abdomen, shooting out great, white ribbons across your supple flesh. He didn't want to get you pregnant. He was a bad man, but he was no baby-trapper.

There was silence between the two of you. Your first time was not anything quite special but it was with someone you wanted to have it with so at least that was something. You felt…disgusting. Like a whore, like you dishonored your family.

Logan could see it. He could see the way you slowly dwindled into self-doubt and self-hatred. He took your hand in his and pulled you up into a sitting position. “Gimme some sugar, baby.” He leaned down and kissed you gently, holding your jaw in his hand, stroking your face. With a single kiss, your worries melted away into nothing, a void mind filled with only thoughts of a perfect life with Logan.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, your parents will be home any moment now.”

A perfect life not meant for you. Logan would never commit. He wasn't capable of it. He might want something nice and simple like a wife and a family, but he knew he’d never be satisfied with it.

Logan Howlett was not a good man. And poor you for falling in love with him.

[ceilidho]

prompt: (loosely based on Brahms from The Boy) you buy a house. you start to suspect you're not alone in it. [PART 1] tw: death of a parent, someone living in your house

-

Lightness; there were cracks in the floorboards and light glittering up from beneath them, which is what you first notice about the house.

It would be poetic if it meant anything. Instead, you are forced to pry the planks of wood out one by one at dawn when your fingers are trembling with exhaustion and your clipped nails throb—and, of course, there’s nothing remarkable beneath where the light shines through.

A piece of glass from a picture frame—all right, so you wonder how a piece of glass the size and width of your hand gets caught beneath the floor with the ashes of the photo once held behind it, but it’s half-six o’clock and you’re still yawning from the long drive the day before—catches a glint of light, and, well, you sigh at the blood welling over your nails from having pried off the floorboards with your bare hands. 

You’ll replace the boards later. Maybe bandage your hand.

It’s so quiet outside this early. Everything smells just as it should.

It had taken years of scrimping and saving, storing every nickel and penny away in your piggybank to buy your first house. The foreclosure process takes about ten months, every second during which your nails bite into your palms when you close your fists. Your entire life savings goes into the downpayment. It quite literally takes your bank account, holds it upside down, and shakes until every coin falls out. 

It’s yours though. A house all to yourself after years of living in apartments—you’ve spent decades living out of a suitcase, your parents changing apartments every year almost, never settling in one place. Buying a house wasn’t a nice-to-have so much as a physical necessity for you. 

It’s an old house—plenty of character, as the real estate lady charmingly describes it when you showed you the place. You don’t have the money quite yet to replace the old windows, repair the drywall, brick up the chimney that you won’t use, or change the flooring, but since it’s just you, you don’t mind taking your time. The previous owners hadn’t really kept the place up; there’s even a panel at the back of the closet in your room leading into the walls that needs to be replaced.

Later, when folding your clothes into new drawers that smell of new wood and old wood, you startle, thinking you’d packed your mother’s underwear along with your own; you thought you’d donated everything after she died. The thought is nauseating (a cold sweat breaks out) until you recognize the pattern on the blue cotton as your own and you crumple the fabric between your fingers for a second, dried blood and all. 

Dawn is rising outside, emptying out the house until it’s just you and the fifteen pairs of underwear you’d packed days ago. Everything else is sitting out on the patio in cardboard boxes. When you finally get the rest out where it can breathe, morning has settled into midday. 

When you finish putting your clothes away, you’re careful not to move for another few minutes until your hands stop shaking and your jaw unclenches. For breakfast, you fix up an omelet with spinach and a glass of cranberry juice. A friend calls not long later, but they mainly speak about their husband and how the living room will look once it was stripped of the gaudy floral wallpaper and repainted. Your friend hasn’t even seen the house yet, only pictures of the house from when you had searched it on Google Maps and tentatively held the idea glass-like in your head for several days. 

Your friend says in a voice molasses thick, “I’ll visit as soon as you’re tucked in down there.” It makes you rub your nose against your sleeve.

The pictures online had been splotchy and dim, barely recognizable when held against the lightness of the house full-formed. Your friend had sent you off with cream and lilac paint swatches, wooden coasters, and a copy of Ulysses before you had packed up the last of your things into the back of your car and the sky had been aglow with sunset. A large sunset that dribbled down the horizon and slid all slippery smooth into twilight. Your friend’s face had been lovingly shadowed in their goodbye, the sort of shadow that cut her jaw just so, and made one seem so private and longing. Like an instance of specific longing. 

It’s a good morning though, and you bite the inside of your cheek through the whole phone call, not stumbling over frequent ‘I love you’s and ‘I already miss you’s, but feeling like maybe you should. Anyway, your friend hangs up long before you know whether to carry those thoughts out. 

Then it’s still again in your unfurnished little bedroom—in one corner, there’s a rolled up carpet and end table that you’d brought in earlier, but they sit there unaltered and you think that maybe later you’ll get around to doing something with them. 

No one else calls while you eat breakfast, cutting the omelet into irregular triangles and putting enough hot sauce to make your eyes water. Which they do, but it’s good. After eating, you grab a mug out of one of the boxes on the patio to make a cup of instant coffee.

You fix the floorboards back after, nailing them back in place while sipping the lukewarm coffee that is still so, so good. So, so good to you because it’s early, so on one hand it’s comforting, habitually speaking, but also because the house is so new and old that sometimes you breathe in and feel lightheaded, or like your heart might tremble so violently that it’ll reduce itself to dust. 

So, coffee is good. Keeps you steady on your feet when you’re climbing back up the stairs to lug more boxes into the bedroom. Boxes of books you didn’t want to unpack, so they sit under a beam of sunlight in front of the one window in the room and you sit yourself down next to it, curling your legs underneath you and resting your head against the box. 

Strange, that the house is so warm when it’s nearly the end of October and it’s not like this city is all that different from the one you left. That the shard of glass you’d found beneath the floorboards could fill you with such a dizzying amount of melancholy (you still have it in the pocket of your sweater, which had deep pockets, deep pockets that apparently you use to carry around pieces of glass); again, though, the house is so warm and your bones are oozing out onto the carpet you unroll. Everything in you feels molten and fluid. 

Your spirit roars into the light of this new town with its new air, its new terrain, its new immediacy. Stepping out into the street outside the house, you feel every nerve in your body tremble in the realization of this new sensory landscape. Your fingertips buzz—you could reach out and touch every surface you pass: the wood-grain of a park bench, the sleek chrome of a chain-link fence. 

The town feels unreal in a sensuous way. When you go out to explore the town after unpacking the majority of your belongings, you can’t help being drawn down streets and up alleyways, eyes trailing over the russet bricked houses and hedges dotting the front lawns. 

On the corner of a street, nearly three blocks from your house, there’s a café with houseplants almost spilling out of the door and windows; you duck inside and order a coffee and a bagel before tucking yourself into a corner by the window. 

On the street across from the café, a woman in a yellow raincoat walks by. 

“Drip coffee?” 

You look up from your seat, startled almost by the voice, at a young man. He has a flare of freckles and an unsure smile.  

“Yes, sorry,” you mumble, taking the mug from him and tucking yourself back against the window in almost the same moment. 

To be sitting in plain daylight without company or a book or your phone out in front of you feels absurdly barren. Anyone might walk by and perceive the desperation that seems to pour off you. Even the few other occupants in the café are occupied with something or other, eyes pulled down to their tables or to someone sitting across from them. 

For a spell, walking home in the daze of the possibility of new peace, you feel light; to be poised on the verge of new possibilities and peering out over the edge, cautiously but with a ray of hope. Even the air feels fresh.

The lightness, of course, cannot last long.

Days before you left, someone told you that it’s common to have nightmares in a new house. You prove them right on the first night. 

In the wake of a bad dream, you pad into the kitchen, illuminated only by the moonlight, for a glass of water, reduced to only the silvering edges of your skin in the dark room. 

Occasionally it happens that you dream of your mom, in her blue jeans and raincoat again, standing outside the old coffee house from back home. She always looks well rested, and that always stings somehow—it makes you feel like you’re unraveling, even in a dream. She never says anything to you or even looks your way, but you know that she knows you’re there, and that dawdling energy, obvious indifference, is all a measured hurt. You dream of your mom staring off into the red-gold distance, honey-gold herself, irreducible in this place. 

Then, you wake up, panting and squeezing your eyes shut. 

You pour yourself a glass of water, but the tears don’t stop, coming out of you like a divine flooding. 

The two of you hadn’t been on speaking terms in the months before her death. In fact, you hadn’t even known she was dying. You remember you had an argument almost a year before, but for the life of you, you can’t remember what it was about. It was that inconsequential. That inconsequential and still she let it simmer and fester and didn’t bother to tell you that she was dying until it was too late. 

You scrub your eyes with the back of your hand, smearing the salty tears across your skin. In the moonlight, your grief seemed inescapable, layered under the lowest level of your flesh. All the loneliness of lonely dwelling catching in your throat, bursting out like the last release of breath of a woman beneath the swell of a cresting wave. The moon is not a comfort; the sky rounded in with its indifference, wholly incapable of putting any sentiment to rest. You feel languid in this old grief. 

Unable to bear being inside, you venture out onto the porch for a bit, closing only the screen door behind you. There’s a single light still on in your bedroom, the house otherwise dark. You sit in the cool breeze until your tears dry. 

There is something entirely relaxing about watching a breeze push all of the trees to one side—like the world moves with one breath, one thought. Back when you lived in the city, you hadn’t lived in such close proximity to nature, used to the concrete landscape. In the city, everything seemed to exist at opposing speeds and modes of existence—everything perpetually at odds.

You stare out into the street and drink your water, leisurely pacing around your front lawn. Just taking in the feeling of being settled for once. It’s a safe neighborhood. It’s an old house, a real fixer upper, but it’s a neighborhood where you can just walk around at night. 

It takes a while to unwind, to shake off the nightmare. You know it finally has when a yawn forces its way out of you and your eyes water again, from exhaustion this time. Draining your glass, you turn around to make your way back inside. You pause. Your foot hovers in place.

Then, in the shadowy depths of your house, you think you see something move again.

[slttygeto]

don't be so reckless, don't break my heart —MITSUYA T.

synopsis: an argument with your childhood best friend leads to sweet confessions in the middle of the night.

tags: fluff, confessions, childhood best friend! mitsuya, fem!reader, arguments (so, angst if you squint a little), mentions of the reader being in a panicked state, mentions of mitsuya having injuries and bl00d all over him.

word count: 4,2k

note: thank you to the amazing @jean-kirsteins-real-gf for commissioning me! I enjoyed writing this piece a lot :) what a way to start the year! happy 2024 <3!!

Your first meeting with Mitsuya is a memory that is always present in the forefront of your head. It isn’t something that you could easily ignore or brush off, how such a sweet boy who was about your age had a baby to his chest and a kid younger than you both holding his hand so tightly you could see their knuckles turning white. What a rare sight it was, for a boy so young to guide his sister (after you heard her address him as big brother), the gentle tone to his voice, the carefulness when holding the baby to his chest—his kind gesture seals the deal for you.

Shy and scared as a shrinking violet, your teary eyes face away from the two boys who had pushed you off the swing. Young you was never able to speak her mind so bravely, so freely—yet you watch as Mitsuya—(a total stranger at the time), come to your rescue with a baby wrapped closely to him. It is ridiculous the way he fights and scares them off so easily. At first, they mock him for his soft features, for his lavender eyes and for the tiny human being latching onto him. Yet a single kick to one of the boys’ stomach is enough to send chills down your spine. That looks painful, you think.

As you wipe your eyes, you are finally able to look away from the bullies scurrying away with their tails tucked between their legs, facing your knight in shining armor. Your savior. What do you say in such situations? What do you do? You forget to stand up and dust yourself, only realizing your position when your neck starts to hurt from craning it to look up at your hero.

“Are you okay?” he presents a warm hand which you gladly hold, and he pulls you up with so much ease as you wipe away the excess tears on your cheeks. “I’ve seen them around here, never been nice to anyone.” He continues to talk and you continue to give silent nods as a response. At one point, he questions your ability to speak and your face heats up.

“I’m just…”

“Shy?” The slight to his head, the sweet smile—the crush you developed for the boy was all too expected with how nice he was to you.

As the years pass by, the friendship the two of you have developed turned into something that none of you could quite decipher—not that you wanted to. Strangely, you enjoyed the confusion that paints his friends’ faces as you walk up to him, scold him for missing lunch, for not answering your calls—and he doesn’t blush nor does he shy away from returning your hugs, even more passionately than the way you almost tackle him to the ground. His arms have grown stronger than when you were kids, and the way he smells has become so sweet…so intoxicating—you feel dizzy when you pull away from him, unable to look him in the eye for the next 30 seconds as you listen to whatever lame joke Draken has to say about the two of you.

Unbeknownst to you, the boy remembers the day he saw you as though it was yesterday as well. Pretty girl crying on the playground, heart thrumming in his chest when he saw the tears painting your face—he wasn’t in Toman at the time, wasn’t even a thing to begin with. He lies to himself and says that his brotherly instincts kick in when he saw you, that the protectiveness stems from the fact that he would’ve done the same if it were one of his two little sisters. Nevertheless, whatever he was telling his stubborn brain would not go through. He hears you sniffle and helps you up, gives you a tissue to clean yourself and even questions your ability to speak—when you part your lips, your soft voice is what seals the deal for him at the time.

At the time, developing a crush could be from something as simple as saying hi a bit too excitedly or in Mitsuya’s case, the way you had always been nice to other kids on the playground. You weren’t that talkative, but you played with kids on the swing, built sandcastles with them—until those two boys bullied you and the lavender boy knew he had to do something about it.

Watching you grow was a privilege. In Mitsuya’s eyes, having you was perfect. Knowing you, growing with you, embracing you in his arms—you’ve become more beautiful, your eyelashes brush over your cheeks when you blink and your lips pout instead of wobbling when you get sad. Your eyes still hold the same amount of warmth in them as that summer day he met you. You smell as sweet as a jasmine, handle his little sisters as though they are your own, delicate fingers brushing their hair, fixing their bangs, prepping their meals—you treat him and his family with something that feels so special but he would hate to be falsely reading between the lines.

Empathy and kindness have always been one of your traits, you put other people first and although Mitsuya loved it when someone realized just how much of an amazing human being you were, he hated seeing you get taken advantage of. So nice, so sweet—an angel.

You are present when Toman becomes a thing, celebrate alongside the first few members of the biker gang the birth of something so small yet so significant (with a future so big, nobody could ever foresee it). However, violence was never your thing. And so a frown sits heavy on your face whenever you see small scratches on Mitsuya’s face, remind yourself to scold him later for the bruise on his jaw—how would he explain it to his sisters? They’re probably worried sick about him!

“It’s me, can you open up?” it is a rainy summer night, your favorites. You are wearing light pajama pants and a tank top as you approach the entrance door with your heart beating in your throat. At around 11:32PM, soft knocks come to your door. You don’t move from the couch at first. Maybe they’ve mistaken the property for theirs.

Until a second round of knocks come in, and you hear the muffled voice and—wait, you know that voice! As you rush to undo the locks, nothing could’ve ever prepared you for the scene awaiting you.

Mitsuya Takashi was everything yet nothing—a leader, an older brother and a best friend, but when he comes to you so late at night with bruises and cuts all over his face—purple and red knuckles, the bones almost visible, he hisses at the feeling of the alcohol against his wounds. Tears welling up in his eyes, the sniffles--you realize how utterly small and vulnerable he is, sitting on your red couch with legs that would not rest. His limbs shake and his head hurts, you doubt that he has eaten anything all day and he watches as you sigh and rearrange the first aid kit before making your way to the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” his voice sounds harsh, the softness to it no longer there after having yelled so much during yet another one of Toman’s fights. You give no response. You don’t need his apologies, you do not need words right now—however, starting a fight was the last thing on your mind, and clearly not what Mitsuya was able to handle in such state.

“It’s alright,” you say as you make your way back to where he was and place food in front of him. Hot and delicious, the smell alone is enough to make his mouth water and he digs in with no regard to his wounds—you hear him hiss as he pulls the chopsticks away from his lips and for the first time ever, you give a small chuckle.

Mitsuya smiles at this, a little relieved that you weren’t that mad at him. However, he sees the way you sit and face away from him, how your eyes trail longer on the uninteresting, empty road out there rather than his face. This was unlike you. You were never one to avoid eye contact with him, having openly admitted that you find solace in his lavender eyes and his gentle stare. Clearly, something was wrong.

“Are you angry with me?” It is not a surprise that the emotionally intelligent man was able to pick up on the subtle hints you’ve thrown his way about your sour mood, and you suck in your lips for a bit before finally mustering up the courage to face him. Your eyes are tired, a deep frown sitting heavy on your face and painting your features in a darker light than usual. One that has the wounded man’s heart breaking for a bit.

“Only worried,” you want to say more, Mitsuya fixing his posture to look at you encourages you to do so. “Do you have to do this?” you whisper the question so softly, so afraid that someone in the empty apartment beside Mitsuya would hear. You don’t know why you are so afraid of being heard, perhaps because you know you are overstepping into a territory that wasn’t yours—something you’ve never had the chance to experience—Toman, the community, the people in it. They all meant so much to the guy sitting next to you, wouldn’t it be insulting to ask him if he has to put his life on the line for them every time?

Upon hearing those words, a sigh leaves the guy’s lips and you feel like sinking into the couch. Conversing with Mitsuya was easy, it felt natural and smooth—why was this topic so anxiety inducing then?

“You’ve been there… you know, when it all started.” His words serve as a reminder of the day it all started, the joy on everyone’s faces when Mitsuya handed them the old Toman uniforms. You’ve seen it, how dedicated all of them were. You were understanding—but this was too much.

“I have but—Takashi, this is ridiculous,” you turn to face him and Mitsuya’s eyes flicker down to your pouty lips before staring back at your eyes. He hates seeing you so upset.

“I know, I know…” his hand slides towards your own and you feel electricity through your body when you feel his touch, the way his fingers interlace with yours and his thumb brushes over the skin of the back of your hand. “I just have to and plus, kinda needed that beating as warm up.”

“Huh?” you stare at him confused, pushing him to continue.

“Toman’s been involved in something a bit nasty,”

“But you guys are used to nasty, right?” there’s nervousness in your voice.

“Yeah but this is… This is next level,” when Mitsuya leans forward with his elbows on his knees, the serious look on his face almost sends you spiraling.

“Who?”

“Hm?”

“Who are you fighting?” You’re fighting off high levels of anxiety as he keeps you waiting for a few seconds before replying.

“Tenjiku.”

“Tenji—“ you choke on your spit, unable to finish your sentence out of pure shock. “Tenjiku! You are fighting Tenjiku? No, no no no—you’re not,” you’ve grown agitated at the mention of the name of the gang, and Mitsuya suddenly finds himself unable to calm you down as he normally can.

“Hey, it’s okay we’ve got this, we always do—“

“You always do?!” You repeat, before pointing at his state. “Look at you! You’re barely coming back in one piece, think you can fight Tenjiku?”

“Well excuse you, Toman is also very strong.” Takashi also gets up from the couch, your words having too much of an effect on the usually calm and collected man. As he watches you pace around the living room of your apartment, his hands find themselves in front of his body, reaching towards you in a futile attempt of getting you to calm or sit down. But to no avail. It seems as though the mention of such dangerously reputable biker gang sets you off, and the possibility of what might happen to the man if not careful enough sends you spiraling down faster with each short inhale you take.

“That’s—what? A thousand men against a hundred? Don’t be ridiculous Takashi.”

“How am I being ridiculous? You know Toman,” his eyebrows are furrowed and his body stops moving, indicating that your words were starting to get to him personally. “We are strong, we got this.”

“You always come back beaten up and bloody!” you half yell out exasperated. “You don’t got this if most of your body is black and blue by the time a fight is over!”

The tension in the room has grown so thick. It’s unusual given your somewhat stable friendship with the man. Slight disagreements happened here and there over things that you could easily brush off and say ‘yes, I was wrong and you were right,’ or simply ignore it and pretend it never happened. But as your voice gets louder, and you show more and more evidence of how upset you are, it’s clear as day that ‘slight’ wouldn’t describe the situation accurately. You were having a full blown argument with Mitsuya, and it still hasn’t sunk in yet.

Mitsuya can hear his heart beat in his chest, he feels his ears heating up with the amount of negative feelings he was experiencing towards this—towards you being so against Toman winning. Did you really not believe in him? Were you faking being supportive this entire time?

“You know I’m still going to go and fight alongside them, right?” The tone Takashi uses with you is so unusual that you feel your eyes brimming with tears straight away. Cold and indifferent, two things you never thought you could associate with how the man felt for you.

“Well don’t come to my place for me to clean you up. Find someone else.”

“I will.” He doesn’t wait for you to open the door for him, doesn’t say goodnight as he usually does. He doesn’t even slam the door as he leaves. He is cold and distant as he walks further and further away from you, from the argument. Reality sets in and the heavy weight of your words and reactions to his announcement come flashing back like a short movie made to embarrass you, make you feel guilty.

“Fuck.”

--

“Mitsuya! You’re distracted!” Another punch lands on the lavender hair’s jaw, sending him flying into the ground with a loud thud. Although his injuries aren’t as bad as half of Toman’s, his disorganized state is sending most of his division members into a panicked state. He was never like this.

“Ugh--!” Before he can stand up, he is being kicked repeatedly in the guts until blood spills out of his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to roll over and away from whoever’s attacking him to avoid another harsh blow to his body. He gets on one knee with an arm around his middle, protecting his injuries and he coughs out blood before letting his wobbly legs help him stand up straight.

“Shit—sorry,” his hand wipes at the blood on his lips. He gets into a fighting stance and immediately, the look in his eyes changes into something fiercer, more passionate. He hates that the argument with you is the only thing on his mind. Your words, your tone, even the way you haven’t reached out to him in a couple of days. He hates fighting with you, despises the fact that maybe you were right, and that Tenjiku are beating them up. But one glance at his division members—at Toman, it reminds him that the roars of victory when the fight ends, the tears of joy. The pain in his body could never compare to the happiness and satisfaction of being in this gang, his second family. However, he cannot wait for everything to be over, and for you two to make up.

--

The universe has a strange way of showing that two people are meant to be. As Mitsuya makes his way back to his apartment, several groans escape his lips as he drags his bloodied and beaten up body up the stairs. He preferred going to yours because there were less stairs but…It looks like it wasn’t an option now. As his hand twists the knob of his door, he is fully prepared to see a mortified baby sitter asking him what exactly had happened—but instead, he sees something else. Or rather someone.

Earlier that night, things were a bit messy for you. Feeling as though you have been punched repeatedly in the guts wasn’t an enjoyable feeling—the nausea amplified by your shallow breathing, your nostrils hurting from the harsh cold air and your throat dry as a desert as your body refuses to swallow, instead sending you into an anxious state as it forgets to let the oxygen into your lungs. You choke as you get away from the window and run to the kitchen to grab some water, you open the tap and let the cold liquid hit your wrists, calm your nerves. You lean against the sink with your elbows propped against the surface and your lips pathetically wobble as tears threaten to spill. You couldn’t handle this anymore.

You were glad that Luna and Mana had gone down to sleep easily, a short story about a princess that wandered around the forest, slipping down a mystery hole into a magical world which she ended up ruling had the girls’ eyes sparkle, yet the tiredness was visible as their under eyes darkened, eyelids heavy and before you knew it—tiny snores resonated through their shared room. You checked on them a couple of times throughout the night, and although the sight of them sleeping so soundly had you place a hand on your chest as muscle memory, your body wanting to show its relief—your brain was running a thousand miles per hour. Takashi—how was he? Would he even make it back? You feel as though you were a bit harsh with him when telling him that you wouldn’t treat his wounds—but his stubbornness, you couldn’t handle it anymore.

There is a crackling noise coming from the fireplace, and you know that the coldness of your body calls for warming up but—but not now, not when Mitsuya wasn’t back home yet, and it was already approaching three in the morning.

As strange as it may seem, the invisible thread connecting the two of you was tugging from both sides and you find yourself staring at the door knob before it starts twisting. When the door swings open and a bloody Mitsuya comes in sight, the first thing that leaves your lips is a defeated “oh” before your feet rush you to the first aid kit you had brought with you from your place.

“What…are you doing here?” Takashi is the first to break the silence as he limps towards the couch. You don’t answer, you gently place him on the cushions before cradling his face in your hands. He doesn’t like the look on your face, how your eyes are brimming with tears and your bottom lip wobbles before you look away to hide the fact that you were very close to bursting into tears.

“I was never going to come.” You admit, but it was obviously a lie. Not with the way you carefully unbutton his uniform top and hand him a bottle of water to keep him hydrated.

“I know,” his voice had gone low, almost ashamed to be in such position.

“Did you at least win?” You whisper as you open the kit and pull out cotton and some disinfectant for his wounds, a bandage for his for his arms and legs. His uniform was ripped, destroyed from being tossed to the ground repeatedly, but the proud smile on his face eases your worries a bit. You miss seeing his lips curl up like that.

“Toman never loses.”

The next few minutes go by in complete silence, with the occasional hiss and groans from the man being treated and your soft apologies. The living room is filled with something so intense, ready to snap at any given moment. When Takashi groans as you press at a certain spot between his ribs, you freeze and look up at him.

“You broke a bone?”

“I figured with how hard I was getting beaten,” he holds his side with a slight wince.

“Takashi…” said man looks down at you, and his eyes soften when he sees that the tears you once held in were finally spilling out. “You’re so reckless, I—you stress me out,” you try to wipe your tears away, but it seems useless. The more tears fall down, the less control you have over your sobs. You are on the verge of a full breakdown and the man sitting before you on the couch can’t help but reach his hands towards you to smooth your hair, push it out of your wet face.

“Hey…hey I’m fine, I’m sorry that I caused you this much stress I just—“

“I don’t wanna lose you,” you cut him off abruptly, moving your hands away from your face and letting him fully cradle your face. “I can’t imagine living without you, Taka,” before your lip could start wobbling again, Takashi’s thumb gently brushes over it and pulls it down.

“You won’t lose me,” he whispers, leaning down to your level. “Ever. I know I get beaten up very often, but I always come back in one piece, don’t I?”

“But what if something happens?” you’re finally letting your worries float to the surface openly. Rather than telling him not to fight like last time, you are now fully admitting that you were anxious about his absence, how much he means to you and how his well being affects your life. “What if—what if you lose, you die and I don’t have you in my life?”

“That wouldn’t be so horrible, hm? I do cause you a lot of stress apparently,” he tries to joke, lift up your mood but you shake your head almost harshly, hands grabbing his wrists.

“I need you with me, in my life. I need you next to me, I wanna be selfish and keep you all to myself, Taka,”

“All to yourself?” His thumb then brushes your cheek, up to your eyebrows before pushing your sweaty strands out of your face. “Sounds like you got something else to say, don’t you?”

His voice isn’t playful, but rather encouraging. His lavender eyes are filled with something so comforting yet so intense. For the first time ever, you feel nervous in his presence.

“That I love you. I’m in love with you, you don’t even know how horrible it feels when I have to treat your cuts and wounds and have to watch you be so careless about something that is so precious to me,” your hands let go of his wrists to cradle his face, mirroring his actions. He melts under your touch, nuzzling into the palm of your hands like a feline craving heat during winter.

“Lucky you, I’d love to have you all to myself too,”

“You do?”

“I do,” he nods and tilts your head up to stare at him. “I have wanted you all to myself for so long, it’s kind of ridiculous. That warm smile,” his other hand traces your lips. “Those gorgeous eyes,” he leans in and presses a kiss to your eyelids. “This pure soul,” his lips then press against your forehead, between your eyebrows. “I’ve wanted you to be all mine for so long, watched myself fall in love with you harder with every moment we spent together. My heart, my soul—they yearned for yours. For your eyes to only stare at me, for those lips to only smile at me—I love you.”

You feel your cheeks heating up with every word, every honeyed sentence leaving his lips like a sweet melody. You can’t bring yourself to say anything in return, not when looking at him seems so difficult, your eyes, chest and whole body feeling hot at the realization that he feels the same.

Takashi was in love with you.

“You made my confession seem so lame,” you break the silence with a sniffle, and your face heats up even more when he starts laughing at your embarrassed state.

“It wasn’t lame at all, my love, my heart is about to burst at your words,”

“Don’t—you’re so comfortable already!” You try to pull away from him when he uses such sweet pet names on you.

“I am the luckiest to be with my best friend, my baby,” he presses his lips against your cheeks with a grin, going in for another kiss when he feels your hot cheeks. “Of course I’d be comfortable.”

Falling for your best friend seemed like the worst possible outcome when you realized you were developing feelings for him, but when he was holding you with so much care and staring at you with such warm eyes—all those worries melted away against the palm of his hand, accepting the love he had for you with open arms and an open heart.

2024: all works belong to @ slttygeto. do not repost my works on any other platofrm.

[the-kr8tor]

To Live Simply

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 13.1 k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, No specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing) (Hobie is mentioned taller than her), CW suggestive, CW food mentions, TW abuse mention, CW drinking, CW violence mention. Wild west AU, Cowboy AU.

A/N: I wrote my late dog in this to remember her by, please be nice to the dog ❤️

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

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CHAPTER 8 >>> CHAPTER 9

The journey to Hobie's farm was excruciating, yet quiet and peaceful. If not for both yours and Hobie's still healing injuries it would've been a more pleasant ride. Surprisingly enough, there wasn't anyone who wanted to ambush you, and no one to point a gun at; no one to hurt you and Hobie.

The entire time you were afraid, afraid that something would happen the least you expected it. You were waiting for disaster to hit, you've never been at peace on the road, so you were high strung, hands gripping tightly around the reins while you kept your gun fully loaded and ready on your back. Luckily, nothing noteworthy happened during that one whole month of traveling west and away from the south.

Hobie clung to you like sap on wood, and you did too. You both never spoke of what happened that day, it was horrible, even now hallucinations still linger in the back of your head. Sometimes you see her staring at you on the side of the road, sometimes you smell burnt coffee out of nowhere. Hobie understood what they put you through while he lay asleep dreaming of you. He did everything he could to help you return to reality with every grasp of your hand, and with every kiss on your temple— effectively shaking you awake. You take care of him too, changing his bandages in camp, wincing with him whilst you clean his wounds.

It was just you and him, and you've got everything to lose if they ever find you.

You both were careful on the road, always traveling at night under the stars. Lighting small fires that are enough to keep you warm. You've even started to hide your face under a bandana. If it was absolutely needed to go into town, you and Hobie never stayed too long to make an impression. To everyone else, he was Larry Smith and you were his wife. To him, you were his wife in everything but on paper. To you, he was everything. You suppose it was all the same.

The horses are well kept despite the long rides, they slept well, ate even better than you and Hobie. You've noticed Cherry has become friendlier towards Bucky, and Bucky seemed to like the added attention.

Your back aches from the long ride, dawn has just begun to break. The breeze hums in your ears as you and Hobie finally make it to his farm. A piece of land in a valley and in between monstrous mountains that rise up into the clouds; and what seems to be thousands of miles of nothingness. There's nothing but land everywhere you look, the town you passed through hours ago is nothing but a dot in the far distance.

You're situated in the middle of nowhere.

“It's not much, but it's home.” Hobie stands before you, shoulders relaxed, eyes glancing towards you as if he's waiting for approval.

The farmhouse isn't as grand as your old home, it doesn't have the gilded awnings or marble pillars that seem to rise up towards the heavens. The house is made out of wood, two stories high with a simple porch that wraps around the entire structure. Its white paint is chipping, doors weathered by the elements and time. Empty flower pots sit nearby, just waiting to be used once again. Further away, a barn sits near a small pond. The structure’s red paint faded into a murky brown with dead vines covering its side. A windmill stands next to it, the blades squeak in the wind, wood creaking whenever a harsh breeze blows.

The picket fences around the property lay broken with its old chalky paint cracking and melting away. The land surrounding it doesn't look any better, it's barren and dry save for the tall brown grass growing everywhere. There are also stumps left behind by cut trees, a couple have survived long enough to grow as tall as the barn and they both sit behind the farmhouse a few paces away. It lacks any greenery you'd expect for a farm. With its dry soil underneath your feet, you're sure that there's nothing that could grow here. But you can try, plant and sow over and over again until a single leaf will sprout, until a plant bears fruit.

There's nothing else all around the place, nothing but stretches and miles upon miles of empty land. You like it that way. It's just you and him, him and you. You'd never have it any other way.

For the first time in a very long time, you feel like you can finally breathe. Fate has finally granted you reprieve.

“It's perfect.” You smile, stepping forward, reaching for his hand and then squeezing it once. “It's home.”

Hobie's lips slowly curl up into a smile, intertwining your fingers around his own. “What are we waitin' for?” With a sudden arm around the back of your knees, he gracefully carries you in his arms, earning a surprised yelp and laughter from you. You grasp at his vest, giggling against his chest. “Let's get inside.”

Even in his arms, you still feel the gnawing in the back of your mind. The danger that lurks behind the mountains, a danger that you both are ignoring for now in place of bliss. It's as if a heavy blanket is laid upon your chest, crushing you under its weight, breaking your rib cage in half, squishing your heart until a mush of blood and muscle is the only thing left in its wake.

Then, there's the nature of the man from the place you once called your home. You think he'd kill you the moment he sees you in the arms of Hobie, laughing against his chest, holding on to him as if he's your husband. Should I tell Hobie? You thought to yourself, it will ruin him. It will ruin you in his mind. Your heart thuds against your chest akin to a train engine just from thinking about it. You think it'll never go away, that it will continue to eat at you like you're a carcass left for the vultures in a dry humid desert. But for now, you stay laughing against his skin, kissing every inch of his face as he brings you inside. Until you're ready, you promise yourself that you'll tell him, even if it ruins you.

Hobie, unbeknownst to the inner turmoil you're having; kisses you back gently, dry lips against your sweaty forehead, he doesn't mind as he peppers your face. It's a battle, where you two are the winners.

You kick about in his arms, the stubble on his chin tickles you, and of course he notices it. He decides to hear you laugh, really laugh— so he nudges your head away, rubbing his stubble up and down your neck. Your giggles immediately fill the home, leaning away, hands patting his chest rapidly. If not for his hold on you, you would've fell seconds ago.

“Enough!” You shriek, but your own laughter betrays you. With every nudge, you forget about your thoughts, only focusing on the man before you.

Hobie wheezes, moving an inch away from your neck. “You sure? I don't think ‘m done yet.” He fixes his grasp on you, hand placed just above your ribs, fingers flexing, threatening to tickle you there.

You scoff, a sound similar to a giggle. “We've been on the road for a long time, Hobie, and we haven't had a proper bath in weeks!” He opens his mouth to speak. “A dip in the river doesn't count.”

With furrowed brows, he leans closer, lips curled mischievously. “You tellin’ me that I smell?”

You chuckle, hand patting his cheek lovingly. “No, I'm saying that I smell.”

“Really?” Hobie starts to lean closer but you stop him with your hand on his forehead. He smiles, trying to wiggle his head. “I was just about to check!”

There's the same glint in your eyes. You hum, cradling his jaw, pushing him gently upwards. The scar on his neck is in full display to you, Hobie tries to shake his head in protest, his sudden insecurity for the raised scar makes him think that you were second guessing your choices. But with your simple movement of pulling yourself up, enough to be eye level to the scar, and with your lips resting upon it makes him think otherwise.

He turns into honey under your touch, and you're the one licking his sweetness off of your finger tips.

You feel his staggered breath under your lips, Hobie almost drops you the second you kiss his scar. He feels your love through it all, fingers digging into your side but not enough to leave a mark. Closing his eyes, he lets you peck as your thumb runs along his Adam's apple that bops up and down with every nervous swallow. He even leans upwards to give you more space.

“I missed you.” Hobie says in a breathy whisper while you continue to attack his skin, hand pressed on your back, helping lift you up. “I should've told you that when I first—” You hold onto his nape to kiss higher, nipping gently, earning a shaky exhale from him. “—fuckin’ hell, you'll be the death of me. Five minutes in and you're already tryin’ to—”

“Knock knock?”

“Oh fuck—!” You suddenly drop down to the floor, butt aching as you stare at the visitor standing in the doorway.

“Shit—” Hobie fumbles, none of the coolness he exhibited during your journey. He tries to help you up, but then immediately decides to get his gun out that he also flounders over. His gun falls, bullets falling out, metal clanking on the dusty wooden floors. “Ah, fuck!” Kneeling down, he tries to pick up all the scattered bullets.

“Caught you in a bad time, huh?”

You glance between Hobie and the woman in the doorway. Hobie sighs, eyes staring daggers at the stranger. Her curly hair is styled in braids, leather chaps and jacket matching, hands casually placed inside her jean pockets. The sun behind her drapes her in gold, the same colour as the hat sitting atop her head. Her genuine smile is one of those contagious smiles that turns your frown into a friendly grin, you smile wider when you meet with her eyes that are laced with amusement. She gives you a wink, and then returns her attention towards Hobie who has given up on picking up his ammo.

“No, no, take your time, Hobie.”

He sighs, head falling down in shame. “What are you doin' ‘ere, Riri?”

“I was on my routine check. Imagine my surprise when I saw Bucky frolicking outside with a new horse.” Riri enters, hand reaching towards you. “The name's Riri, a friend of Hobie's.”

You smile up at her, taking her hand as she gracefully lifts you back up on your feet. “Y/N, nice to meet you.”

“Oh, I know who you are.” She shakes your hand, leaning slightly to whisper in a louder tone. “You're even prettier than what this loser told me.”

Hobie sighs, “Riri, c’mon—”

“Why don't you get up, cowboy?” Riri lets your hand go, she then crosses her arms over her chest whilst you watch them interact.

Hobie stays kneeling, turned away from you and Riri, hand conveniently on his lap. “Don't you dare tell her shit, Riri.” He says, green eyes narrowed into slits.

You tamp down a laugh, glancing down at Hobie who just shakes his head with a ghost of a smile. You're tempted to tease him too, but Riri catching you two in the act was enough embarrassment for him.

“You told stories about me?” If your cheeks could run any warmer, you can boil water on it.

“He's a chatterbox when he's drunk.”

“He is?” You turn towards the said man, beaming at him.

“Don't you have anythin' better to do—?” Hobie gets ignored as Riri continues to chat with you. He resigns, huffing in place.

“Mm-hmm, he says the craziest shit. You think he's all that out there but the second he drinks his third glass, he's out in my saloon yammering about something. Sometimes that something has to do with you.” She pauses, nudging your shoulder. “Don't worry, he only tells me the good stuff. I practically already know you.” Your eyes widen. “Not in a weird way, in a…”

“Good job, Ri, you made it awkward.” Hobie eggs her on.

Riri rolls her eyes. “She knows what I'm talking about, right?” She turns to you, smiling softly like she's already trying to apologize.

“That so? Don't worry, I understand what you meant.” You flick your eyes towards Hobie, who's still unable to stand up. “Since you already know me—”

“Ah, yes!” She claps her hands in understanding. “You may go to my saloon and dig more details about what Hobie's been doing these past five years.” Riri meets Hobie's eyes. “You never know, you might even come across our old gang.”

You copy her, teasing Hobie even more. “The more the merrier then.”

“Great,” Hobie huffs, finally standing up. “You've created a monster, Riri.”

“Don't call her a monster!” Riri acts offended for you.

“Yeah! Don't call me a monster!”

Hobie could only sigh in defeat. He mumbles under his breath, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose. “If I wasn't so tired.”

“Oh that reminds me.” You say excitedly, you've finally found a friend after everything that has happened. “Do you want to stay for tea?”

“We don't have anythin', love.” Hobie gestures towards the near empty kitchen cabinets that were left open.

Riri smirks at the name he used for you. Hobie warns her with a look. “That would be great, but I gotta go back out there. I heard there's a huge deer roaming around and I want to be the one to get it before anyone else does.”

“That's too bad.” You're genuinely disappointed.

“Yeah, that's too bad.” Hobie copies sarcastically, less disappointed.

Riri chuckles, “don't worry, Y/N, my saloon's always open for you.” She clasps your shoulder. “Welcome to Scarlett Meadows, Y/N.”

“Thank you, Riri. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, love,” Riri mocks him. Hobie audibly groans, she smacks his chest. “Welcome back, loser.” With a flourish, Riri exits the house and then jumps back on her horse to ride away. Hobie closes and locks the front door behind her.

“I like her already.”

Hobie wraps his arm around your middle, pulling you close for an embrace. “‘m glad, she's a good friend.”

You nuzzle his shoulder, to which he takes your cheek, already leaning down to meet you halfway. “The mood's ruined, Hobs.”

“Goddamnit.” He says, yet he still chuckles against your lips. Letting you go, you stay locked with his eyes while walking backwards towards the stairs. “Where are you goin'?” There's a growing smile on yours and Hobie's lips.

“You coming, cowboy?” You ask, and you see him flustered once again. Biting his lip, tapping his foot, and hands on his hips. As you head upstairs, you hear his heavy footsteps follow you; until you feel his arms wrap around you impatiently, carrying you the rest of the way while your laughter rings around the house.

—

Hobie, under the gaze of the sun, with his sweaty work shirt sticking to his skin as he hammers the windowsill in place; fixing the once shoddy workmanship left by the previous owner. You ogle him unabashedly. The ring that was previously hidden under the fabric of his bandana now sits upon his ring finger, you cried when you first saw it there for the first time in five years. He held you then, just like how he cradled you back when he gave the identical one to you.

He clings on the tresses that are filled with dried vines and creaking from his added weight. He hangs precariously, as if he's an expert climber at heart; you can't help but stare at him as he works on your shared home. You suppose you could use the old shakey tresses as your excuse on why you're watching him instead of tilling the land like you're supposed to. Telling him that you're only keeping watch of him just in case he falls so you could catch him. Which is impossible by itself, you'd break all your bones if you tried. But you suppose it'll be alright if it's for him. As if he feels your eyes on him, he looks over his shoulder, a smile slowly curling on his lips as he spots your form still kneeling on the same spot he left you in twenty minutes ago.

The soil balled up into your hands sits there forgotten. A bag of cherry tomatoes sits next to you, wind almost taking them in its breeze as one passes by. You don't look away when he calls you out after you were caught. Instead, you stare harder, unabashedly winking at him. To which earns a hearty laugh from Hobie who almost falls from his bout of laughter.

You stagger, hands raised towards him as if you can catch him from where you are. “Careful!”

Hobie continues to laugh, calming your worries. “‘m alright, you should watch your tomatoes—” a strong wind picks up, with summer almost completely gone as the colder breeze carries your bag of seeds away from you. “And there it goes!” His guffaw fades from behind as you scramble for the seeds.

“Fuck!” You yell, hand placed on your sun hat so it doesn't get blown away. Despite you running at full speed towards what could be next season's meal, you smile widely, you're at peace here.

Hobie follows after you, running and catching up to you in a mad dash. “Hurry slowpoke!” He passes you, laughing as he goes.

“Slowpoke?! C’mere you little—!” Hobie suddenly stops and then turns around to catch you mid sprint. Your body slams into him, earning a grunt from Hobie, but his smile stays as he holds you in his arms.

“Gotcha!” He embraces you in place, face nudging your shoulder fondly.

“You're all sweaty!” You shriek out happily, hand placed upon his waist, fists clumped in his shirt. The seeds belong to the wind now, you suppose.

“You're no better! You're covered in dirt, lovie!” Hobie playfully wipes his cheeks on your airy shirt, leaving streaks of sweat on the soft linen. You laugh louder, trying to scramble away. And he feels like he has finally found his home in your arms.

You wipe your soil marred hands on his shoulders, leaving your hand prints on his once pristine shirt. You suddenly stop giggling, Hobie thinks he did something wrong until he follows your line of sight. There, a few ways away from the two of you, stands a black dog eating from your bag of seeds.

“Is that a coyote?” You ask, still holding on to him.

“Don't think so.” He whispers back.

“She shouldn't eat that, it might get her sick.” You untangle yourself from Hobie, and then you slowly make your way towards said dog. Hobie stops you halfway, hand gently on your shoulder.

“It might bite you.” He roams his eyes over to her black coat and long tail, her ears are floppy on the side of her head as she continues to munch on the crunchy seeds. There's no collar or any indication that she has an owner, she looks fine and somewhat healthy. Before he could take you away just in case the dog decides that you're a better meal, you're running back towards the house in a mad dash. “Where are you goin'?”

“I'm getting some jerky!”

“What? Why?!” He yells back as you get further and further away.

“Just stay there and watch her!” Your dusty boots are already stomping away inside as Hobie does what you told.

Hobie crouches down, elbows sitting atop his knees, watching the dog chow down. The black labrador pauses from eating from the presence watching her, head peeking out from the bag. Her dark eyes blink at Hobie, he waits for her, hand reaching out in a friendly manner and trying not to scare her away with any sudden movements. The dog sniffs, tail slowly wagging as she walks forward.

You watch from behind, eyes growing wider as you see Hobie let the dog sniff at his hand. When she finally lets him pet her head, Hobie looks back at you with a soft smile.

“Look at you, you're an animal whisperer.”

“Nah, I bet she was just hungry and knows how to swindle.”

Chuckling, you saunter towards them slowly, kneeling beside Hobie, you place the dried meat beside her. “There you go, it's better than some seeds.”

Hobie observes how you gently smile at the friendly dog as she tentatively sits in front of the meat. You let the dog approach you, waiting patiently as she eats until there's none left. She sniffs your knee, nudging you with her snout. He laughs as you surrender the rest of the beef jerky.

It's a peaceful silence of him and you just sitting there on the dry grassy ground while the strange dog eats his entire supply of jerky. He suppose he can always run to the general store for more.

The sun is high up, yet it's a comfortable heat on his skin. He preferred summers here, the searing heat always kept him awake and alert. But with you now here, he prefers how the cooling wind nips at his skin, how the leaves are now turning into sunsets that you always adore. And how much you wake up clinging to his side every morning. He prefers this, living with you, finally experiencing life again as if he picked up a book from where he left off years ago; it took some time and a lot of hurt to get here, but he would've done it all over again if it ended just like this. Maybe he'd do better, maybe he would make better decisions— for now, instead of lamenting about all the things that have happened, he'd rather stay in the present where you're currently in.

“I think we should keep her.” You say after a few moments. Hobie just now noticed how the dog now lays on your lap, probably sleeping off her meal. Your hand rubs softly on her back, eyes shining under the sun. “My aunt never let me have pets, she said that a proper lady shouldn't smell of wet dog.”

“Look at you now, covered in dirt, sweat and dog slobber.”

“She'd fucking die.” You laugh, it's the first time you've ever laughed after mentioning her. You finally feel like the shackles of her memory are starting to loosen up against your ankles.

Your happy laughter is slowly replaced with a sob, Hobie, with tears in his own eyes, holds you against him. Arms enveloping you, hands cradling your head as if the simple movement would take it all away. He wishes it did, but he knows that it will take time, and he'll wait, and be there for you no matter how long it takes. Even if it doesn't fully go away.

Under the sunshine of autumn, dry blades of grass underneath you, breeze whispering and carrying your sobs into the wind; Hobie holds you like nothing else matters, like it's just you and him, him and you against the bloody, forsaken world.

—

Clover the dog has taken upon you, you named her after the first piece of clover that sprouted along the property after you and Hobie toiled away for weeks just trying to keep it all alive. You've both fallen into a routine, you two wake up later than you both intended, snuggling under the thick covers. Always rushing through the routine to have more time to tend the house. You share chores, you cook in the morning while he cooks dinner. He fixes the house, while you try to revive the farmland. At night, you check all his previous injuries for any signs of it opening up; and he does it to you too, as gentle and careful like you were. All in all, you're proud of what you two have accomplished.

It's your very own borrowed heaven.

The house is now fully painted a soft blue; the same shade you both saw when you crossed the ocean to this new land. The door that was once a murky, muddy brown is now in a snowy white that matches the windows and picket fences. The fences aren't complete yet, the rest are still laying next to the barn where Cherry and Bucky hunker down every night after an energetic ride around their pen that used to be covered in piles of old wood and metal scraps. It took an entire week to clean it up even with the combined powers of you, Hobie, and Riri, who decided to pay you two a visit from time to time. She said that she was only making sure that the ‘loser’ hasn't hurt you in any way. To which Hobie promptly rolled his eyes and threw a plank of wood at her feet, to his words ‘make yourself useful instead of being a pain in my own home.’ You joked that he's starting to sound like one of those old men who would chase people out of their property if someone would step a foot onto his grass. And of course he had to call you grandma for the rest of the day in front of Riri because of it.

You sigh in content, smiling eyes roaming along the greener grass from the porch where you sit; and following along bucky and cherry who are running freely around their paddock. Clover huffs in your lap, and you chuckle, wondering what she's dreaming about. The wind picks up, rustling the leaves in the trees, and carrying it in its breeze. The swing under you shifts from the strong wind, hinges creaking along as you push with your socked feet. Hobie built you this swing right on the porch when he found you looking at the stars with your back aching from the lack of a seat. To add to it, he made it so that it'll fit you and him together with Clover sleeping on your lap.

You cover yourself more with Hobie's jacket, shivering slightly, nose and fingers cold. There's a sudden warmth on your cheek, you don't flinch or gasp from the surprise, knowing that it's Hobie with a warm cup of tea.

“Hi,” you smile up, Hobie returns the grin. He looks softer, edges rounded up. He's fresh from a bath, skin smelling of lavender and citrus. He prefers to wear softer and fleecy clothes now, leaving all the leather behind unless he's going for a ride towards town. Now he likes wearing knitted jackets that keeps him warm and comfortable without the stiffness of leather. He prefers jeans now too, and shirts with no collars that clings to his scar uncomfortably. A testament to how the first two buttons on his work shirt are unbuttoned, showing off his chest. “You look handsome.”

“When do I not?” He holds your cup in one hand and a glass of amber in the other. The golden ring in his ring finger shines in the afterglow.

You tilt your head playfully, taking his glass instead of the mug, eyes never leaving his own. He raises a brow when you take a sip from the glass, feeling the burn from the alcohol line your throat. “You're right, never. You always look good.” Your words are only for him and him only as you whisper it.

“Damn right.” He accepts defeat, letting you drink his whiskey while he drinks from your mug of tea. Clinking his glass against your own, you let out a snort, scooching to allow him space as he sits.

The warm liquid seeps into his calloused hands, eyes flicking over to you and between the land that he once thought was barren. Your plants still haven't borne fruit, but the greenery has sprouted like a miracle on dead soil. You almost gave up on the first month when nothing was working in your favour when the ground was still dry and grey. But you didn't, you kept at it everyday, tilling the soil, planting and replanting, watering everything until a single sprout appeared overnight. You jumped for joy when you saw, he still smiles remembering you running towards him with Clover in tow, and slamming yourself against him just to snog him until he was breathless.

He couldn't have made this into a house without you. This wouldn't be a home without you either.

You poke his cheek, feeling how much softer it is than before. “Whatever you're thinking about, stop it.”

“You want me to stop thinkin’ ‘bout you?”

You groan with a smile, head plopping down on his shoulder. “You never fail to rile me up.”

“Pot meet kettle, love.” He looks at you lovingly, like how a man would stare into the eyes of his wife.

Smiling, you place the mouth of your glass on his lips, letting him sip from the amber while he does the same with his tea placed on your own lips. You both drink, arms crossed over the other, lending each other's hand over the other.

You gulp down the warmth, letting it seep through your bones and muscles, letting it relax into you like a hug from a beloved.

Meanwhile, Hobie never let his eyes off you. Deep green eyes, the same colour as the sea of clovers in front of the home, has found its place on your lips, watching you drink from his cup while he drinks from your own.

A comfortable silence settles over the three of you. Clover snores on your lap, happy and content after finding her home. Hobie's hand kneads at your nape, letting his cool hands settle over your warm skin. With your head placed on his shoulder, you bask in your personal paradise. The birds chirp just a few ways away from you, finding their nests settled on the windmill that you two haven't fixed just yet. The sunset paints the entire farm in shades of orange and pink, hues of autumn blanketing the peaceful place you and Hobie built.

This is home, not the marbled walls of the manor you used to reside. Not the fine silks you used to sleep on, *this is home; with it's rough edges, broken pipes that groan in the night, with its walls made from wood and brick that feels cold on your skin— it's home, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

You feel him shift closer to you, lips pressing softly against your temple. His hand tracing above your scar. “Shoulder feelin’ alright?”

Humming, you close your eyes as he peppers kisses from your temple down to your wind whipped cheek. “It's feeling much better now, thanks to you.” He takes your glass and places it down on the floor right next to his own mug.

“I didn't do much.” Hobie chuckles, returning to your side not a moment longer, his knuckles brushes along your collarbone. “‘sides, you did all the healin’”

You sigh, eyes meeting up with his own. He can see love in your simple gaze. “Yeah, only because you've cleaned it every night before bed.” Hobie chuckles when you poke his stomach, in return, he nudges his nose against your own, earning a soft hum of approval from you. “How's your head? And everything else?” You narrow your eyes playfully, “can you still count to a hundred?”

His loud guffaw makes you laugh. Shaking his head, he pulls you closer. “It's good,” he says against your lips, breath fanning across your soft skin. “I've got a good nurse.”

“Your nurse didn't go to school for it.” You joke again. Hobie pecks your lips once, twice, until you're pulling him in by his shirt. You feel his smile throughout it all. He kisses you gently, yet he holds you like he's about to lose you.

The much needed kiss is interrupted by Clover sneezing on your lap, snot covering your flowy skirt. You pull away with a laugh, eyes still closed as his fingers still grips your chin, already feeling him pull you in once again.

“Hobie.” You call while he continues to snog you, kissing along the shape of your lips, etching how your lips feel, and how you sigh against him; how you kiss back wholeheartedly.

He hums, murmuring your name while the sound of his kisses echo around the porch and atop the songs of birds flying overhead.

You giggle as his searing hands find its way under your shirt and onto your stomach. He pauses, eyes blinking slowly at you. You clamp down, shining lips shut closed as he raises a brow.

“What? You ticklish now?” Hobie asks with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You shake your head with a smile. “Nope.”

There's a grin slowly forming on his equally shiny lips. “I think I need to reacquaint myself, I don't remember you being ticklish—” he pokes your side. “—right ‘ere.”

You gasp in feigned offense, “I'm not!”

“You sure ‘bout that?” Wiggling his fingers, you laugh, reaching for his hands before he could attack.

“Okay! Only on that part.” You confess with a breathy laugh. He nods, tucking that information inside his head to be used one day.

Hobie returns to his drink, opting to sip at what was supposed to be your tea. The tea is now tepid, but he still drinks it anyway. You push the swing with your feet, softly, the swing sways back and forth while Clover lays asleep with your hand petting her head.

“We should take Riri up on her offer.” You say into the growing dark of the farm, watching the sun go further down and the light fade away. “It's been three months since she first invited us over.”

“She can wait,” Hobie has latched himself on you, arm snaked around your middle as he finishes his tea.

“Want to hog me all to yourself then?”

“That obvious?” He glances at your beaming face before his eyes stare at Bucky and Cherry trotting inside the barn on their own. Sometimes he thinks those two are actually humans trapped inside a horse's body. He has never seen smarter horses than them.

“Are you worried? About me getting back out there?” You play with the button of his work shirt, letting his scent waft over you when a breeze carries it towards you.

“What if…” Hobie sighs, eyes staring at you with worry. It's a grip taking hold around his body. “What if someone finds us again?” He remembers all the times you two were found by both the law and your aunt’s hired guns even when he took extra precautions. There's still that looming threat especially with how suspiciously peaceful your journey to the farm was. He has every right to be worried, you are too. “As much as good you are with a gun, I don't want to see you shootin’ it at someone again. ‘m… not tryin’ to control you, I just—”

You hold his cheek, thumb brushing along his jaw tenderly, feeling all the tiny scars left on his skin. “No, I understand. You're not like them, Hobie. No one will ever control me ever again.” At your words, he leans towards your touch, hand lifting up to meet with yours. “I won't let them.” Nodding, he kisses your palm, you notice how his hand shakes above your own. You don't mention it. “It's been five months since the train, they might have given up.”

“Let's hope so.” He softly says, green eyes gazing at you. Eyes that haven't seen peace in years, until now.

“Yeah, hope.” It's a fickle thing, but it's enough to light a fire in you. If they come, you'll fight with everything you've got. You've got everything to lose now, and you're willing to wield a gun once more to protect it all. If not, then it'll be a gift that you won't throw away, you'd live here peacefully, live the life you've always longed for. You're afraid that it would be the former.

—

You saddle up the horses in the barn, Buckeye watches your every move as you strap the saddle over to Cherry. There’s worry in his inky eyes, a look that you're all too familiar with. Clover runs around the barn, sniffing everything she comes across.

“You alright there, Buck? What's got you all worried, huh?” You don't expect him to answer, but he neighs in response, a sharp one that has you raising a brow. You've never heard him make that irritated sound. “What's gotten into you?” As you slide your hands down on Cherry's stomach to finish the saddle, Bucky, neighs loudly, hooves thumping against the ground. He looks like he's about to rush into you and throw you over. “Bucky, calm down!” You put your hands up, staying away from both horses.

“Buckeye!” Hobie's booming voice ricochets around the barn as he enters, putting a stop to Bucky's tantrum. Even Clover stops running for a second before returning to her adventure. “What's gotten into you, boy?” He pets his snout, effectively calming him down.

“I was putting on Cherry's saddle and he suddenly got mad.”

“He looks alright.” Nodding, Hobie roams his eyes all over his horse, checking each of his horse shoes in case there's something embedded in his feet. “Nothin’s wrong with him. What about Cherry? He's been overprotective of her lately.”

“Ah shit, do you think I put it on too tight?” Hobie keeps his hold on Bucky's reins, just in case. You check all the belts and buckles on the saddle, finding the fit just right. Until you get to her stomach. “Wait—” hands roaming around, you feel a bump. “What is that?” Cherry looks at you, if horses could raise their brow, she would've done it already. “Are you—?!” You gasp, eyes meeting with Hobie. Glaring at the horse next to him, you embrace Cherry. “Bucky, what did you do to Cherry!”

He already knows what you found. “I think it was a combined effort, love.” Scratching the back of Bucky's ear, Hobie chuckles at your reaction. “You did not waste time, huh, boy?”

“She's smaller than him!” You look at Bucky as if he can explain himself, to which the horse just huffs at you. Hobie keeps patting Buckeye on his back, while Cherry isn't even listening in on the conversation anymore. She prefers the pile of hay next to her, eating without a care.

“And? You are too compared to me.” Hobie unabashedly answers for Bucky. You gasp then laugh, a laugh that changes to a playful offended chortle. You grab a bucket from the ground, ready to throw it at him.

“You should run, Hobie!” Before you could finish yelling, Hobie's already sprinting back inside the house. You run after him, bucket in hand, ready to throw carrots at him.

Hobie waits for carrots to be pelted at him, only to turn around to see you gawking at the planted vegetable patch before you. He stops by the steps on the porch, hands on his hips as you let go of the bucket with a thud.

“What's wrong?”

“They've grown.” You whisper in disbelief, Hobie almost didn't catch your words. Chuckling, you look at Hobie with tears in your eyes. “We’ve got tomatoes!” Pouncing on him, he catches you, arms holding you in place while you celebrate against his neck.

He roams his eyes downwards towards the tomatoes until he spots a handful of it just under a bunch of leaves. “Holy shit!” Hand behind your head, he jumps up and down, matching your excitement. “You did it, love!”

You lean away, and then immediately peppers his face with a dozen kisses, leaving him almost dizzy. Before he could kiss back, you're already back on the ground, plucking the ripest looking one. It's as big as your hand, red and plump; ripe for the taking. All the countless times you've read botany books have finally borne fruit.

Wiping the dirt off of the tomato on your shirt, you hand it to him. “Wanna do the honors?”

“This is all you, lovie.” He gently places it back in your palm, hand lingering on yours; identical rings shining brightly.

You nod as thanks, heart beating rapidly. With a tentative bite, you let the juice coat your mouth, overflowing until it's dripping from your chin. It's perfect, and Hobie thinks you look perfect even with juice sliding down your chin and arm.

“Do you want a room? Because I can go.” Hobie jokes, you laugh heartily.

“Here,” you say, mouth full. “Try it.”

Hobie takes it, biting down just as the same as you, with juices flowing down his arm and onto his shirt. “Fuck!”

You nod rapidly, pride filling your chest. “Right?!”

“Y/N,” he calls, mouth still taking bites of the produce. Gesturing towards the neighboring plants, he watches as your expression morphs into pure elation when you spot your potatoes growing out of the soil, like bald heads peeking out from underneath.

There's dozens of them all lined up and ready to be harvested. You almost guffaw, satisfied and successful at growing something on the once thought barren land.

“We're gonna need a basket.” Perhaps your trip to Riri's saloon will have to wait.

—

The trip to town took longer since Cherry was out of commission, and you only had Bucky to take with you on the ride. By the time you and Hobie make it to Riri's saloon, lunch was in full swing. The place is smaller compared to the other establishments you've been in, and yet, it doesn't lack the energy. Customers line the bar, eating and drinking their fill. Jaunty music fills your ears just as when the saloon doors close behind you, Hobie's hand is placed on the small of your back, fingertips pressing softly, leading you towards the far end of the saloon where the bar is placed.

You roam your eyes around, the band plays on a stage in your right, cello, fiddles and trumpets play alongside the piano. Customers dance around with their partners, smiling faces whizz past you, giving you a polite greeting as you go. There are numerous tables littered around with the people sitting there and chatting energetically, their conversations rising above the music.

A hearty laugh above reaches your ears, when you look up, you see a spiral staircase that leads to the second floor with a balcony. A few patrons look down at you with their drinks in their hands, some are watching the poker game with amusement in their eyes. Drinking glasses clink around while you continue to make your way towards Riri who happens to be tending the bar.

The walls are in a creamy white with rows upon walls of paintings full of portraits and landscapes. There's a giant moose antler above the bar, looming over everyone. The place smells of booze and whiskey. Oddly enough, the scent of melted chocolate lingers above the fog of rum and moonshine. A crystal chandelier hangs high up on the ceiling, the centerpiece of the saloon. Sunlight from the windows filters through the brightly coloured glass, drenching the walls and floor with a kaleidoscope of light.

“Hey, Hobie!” Someone yells from above, Hobie gives them a curt nod. A handful of people recognize him, some greet him kindly like an old friend would. Some gaze at him with trepidation in their eyes.

A stranger with an eyepatch clasps his shoulder before staggering outside. Hobie chuckles and rolls his eyes at the older man.

“Someone's popular.” You whisper.

“A side effect of my reputation.” He smiles gently, fingers tapping on the small of your back. Leading you towards the corner of the bar, the far end where the back door sits behind it; he settles the two of you there, further away from strangers that could make you uncomfortable.

“Finally!” Riri exclaims, “the prodigal son returns!” Everyone at the bar hoots and whistles at Hobie. He ignores each of them, earning some booing and hissing from the crowd. You chuckle from seeing Hobie hide his smile under the brim of his hat. Riri slides in front of you, beer bottle in hand and then plops it in Hobie's waiting hand. “And with the prettiest girl this side of town has ever seen. What have you two been up to in your little slice of heaven, huh? Haven't seen you in months.”

“Busy with the farm.” Hobie says against the lip of his bottle, hand never leaving your back.

“Farm? Your dirt farm? You sure it's not you getting busy with our girl here, eh, Hobs?” Riri gives you a knowing look, you're flustered enough as it is. Hobie just shakes his head, eyes roaming everywhere but your eyes or Riri's.

You clear your throat. “We actually managed to grow something out there. We've got tomatoes, potatoes and even some carrots and strawberries blooming.” Your genuine smile turns Riri's playful one to a proud grin. “We'd bring you some of our harvest but we only rode on Bucky. We didn't want to stress him out further.”

“Why's that?” Riri cleans a glass with a cloth, “Is Cherry sick? We've got a veterinarian here for that.”

“No, she's pregnant.”

“Goddamn, Bucky did not waste any time.”

Hobie nods, “that's what I said.”

“Let's hope his rider doesn't do the same, eh?” She sends you both a wink.

“Fuckin' hell, Riri.” Hobie squeezes the bridge of his nose whilst you're left blubbering from her words. “Is there lunch left for us?” He says with a sigh.

“If you're nice about it, yeah.” Riri looks over at you. “Except for you, pretty, there's always a meal here for you.” You smile, head tilting towards Hobie's shoulder from bashfulness.

“Roast beef still on the menu?” Hobie asks, bottle half empty, stomach growling.

“Say please.” Riri says pointedly.

Hobie huffs, flicking his eyes towards you briefly before surrendering. “...please.”

Riri smirks, “it's always on the menu.” Hobie rolls his eyes at that.

He pokes your back, knuckles tracing around where he poked you. “How ‘bout you? Riri's chef can cook anythin’ you want.”

“Don't steal my words, Hobie.” Riri raises a brow. “Karl can make you anything you want.”

You laugh nervously at the eyes staring and waiting for you. “Uh, I'll have what he's having. And…” Hobie encourages you with a smile and a squeeze on your back. “Soup, any kind of soup you've got available.”

Riri pats the back of your hand with a soft smile. “We've got pumpkin, is that alright?”

“It's perfect.” You turn towards Hobie who's beaming at you, hiding his face with the brim of his hat from the rest of the customers.

—

You watch and listen with a smile in your seat, hand clasped around a glass of orange juice. The band ramps up their set, the music has gotten jauntier and happier right after you finished eating. More people have left the bar to either dance or play poker upstairs. Hobie still sits behind you, fingers curled around your belt loop lovingly. You feel him tapping rhythmically to the sound of the snare drum.

Looking over your shoulder, he nods at you with a soft smile. “They're good, aren't they?” You ask, chin atop your shoulder.

“Yeah, but I think you can beat them.”

You roll your eyes with a chuckle, fully twisting around on the bar stool to wipe a drop of sauce at the tip of his chin, fingers lingering there for a moment. “It's not a competition, Hobs.”

Before Hobie could give a reply, Riri slides over with a slice of chocolate cake. “You know how to play?”

You eye the dessert. “The piano, but I haven't practiced in a while.”

“She's bein’ humble. She's bloody brilliant on the keys.” Hobie takes the plate from Riri with a quick thank you, and then he places it in front of you casually.

You almost protested, thinking that Hobie yanked another customer's order. But Riri proves your thoughts wrong when she, herself, hands you a small fork for your dessert. You mumble a soft thank you, too shy, too grateful to say it louder lest you burst into tears. The cake has chocolate swirls with a large, plump strawberry on top of it. You don't waste time digging in.

“Isn't there an old broken piano at your place?” Riri continues the conversation, eyes flicking to your happy face with a soft smile.

“Yeah, been thinkin’ ‘bout fixin’ the damn thing but I have no idea how.” You almost actually cried on your cake when Hobie said those words.

“I think old man Roberto can fix it.” You savour the cake, listening in on the conversation.

“Your pianist?”

“Yeah, he's a doctor too, did you know that? Pretty great if you ask me—” Riri pauses, you follow her confused look. You see Hobie's stony expression, green eyes aflame like greek fire engulfing an entire fleet of ships. You and Riri have the same idea by following his gaze. She clears her throat at the sight, while you only see a broad shouldered man on the stairs, watching the band play.

“You okay?” You feel worried all of a sudden, what if this was another Culver situation? “Do you know him?”

“An old…acquaintance. Don't worry, he just owes me money.” Patting your back, he doesn't want to lie to you. What would that even bring?

“Oh, alright.” You slide the plate over to him. “I saved you some cake.”

Hobie chuckles, “nah, it's all yours, love.”

“Thank you,” you take the plate back. “I was just being nice.” Hobie shakes his head with a chuckle, you miss how he's having a silent conversation with Riri while you chow down.

“What did you even put in this, Riri? It's so fucking good!” With your fork, you scrape the plate to gather the rest of the chocolate icing. You have no shame at this point, it's the best cake you've ever had.

Riri takes a while to reply, so you lift your head up to see what's going on. You're met with her genuine smile. “Don't thank me, thank my grandma, it's a family recipe.”

“Well, thank you, Riri's grandma.”

Hobie stares at something behind you, Riri interrupts you before you could look over your shoulder. “Do you want to meet the band?”

“Holy shit! Really?” You grin from ear to ear, turning to see Hobie give you a nod and a small smile. “Do I have something in my teeth?” You grin widely, Hobie shakes his head, amused by you.

“Yeah, they're really nice. Come on, let's get you acquainted.” Riri jumps over the bar effortlessly, taking you by the hand and leading you towards the dance floor.

“I'll be back, Hobie!” You excitedly say over your shoulder as Riri twirls you around in the middle of the crowd. Hobie chuckles in his seat, drinking a cup of tea. He hears Riri ask you to dance, to which you happily agree.

Hobie keeps an eye on you, and he trusts Riri to keep you safe until he's done dealing with him. Hobie watches as Miguel saunters off towards him, spurs clinking as he sits down on your seat.

“Looks like Riri took your girl.” He says while ordering a beer from the other bartender.

“Why didn't you tell me that it was her, Miguel?”

Miguel catches the drink in his open palm as the bottle slides from the other end to his hand. “Simple, I didn't know who she was.” He cracks it open by banging the cap against the edge of the bar. The metal clanks on the floor as it falls.

“Bullshit, O’Hara.” Hobie says through clenched teeth.

“She has a sweet tooth doesn't she?” He refers to your almost clean plate.

“Miguel.” Hobie utters more pointedly, taking the beer from his hand before he even takes a sip. “Why didn't you tell me it was her?”

Miguel sighs, “I didn't know it was her. But I had a hunch. People at camp talk y’know. And you're a blabber mouth when you're drunk. A deadly combination.” He eyes his beer bottle, Hobie waits for more answers. “The guy who gave me the job just gave me her description. The same description I gave you, Hobie. Not my fault you didn't recognize her.”

“Who gave it to you?”

Miguel flexes his hand, asking for his drink back. Hobie clenches his jaw before sliding the bottle back to him reluctantly. “You should thank me. I got you two together again.”

“Just tell me, Miguel, or I'll ask for that bounty you owe me.”

“You technically didn't complete the job, so…” Hobie stares at him with the same look that Miguel has only seen him sport when he has his target in his crosshairs. “It was a middleman. He said his boss was an oil baron of some kind.” He’s about to take a sip, but doesn't. Grimacing when he brings the bottle back down to only see Hobie having the same fiery look. It brings a shiver down his spine. “Can you stop?”

“Who?”

“Don't know, didn't ask.”

“She could've died, Miguel.” That thought has him trembling in place. Hobie balls his fists, hiding how the mere thought of it shakes him to his core.

“She would've died either way, Hobie. But she had you, if I gave the job to any other person, she would've. Trust me, I did not know it was her, or that you even knew her. It's not like I made her come here.”

Hobie inhales sharply. “It wasn't you who sent the letter?”

“What fucking letter?”

“I sense some tension in the air. You know, conducting business in my establishment isn't allowed. Except if you involve me.” Riri jumps to Miguel's side, taking the beer from his hand, chugging it as sweat drips from her brow. With a sigh, Miguel orders another beer.

“Where's Y/N?” Hobie answers his own question when he sees you playing the piano with the rest of the band. His lips curl up into a smile, fists unclenching at the music you're playing. You're having the time of your life.

“Relax, Romeo, she's fine.” Riri claps to the rhythm. Hobie hears your hearty laugh from where he's sitting. The saloon's band seems to be having fun too.

In Hobie's mind, everything clicks in place. “It was you who sent my letter.” Hobie jabs his finger on Riri's shoulder blade.

She snorts, “of course it was me. I couldn't handle your sulking any longer. Seriously, I was losing customers because of your weekly letter writing and crying session.”

Miguel laughs, he sees Hobie's glare and tamps down to a snicker. Riri leans in the bar to yank a bottle of whiskey from underneath the shelves.

“Why?”

“You weren't happy being a lone ranger.”

Hobie feels like lightning struck him. “Fuckin' hell, Riri, you could've said somethin'. Warned me ‘bout it.”

“And? You'd somehow find it in your heart to immediately forgive her and pick her up from the docks?” Riri pours the whiskey inside three glasses, handing it to each of the men. “You’re like a brother to me, Hobie. We came up in this fuckwad’s gang—” she points at Miguel who's caught in the middle. He just pinches the bridge of his nose. “—at the same time. Do you think I'd let you wallow and die alone in that dirt farm of yours?”

Hobie doesn't answer. He knows that the journey was needed. But if Riri actually warned him about it beforehand, would you be here right now? Or would you be dead somewhere along your journey to him because he couldn't find it in his heart to come to you?

“See? Not everything's my fault. Just a freak coincidence.” Miguel pipes up, now eating a slice of cake just as you have.

Riri ignores him. “I know you had a slight apprehension towards her because of what happened.”

“She could've died, Riri. When I found her, she was trying to steal food.”

Riri breathes shakily, eyes glossing over. “And I'm sorry for that, truly. I never thought that would happen, or that her people would put a bounty on her. I only knew her from you, Hobie. I'm sorry. And I'll apologize to her, I promise.”

“She's really good on that piano.” Miguel comments before returning to his cake. Hobie and Riri continue to ignore him.

Hobie sucks in his teeth. “‘Slight apprehension’ didn't cut it back then.” He whispers.

Riri looks at him with a frown, eyes downturned. She knows his story, and she knows his side of it. “You know when I was a kid I used to hate the edges on bread. I always asked my mom to cut it off for me which added more workload for her, but she still did it.” She smiles fondly. “And now as an adult I love the edges, it's the best part of the bread for me.”

“What are you sayin'?”

“I'm saying that people change. And I'm not just referring to her.” Hobie understands her double entendre.

Hobie scoffs, stealing a quick glance at you. “It's bread, Riri.”

“I can see that she may have thought you were a burden back then but I highly doubt she has the same thoughts now.” Riri takes a sip from her glass. “How would you even know that you were a burden to her when the exact words didn't come out of her own mouth?”

“She told me it wasn't her, I know that now. It was all Hicks, the same fucker that did this to me.” Miguel straightens in his seat, Riri flicks her eyes at his scar knowingly. “They're still lookin’ for her, I know it.”

“If they ever find you both, we have your back.” Riri clasps Hobie's shoulder. He holds her hand briefly before letting go with a thankful nod. “It's the least I can do.” Miguel agrees with a grunt and a pat on his gun.

“It's more than enough, Ri.”

You wave towards Hobie from the small stage, jumping down to walk past the crowd and to him. Hobie's heart feels a little bit lighter from the conversation, like a bullet taken out from his skin.

Miguel stands up, and then pats Hobie and Riri in the shoulder before putting his hat back on. His hazel eyes meet with yours for a second, you give him a polite smile as you navigate your way out of the jam-packed audience.

Miguel fixes his hat, eyes zeroing in on the ring around Hobie's finger. “Nice ring. You two tied the knot without inviting me and the rest of the gang?” You pause by the menu, acting like something caught your eye while you listen in. The saloon is noisy enough for his words to be muffled, but you understood it perfectly.

“Not really,” Hobie glances towards you for a second before flicking his eyes over at his ring that he keeps twisting and turning around his finger.

“Well you've got everything else covered. And I've seen the way you look at her. If that's not marriage, I don't know what is.” Miguel clasps Hobie's shoulder in a parting goodbye, his face is unreadable from where you are. Miguel leans in closer this time, hazel eyes staring into Hobie's soul. His expression turns serious, lips pursed into a thin line, whispering words that you couldn't hear from where you stood. “You gonna tell her all the things you've done to survive this place?”

Hobie stands up to greet you halfway. “Worse, she has seen it.” Miguel leaves, and Hobie holds your hand with a proud smile, but you can tell something happened while you were gone. He sees it, so he leads you back to the bar where Riri waits to tell you everything.

“Did he pay you back?”

“Nah, he didn't have the money on him.”

“What an asshole.” He laughs, not bothering to hide his affection for you in front of the whole saloon any longer.

—

You lean back, smiling at the lavender sunset before you. Hobie's hands are occupied with the reins, but he still finds the time to nuzzle his chin on your shoulder. A small act that has you grinning as you cup his cheek for a moment.

Riri's confession was a surprise to you, but after the shock ended, you couldn't help but let out a loud guffaw in the saloon. You stood out like a sore thumb whilst Hobie rubs your back from how much you were laughing. You even thanked Riri for what she did on Hobie's behalf, to which she sighed in relief from your reaction. If she didn't send that letter, you'd still be in that wretched place, you'd still be half dead, surviving but not living. The journey to Hobie was tough and marred with pain and bloodshed, and yet, you'd take that journey all over again if you knew that he'd be holding you like this once again; that he still loves you despite everything that has happened to him and to you. With a parting hug, and a promise that you'll visit again, you and Hobie set off back on the road towards home.

The route home is filled with an abundance of scenery. Fields of flowers and tall grass line the sides of the bumpy dirt road. Daisies, poppies and baby's breath are in full bloom, its colours bringing even more brightness to the land. Cows and horses graze all over, they look up at the sound of Bucky's hooves thudding against the soil.

Hobie gathers up the reins in one hand, arm holding on to your waist before bending down from his saddle. Buckeye still gallops away as you immediately try to get a hold of Hobie before he falls.

“What are you doing?!” You ask, voice shaky, eyes up front while he has his palm open, gathering flowers on the side of the road.

“Just hold onto me!” Numerous flowers gather in his hand, its petals are filled with dew, sweet smelling and colourful against his leather gloves. Some of the stems are broken from the motion of the galloping horse. But you don't mind as he sends you a wink while he's on the side like he's doing the most mundane thing.

Laughing, you help pull him up. He hands you the bundle of flowers from behind, lips brushing along the shell of your ear. “That'll be five bucks.”

You giggle, thumb brushing along one of its red petals. “That's expensive for a roadside bouquet.” Hiding your face behind the flowers, you take a whiff of the sweetness whilst you gaze behind you through your fluttering lashes. “I think you're swindeling me, cowboy.”

“Fine,” he dramatically sighs, earning a soft laugh from you. His viridescent eyes remind you of the clovers back home. “I'll give you a discount.”

“A kiss then?”

“I was goin' to say ‘three bucks’ but that works too.” His eyes are on the road, but he briefly gazes into yours with tenderness.

“I'll pay my dues then.” You crane your neck back as far as you can. With a hand running up behind his head, you push him gently to meet with your own for a quick peck. “There, all paid.”

Hobie grins, trying hard not to indulge more lest he crashes Bucky into a tree. “Nah, that was half.”

“Half?” You feign a scoff. “Fine, I'll give it to you in installments.” Your neck is starting to ache from the position, but you can't help but keep still when he even looks this good in this awkward angle.

Bucky slows down, you hear the rush of a body of water before you see it. Hobie clicks his tongue, Buck completely stops from the command. “I'll take it.”

“You're not gonna ask when I'll ‘pay’ you?”

Hobie places his hand around your throat, not clenching, nor digging in; no, he does it to gently straighten your neck to save you from a crick in your nape. You follow willingly, never have you felt this soft kind of grasp around your neck— it's been the opposite before this, before him.

The pads of Hobie's fingers rub along your nape, soothing the growing ache. “Surprise me.”

Your smile grows when you quickly look forward, you see a small dock in a shining lake that's surrounded by oak trees and cattails growing on the side. The water shimmers under the afterglow like diamonds laid upon silk.

Hobie raises his brows with a smile, you're sure he's patting himself on the back. He smoothly gets off his horse with a flourish. With his feet back on the ground, he holds your waist, waiting for you to push yourself off so he could help you down. As if you ever need it, but you sometimes like to be spoiled this way, especially if It's Hobie spoiling you with his affections.

You hold the bouquet against your chest while he looks up at you lovingly, not telling you to hurry up or attempt to yank you off. “They told me that you're so mashed. What does that even mean?”

“Who's they?”

“The band, they said and I quote, ‘that Hobie is properly mashed for you! We've never seen him look at someone like that unless—’” You pause, hands on his wrist, pushing yourself off as he guides you down on the ground carefully. You floated for a moment, you then tuck the flowers in Bucky's saddle bag for safe keeping.

“Unless what?”

You bite your lip to tamp down a laugh. “‘Unless you're one of Riri’s homemade chocolate cakes.’” Poking his chest, you playfully jab him while he has his hands up in mock surrender. “I knew you wanted that cake!”

“It was yours! And I've had it a thousand times before, love.” He grabs your wrists, stopping your poking to pull your hand over his neck so you'd hold him closer. Toe to toe, you close the gap even more by scooching closer.

You poke him with your chin on his clavicle. “And here I thought you were being nice.”

“I was,” Hobie utters against your lips, “don't worry, I ordered one for myself while you were playing on stage.”

You gasp in feigned offense. “You dare?!”

Nodding, Hobie pulls you closer by your wrist. “I dare.” He mocks teasingly.

“Guess I have to jump in the lake to let the waters wash away this betrayal.” Moving away, you walk backwards towards the dock while keeping an eye at him.

Hobie watches you go. The second he steps forward, you sprint away, giggling. Milkweeds and poppies brush along your legs as you run while stripping off your boots and jacket, you then throw it all behind you. The fabric hits Hobie's face, he hears a splash as he yanks it off, laughing with you. Stripping off his coat, belt and boots, he jumps in right after with a louder and bigger splash.

The water is colder than you expected when it hit your skin. But you suppose it's worth staying for a little while even if it means getting a cold. You wipe your face from the splash that hit you, shivering slightly and incredibly happy without a care for the rest of the world.

“Hobie?” You twist around, swimming in a circle to look for him.

Hobie doesn't resurface after his jump, your grin slowly turns into panic when you see bubbles rise up from where he jumped.

“Hobie!” You feel bile rise in your throat, panic and worry settling in your stomach. “Hob—!” You're suddenly lifted up, thighs perched on his shoulder with his head in between. “You ass—!” You see him give you a smirk before tossing you behind with a splash.

He once again lifts you up, by your waist this time. He's met with a glare from you, and he has the audacity to laugh at your face. You splash, wiggling and thrashing in his hold. “‘m sorry! I saw the opportunity!”

“Not funny! I thought you drowned!” Continuing to splash at his face, Hobie embraces you against his chest until you've tired yourself out. You manage to give him one last splash to his face before you gave up, and then you slouch against him.

“Good thing I taught you how to swim, huh?” He softly says, floating around the lake.

“Yeah,” you hide behind the crook of his neck, nose nudging his skin while you try to forget how your aunt reacted when you came home drenched and dripping on her carpets.

“You okay?” Hobie rubs in between your shoulders. “‘m sorry, I thought it was funny.”

You sniff from the cold, leaning away to meet with his eyes. “It was, just don't take too long to resurface.” Smiling, you wipe water droplets off his pierced eyebrow. “Remember the day you convinced me to let you teach me how to swim?”

“Yeah, I told you that you wouldn't be able to swim if the ship you're on capsizes.”

“It scared the shit out of me.”

“‘m sorry that scared you.”

“Stop apologizing,” you cup his jaw, feeling his stubble, “besides, we ended up here years later. It's a good ending.”

“Yeah, a good ending.” He fixes your blouse, laying the collar flat so the edge doesn't poke your eye out. Noticing your far off stare behind him, he imagines the worst. But when he turns, he sees a huge deer with large antlers drinking from the side of the lake. “Holy shit.” Hobie moves, but you stop him so he doesn't startle the deer.

It continues to drink calmly. A bush from the side shakes, Hobie almost went for his gun but he's proven wrong when a white tailed doe appears.

“She's gorgeous,” you whisper, hugging him from behind while you watch the doe drink next to the deer. “Do you think they know each other?”

“Maybe.” He doesn't believe his eyes, “maybe they're mates.”

You kiss his cold cheek. “You think so?”

With your hands intertwined with his own underwater, he pulls you closer until there's no space left in between. He once dreamed to be this close to you, now that he's skin to flesh with you, he will never let go. He'd rather be buried alive again rather than be apart with you.

The deer nudges the doe's head before they gallop away from the lake. Hobie sniffs, finger brushing along your ring. “Yeah, they are.”

—

The sun has fully set now, dark blue engulfing you with the night howling its cold breeze against your wet skin. The large oak tree behind you shields you from the harsh wind. It reminds you of the one back home where he carved both of your initials on the trunk. Hobie embraces you from behind, sharing his warmth while you two wait for the clothes on your back to dry before riding home. Bucky sleeps next to you, huffing in his sleep. The bonfire roars, warming you in its orange glow, flames dancing in your vision.

Hobie hasn't taken his fingers off your ring that he rolls around your finger since you sat down. His eyes stare at the fire, shoulders relaxed, yet his jaw is clenched. You think his body is acting on instinct, and is still getting used to the calm.

“You're quiet, I'm worried.” You say, head leaning on his chest, back slouched to look at him.

Hobie raises a brow, eyes glancing down at you before returning back to the fire. “‘m thinkin’.”

“That's a first,” you joke, squeezing his hand. He chuckles, pecking the top of your head once before sighing in your hair. “Okay, now I'm worried. What's wrong?”

“I was thinkin' that we're practically married.” Something flashes behind your eyes that he missed. “We've got the rings, the house, the love and everythin' else.” He can't let Miguel get to him, but he can't get his words out of his mind either. If that's not marriage, I don't know what is.

You give him a soft shaky smile, eyes glossy against the light of the bonfire. Cradling his face, he leans against your palm, placing a heavy kiss on your cool skin. A sob threatens to escape you, clawing at your chest to be let go. You don't let it.

“We kind of are, huh?” He asks, eyes closed while holding your hand against his lips.

“I–it's close.” You manage to choke out. “I suppose we are, Hobs.” Tears collect in your lashes, blurring him in your vision like water colours bleeding in together. “Are you afraid of it?” Of us? You fear waking up one day and finding his side of the bed empty except for a note addressed to you. It's irrational, you know it is.

“No,” he sniffs, “it's the opposite. My fear isn't anywhere near that.”

You blink to clear the tears, letting it fall without a sound. “What are you most afraid of, cowboy?”

Hobie opens his eyes and you're met with a sea of green, shining and glittering just like the lake near you. “You, you're what I'm most afraid of.” You turn to fully face him, body placed in between his legs that comfortably cage you in. You don't let him go even when he burrows his chin on the top of his chest. For a moment, he doesn't say a word, until he sniffs and returns to meet with your eyes. “Losin’ you, seein’ your blood stainin’ my hands.” He holds both of your hands in his own. “That's what I'm afraid of, not my own death, yours. Because I can't live another five years without you. Especially a life lived without you isn't a life well lived.”

You feel his love and all the ache he carried in those five years like never before. He doesn't want to lose the life he built with you here; he doesn't want to lose all the mornings with you, he doesn't want to sleep without you by his side. He doesn't want to lose you.

You never even thought for a moment that you deserve this kind of tenderness after all the hatred that was thrown at you like a hail of firestorm. And yet, here he is, he loves you, the kind of love that reverberates through your very bones and settles into your soul. You still don't think you deserve it, but who are you to deny such love, especially from him? You did not beg for this kind of love, nor prayed for it. It's not the kind of love that the fates or the universe have thrust upon you in a shower of meteors. It was gradual, it came in a trickle and then a wave. And when you two were finally on the same page— you love him with every single bone in your body— you love him intentionally and wholeheartedly.

Kneeling to level with him, hands holding his cheeks, you hope that your simple touch is enough to let him feel all the love and affection you have for the man before you.

With your forehead against his own, you softly utter the same three words you've been telling him every morning and and every night before bed. “I love you.” He nods, whispering the same words atop your lips like a mantra; a song that replays in his head over and over again. You kiss the corner of his lips before leaning away. “I–if that ever happens, I'll live for you. I'll bring back my blood inside me if I have to.” You wipe away his stray tear, “Just promise me you'll do the same.” You know that you won't be able to do anything if it does happen to you, nor he, if it happens to him. They're empty promises meant to fill the holes in your chests for comfort to hold onto— to help ease your minds throughout the night whilst he lays his head upon your chest at night.

The weight of the looming threat feels like a reality. As if someone laid a pillow to his sleeping face. Hobie takes you in his arms, embracing you; hand placed on the back of your head as if he's already trying to shield you from what he fears most.

The mere thought of you loving him so much that you'd defy death itself, and despite the blood underneath his nails has him tethering upon the precipice of paradise. Maybe that's all there is then, to be loved despite the blood staining his hands, and despite his gnashing teeth that could take your flesh if he so desires; that he'll never desire to do to you— It's enough for him to be with you, and for you to be with him until you're both old and frail, until you're both six feet under; behind the same house he made into a home for you.

He has everything to lose, and he'll raise hell itself if need be just to bring you back. *When they come for you, there won't be enough bullets in the world for him.

With determination in his eyes that fans the flames in his chest, he utters an impossible promise on your skin.

“I promise.”

You hug Hobie, hand splayed on his back while the other kneads at his nape. Opening your eyes, you see the same deer and doe on the other side of the lake, standing side by side peacefully with their reflections on the lake. The sounds of the night echo above the glimmering depths of the water. It all brings you hope despite the conversation, they won't find you, that's your hope. You get to stay here forever with him, that's your only wish in this world.

Amidst the swaying grass, and in his arms, you feel infinite. You finally feel like you exist with the gentle wind and the raging rivers. No more do you feel like you burn everyday, where there's ash in your mouth, embers hidden underneath your hands; living in a house built to be kindling in your all consuming flames of loneliness. Earthbound once more, alive again.

[starvity]

can u do going on a vacay with rickyy

— ☆ going on vacation with ricky

gn!reader x zb1 ricky

genre: fluff// warnings: intimacy if you squint, flirty ricky, cursing as always lol, lmk if i forget anything!!

author’s note: that one mf who doesn't joke about his airport fit... this ask was perfect after i saw how fancy he looked like on his way to los angeles omg, thank you for requesting anon!! (★ω★)/ [requested♡]

ricky and you decided to go on vacation for your 1st anniversary together!!! i feel like ricky would be surprisingly organized for the trip. he would check that your passports are valid, pack his things carefully and make sure you don't forget to bring anything either. for the whole check-in part you'd have to do it yourself though. like you would spend hours comparing flight prices to find the cheapest one and he's like bbg idc take my credit card...

you had quite a long flight ahead so you decided to dress as comfortably as possible. ricky, however; takes his airport fashion very seriously. you tried to tell him that he doesn't need to wear his expensive ass belt and sunglasses that probably cost more than your rent but he wouldn't listen. he looked hot though so you quickly stopped complaining hehehe

definitely the type to do a face mask in the plane and get his beauty sleep, just sitting there being pretty while you're tossing and turning trying to find the best position to sleep in. he clicks his tongue, his hand grabbing your wrist as he was starting to get annoyed by your movements. suddenly, he pushes your head down on his shoulder and slide his hand on your thigh, closing his eyes again and you swore your heart skipped a beat.

you guys had rented a cute little apartment with view on the sea. you were looking around the place, already seeing yourself watching a movie on the soft couch or cooking some nice meals in the cute kitchenette. all of a sudden, a pair of arms circles your waist and softly pushes you backwards causing you to lose your balance and land on the bed. above you was ricky with a playful look on his face. he starts to attack your face with kisses before slowly taking them lower and lower down your neck. he giggles, then settled his face in your neck and falls asleep.

after you two took a little nap, you decide to get ready to go out to visit the city and eat dinner. you notice that it would be the perfect timing to go for a walk on the beach as the sun starts to set, painting the sky with yellow, orange and pink. ricky takes your hand, leading you on a particular spot close to the waves before walking away, his phone in hands. he always knows how to take the perfect pictures of you and he wouldn't be embarrassed to almost shout how pretty you look at that moment. you'd be the one embarrassed though, hiding your face in your hands by the sudden wave of compliments. ricky apologizes between laughs, asking to resume your little photoshoot while he keeps the flirting to a minimum.

overall, i feel like this vacation would be a good opportunity for you two to unwind as you've been working non-stop. ricky definitely starts the day slow, taking a good hour to wake up, softly kissing your shoulders as the sun illuminates your skin. your fingertips absentmindedly lingers on his collarbone as you two have a little conversation. you finally start to get ready for the day, nagging at ricky for taking so long in the shower, which he responds to with "come join me if you hate waiting so much." you two will try every bakery that you can find in the little village for breakfast and go back to your favorite one at the end of the trip. days with ricky consist of walking around the city, shopping and looking at art pieces while still taking enough breaks to take a drink together and sunbathe. your boyfriend would considerately pick a fancy restaurant for the night and even when you complain that he doesn't need to spend so much money, you can't lie that he looked way too fine and fancy in that black shirt. you love travelling with ricky so much so every time you come back from a vacay with him, you find yourself already planning your next one :D

[thebearer]

some carm + jewelry thoughts after reading your blurb about his dangling chain:

-he buys you a gold anklet with a “c” charm on it so he can watch it dangle when he puts your legs up on his shoulders to fuck you

-he has a signet ring embossed with a design (maybe a bear? st anthony? family crest?) and he turns it so the design is facing inwards and he spanks you so it leaves a brand on your ass

-after the big checks start coming in he buys you an exorbitantly expensive necklace and fucks you with nothing else on

omfggggg smut ahead minors dni 18+ but i have to elaborate

ok number one the anklet???? yes. yes. yes.

you mention wanting one, sorta in passing, and carmen's like weirdly adamant about you getting one lol??? you don't really understand why but he shows up a few days later with one you'd shown him online, except it has an embellishment. a tiny 'c'.

carmen's kinda blushy about it but you're beaming and squealing and just smothering him in affection bc it was so cute and sweet, and he really was too!!

then you quickly realize why carmen likes the anklet so much when he's putting it on you, then your legs are up in the air thirty minutes later as a "thank you".

your heels are digging into his shoulders, and normally his eyes are on you solely when he's fucking you especially like this. but you keep catching him staring at your anklet, fucking you hard, gripping your claves while he watches it bounce lightly.

maybe it's the thought that he has a sorta mark on you now. wherever you go, you've got something that symbolizes your his- that he's yours.

it was his grandfathers, then mikey's, and then his. mikey gave it to him when carmen went to new york because "you're a big shot now. need the ring to match since you're gonna be goin' to all that fancy shit, carm."

the ring was gold with a black onyx surface, a gold encrusted 'B' in old english font laid on top so it stood up. carmen didn't wear it often, didn't want to lose it or damage it, but every now and then- on date night, mainly, he'd wear it.

and you loved it.

the chain, nice outfit, plus pinky ring? you were drooling. watching him grab the door handle, cut your food, hold your hand in the car. you couldn't help yourself. he knew you couldn't either. it's why when you got home, he just nodded and you were over his lap.

carmen would take his time pushing up your dress, letting his hand glide over the small of your back, down your exposed cheeks, smug at the way you shuddered in excitement. he'd turn the ring around so the etched side was inwards, cracking his hand down on your ass over and over.

you'd squirm and mewl, gripping onto his legs or the sheets. carmen would just stare, mesmerized by the faint emblem showing on your skin only for a flash before fading.

the bear had made the chicago tribune after a raving review from a lifestyle travel influencer posted a video on the menu and it went wild. you were booked a year out, a waitlist a mile long, a million newspapers, magazines, and interviewers wanting a chance to write about the bear. it was buzzing around chicago, and carmen couldn't be happier. or busier.

he felt bad that with the newfound press, he'd been busy. you'd always been understanding but still, he felt bad, heart breaking every time your shoulders would fall when he said he had to work.

the two of you had just moved into the brownstone. you spent your days decorating and unboxing, showing him swatches of paint that you'd mull over for hours.

"carm, which one looks better?" you'd ask, turning around to see him standing there. only this time, he wasn't empty handed.

the infamous teal bag in hand, grinning at you proudly. "what's this?"

"a gift." carmen shrugged, pulling you over to the couch, setting you between his thighs.

you hummed, unraveling the tiny box. "you really didn't have to get me- oh my god." you were expecting a tiny piece of jewelry, not the dazzling strand of diamonds that sat on the tennis bracelet.

"carmen." you gaped, snapping the box shut, holding it against your chest. "how-how much was this?"

"doesn't matter." carmen shrugged, prying it gently out of your grasp. "let me put it on you. i wanted to get you somethin'. the restaurant is doin'... great. and ya know, i couldn't do it without you baby."

you pressed him about the price, but carmen waived it off. you knew he'd been making money- your new house and car told you that, but the kind of money to casually get gifts at tiffany's? it was new to you. a splurge still, but one that you treasured.

carmen left the necklace on, hips rolling while he fucked you in front of the fireplace, right on the new rug. he wanted to take a picture of the moment, watching you ride him, your head tipped back, diamonds sparkling still even in the low glow of the fire.

[mihawkhugs]

night changes

haikyuu | iwaizumi x reader | soulmate au (colours)

a/n : may make a part 2!

Falling in love with Iwaizumi was easy. 

It was like watching the night change. You don't really notice how the night passes until dawn arrives, and the sun breaks through the inky hue of the night. But if you play close attention, there are signs that time passes through the night, with clouds floating lazily about as the night sky dances between its shades of midnight. 

One may think his gruff nature and blunt manner may be off-putting, and perhaps they once were at first glance, but now, you can read in-between the lines, and see his loud barks of advice for what they conveyed - his concern for you. 

You first met him in high school. It was hard not to notice him, often accompanied by his flamboyant companion, Oikawa, and his loving (and loud) fans. In a crowd of smiles and laughter and adoration, his serious face, shouting and angry cursing definitely stood out to you. Especially because of how loud he could get when dragging Oikawa away. They certainly made an iconic dynamic duo. 

It was his shouting that led the two of you to become friends. 

You were holding your file, spacing out in the hallway whilst going to your next class, when an roar caused you to shriek, drop your file, and jump like you've been electrocuted by Pikachu. You swear your heart almost stopped as you were jolted out of your daze. 

"OI SHITTYKAWA! GET YOUR ASS - "

Iwaizumi was interrupted by your (embarrasing) reaction and the both of you had gaped at each other, like demented betta fishes before they fight. 

You were the first to snap out of your impromptu staring competition with Mr Spiky Loudmouth, scrambling to pick out your file amd all the papers that had scattered out, blushing in horror at your social faux pas. 

"I am so sorry ohmygod you just startled me and I just reacted instinctively jesus I'm a mess please ohmygod - " 

His chuckle halted your rambling and made you fumble, feeling mortified that one of the most popular guys in school had just watched you scream, drop your file like an atomic bomb and ramble like a 5 year old who had too much sugar. 

He knelt down, and you absentmindedly noted how large his hands were as they helped you pick up the remaining pieces of work, gently arranging them in a neat pile. 

"No, I'm sorry for startling you. I shouldn't have been shouting in the hallway like that." 

He had a nice voice, mellow and a little deep. He'd probably make a killing reading audiobooks or doing podcasts. 

He choked out a laughed as his eyes crinkled, handing you your papers as the tips of his ears turned a little darker, "Thank you? I think?"

As your hands brushed against each others, and before you could hit yourself for saying that out loud (like GOD he was gonna think you had a thing for voices which was NOT the impression you were trying to give) your world burst into colour, and the monochrome world you knew was replaced by so, so many colours, that you had only read about. 

Distantly, you heard Iwaizzumi inhale sharply, but you had long forgotten about him and your papers, standing up and looking out the window, entranced by how bright the world was, and how everything looked so different from the shades of grey that were all you knew. 

You turned to Iwaizumi, who was staring at you like it was his first time seeing you, and smacked him repeatedly in excitement, causing him to flinch in surprise. 

You pointed out the windown as you whacked him in glee, "Look!! Outside!! There are COLOURS!!!! Look!!" 

He followed your hand, laughing as he covered his mouth, eyes squinted shut with joy. 

"Yes soulmate, I see them too." 

You beamed at him before registering what he said. For the second time that day, you gaped at Iwaizumi Hajime like a dead goldfish, trying to say something but your words and brain failing you (again). 

He laughed again, a pretty shade of something painting his cheeks as he beamed at you, holding out his hand hesitantly. 

"Nice to meet you?" 

You reached out automatically to shake his hand (which were indeed much larger than yours), and gargled something gibberish in response. 

"Yo Iwa-chan~, it's lunch time! What's taking you so long -" 

Oikawa popped his head out from around the corner, before spotting the two of you, his best friend smiling like he had just seen a real life Godzilla, and a cute girl who was blushing like she had seen someone dance naked up a tree. 

His eyes gleamed with mischief and he opened his mouth, ready to shit on his best friend, when Iwazumi's head snapped towards him like a demented Annabelle doll, eyes promising revenge, pain and destruction if he so much as breathed in his direction. 

So Oikawa did what anyone would do. He screamed out, "Iwa-chan's got a girlfriend!" as he sprinted away, hauling ass.

Your soulmate went from cute happy babyboy to angry demon dog ghost child as he snarled in the direction of the other half of his duo, as you stared at him, brain not braining anymore. 

He turned towards you and flashed a small, shy smile.

"Wait for me after school?" 

You nodded mechanically. He could have told you to throw yourself out the window and you would have agreed anyways (God he had such a nice voice). 

He beamed at you, dimpling his cheeks, before he turned and scowled at the direction his friend had run of too. 

"DIE TRASHYKAWA! GET READY TO…" 

His voice trailed off as he sprinted down the hallway, yelling obsceneities and insults so creative he could write a book, leaving you staring after him, world completely overturned. 

Your hands came up to your cheeks, papers and file totally forgotten as you buried your face in your hands, letting out a silent scream. 

You had just met your soulmate. 

[angellayercake]

face down in décolletage - chapter 2

Papa Emeritus IV x Fem Reader | NSFW | AO3 | Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Copia talking about being face down in tits has all the feminism leaving my body. I am sorry but he can leer at my boobs any day and I would thank him. So TW for Copia being a fucking perv and kind of degrading but if you are into that we are golden! (check AO3 for full tags) And now ... what happens in his dressing room. I think this is the most NSFW, NSFW thing i have ever written so here you are. Massive thank you's to @ghostchems and others on discord who i have been torturing with parts of this over the last week. You guys are the best 💜

The door opens with a bang startling you as you sit nervously, waiting. Your thoughts had been warring in the time since you had set yourself up in his dressing room, entirely naked as he had requested. The way his eyes had been following you had been irritating you all day and yet you just allowed him to fucking motorboat you in your place of work. There’s something about him with the paint and the costumes that you just found irresistible, as if you are compelled to do as he tells you. You had been debating just leaving but as his eyes land on you as he closes the door you feel no regret. A look of dark satisfaction crosses his face and he slides his hand down his body drawing your attention to the thick bulge already forming at his crotch. 

‘Brava ragazza,’ he moans as he palms his dick through his trousers. ‘I do enjoy an obedient slut.’ You sit up straighter and open your mouth to object but the look he gives you has your jaw snapping closed. Part of you wants to argue still but then again you are sat naked in his dressing room after a handful of short conversations and half a day. Perhaps you don’t really have a standing there, and the way your body is already reacting to him, you don’t want to put an end to whatever is happening prematurely. He stands up straight and crooks his finger at you. ‘Come here cara.’ You rise slowly from the sofa, fighting the temptation to cover yourself. It is pointless you know, he will just insist you show him all of you anyway. He raises his hand bringing you to a halt in the centre of the room and he starts to pace, slowly, leisurely, around you, still not having taken his hand off his cock. 

‘Not just a nice pair of tits, eh?’ He comments as he circles you, taking in your body from every angle. You feel like a piece of meat, like prized livestock being inspected and again part of you wants to object but something tells you that if you do he will stop. And you really really don’t want him to stop. You start in surprise when he kneels down in front of you. That was not what you had expected him to do. 

‘Now let’s see how ready for me you are Cara, before I decide what to do with you.’ He doesn't break eye contact as he pulls off his glove with his teeth, one finger at a time before dropping it to the floor. He slides his now bare hand between your knees, encouraging you to spread your legs, then tracing his fingers up the inside of your thigh. ‘When I have finished with you, you will be soaked down to here you know.’ Your legs start to tremble at his touch.You want to press your legs together, to ease some of the ache in your cunt but you hope if you are patient you will get to feel his fingers at any moment. They are almost all the way up your thigh when he stops and sighs in disappointment.

‘Oh cara, I thought you wanted me, no?’ Looking down at his face you can still see the teasing look in his eyes. ‘Do you not want my touches? Is that why you are not already leaking down your thighs for me?’ He starts to pull away and in a panic you clamp your legs shut against his hand keeping him in place. He looks at you with a raised brow, questioning your audacity and you know you must do something to appease him. 

‘I’m sorry Papa, please don’t stop,’ you beg as you spread your legs once again. He doesn’t remove his hand from you thankfully continuing his path up your leg until the back of his fingers graze your pussy. It feels incredible already but as he slides his fingers between your folds you struggle to stay upright, your knees threatening to give out from that alone and you have to grip his shoulder for support when he teases at your entrance. But it seems he really is just checking how much he has turned you on because he pulls away, his smug satisfaction returning as he inspects the way your slick coats his fingers.        

‘This is a good start, si, but you are not ready yet Cara. Not for my cock, not here anyway.’ He slips his soiled fingers into his mouth groaning at the taste of you. ‘You taste sinful,’ he tells you. You gasp at the thought of his mouth on you but instead he stands leaving you still wanting for now. ‘Perhaps you want a taste of me too?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer, pushing you backwards until your legs meet the sofa forcing you to sit down and affording you a full view of his thick ever growing bulge. It must be painful with how tightly his trousers are laced and you want to free him but you look up first, feeling like you need permission. 

‘Go ahead cara.’ As soon as he says it you scramble to get him free. While lovely to look at the laces are frustrating and working them loose feels like it takes forever, that is, until you catch a glimpse of skin and hair and realise he isn’t wearing any underwear. You redouble your efforts knowing your prize is so much closer. You work them loose enough that you can pull his tight trousers down far enough that his still growing cock is revealed to you. It crosses your mind that this could be why he wants to make sure you are wet and ready enough because that thing has the potential to split you in half. You reach forward, eager to get your hands wrapped around him but he knocks them away. 

‘Hands down Cara. You have to earn being able to touch me.’ You quickly drop your hands to rest on your legs looking up at him impatiently. You want, you need, something so you decide to just look instead. It’s long, but also thick, so thick you think you would struggle to grasp it with one hand and it is so hard now that if you lean only slightly forward you would be able to take the pink head in your mouth and swallow down the precome gathering at the tip. Your mouth waters in anticipation of tasting him but you wait for his instruction, only able to pull your eyes away when he grasps the base with his own large hand. 

‘Open up Cara mia.’ He laces the fingers of his spare hand through your hair, guiding you forward as he directs his cock to your mouth but instead of sliding straight inside he traces the shape of your lips with the tip, groaning as he coats your mouth with his precome. He pulls away just enough that he can see your glazed lips. ‘Taste it,’ he commands so you lick your lips savouring the salty bitterness and he lets out another deep rumbling groan. ‘Bene cara, so obedient for papa.’ He strokes his fingers through your hair and you keen at the touch. ‘Now open again for me.’ This time he pushes the head through your lips letting it rest on your tongue. You want to close your lips, suck him in deeper but you wait for his direction. Both his hands cup the back of your head encouraging you to take him and although you can’t take all of him, you will be damned if you don’t try to take as much of him as you can. 

He is watching raptly as your lips stretch around him and you are impressed by his self control. He is a visibly holding back from fucking your face, you can tell from the way he is gritting his teeth but he must appreciate having to give you time to get accustomed to the size of him. Breathing deeply you focus on relaxing your jaw and easing him deeper and deeper, willing your gag reflex not to kick in as you do. He feels so good in your mouth you can feel your slick building between your legs as you imagine how he will feel filling your pussy. You moan around him, the size, the taste and the commanding way he is treating you already doing more than most of your past encounters.   

You pull away momentarily, a string of spit keeping you connected as you struggle to catch your breath. Deciding not to take him all the way down straight away, you kiss and lick your way down his considerable length, taking note of his low moans and hitching breaths. As you get to the base his tight trousers restrict you moving any further and both of your frustration is palpable. Before he can stop you, you grab at the waistband working the laces further open and giving you better access. His fingers tighten in your hair but he doesn’t stop you as your mouth finds his balls. 

Letting your hands wander along with your mouth you get your first feel of his thighs below the ripped fabric. You can feel the strength in them but there’s enough give that you can dig your fingers in as you pull him closer. You kiss your way back to his tip eager to get another taste of him but as you suck on his head his grip tightens encouraging you further and further down. You trail your hands around his thighs and up to his perfect ass, squeezing and hoping he understands the permission you are giving him to use your throat. He groans as he guides you further and further, all your concentration on keeping your throat as open, as relaxed as you can even as the burning stretch intensifies. You want to do it once, take him fully, to prove something. To him or yourself you aren’t sure but despite the discomfort you aren’t ready to stop quite yet. 

‘Can you take it eh?’ You hone in on his voice letting his slightly mocking encouragement help you to relax. ‘Just a little further cara and you will have all of me.’ His thumb comes to brush your cheek, massaging your stretched jaw. 

‘You look so good like this, look at me.’ You flick your eyes up to meet his intense gaze. ‘If I knew you were this good of a slut I would have had you earlier.’ You swallow around him as you realise how close you are, eyes going out of focus when you try and look how much of him you have left to take. 

‘So fucking eager aren’t you?’ His self restraint impresses you again as he lets you work your way down at your own pace. ‘You want to please your Papa don’t you by swallowing me all down.’ After what feels like forever you feel your nose against him and you have done it. It feels like there is no space left in your head for anything but him, consuming all your senses, all your thoughts. You feel a rush of something, satisfaction, pride or it could just be the lack of oxygen but it makes you moan around him which must be a step too far for him but in the next moment he has pulled out of you, leaving you coughing and spluttering as he grips the base of his cock and turns away from you.  

‘That is enough of that Cara. Touch yourself now.’ His back is to you so you know you don’t have to follow his orders instantly but as you try and steady your breathing you find yourself doing it anyway, dipping into your entrance with a groan before teasing your clit with slow slick circles. You watch intently as he peels his clothes off layer by layer. The jacket first, still sparkling in the overhead light. He takes care, hanging it on a moulded hanger hooked on the back of the door, straightening the lapels and smoothing out the creases in the sleeves. Next his boots, a simple zip inside of each and he is able to pull them off with ease lining them up first left, then right next to his scuffed brogues. 

When he reaches for his shirt buttons your mouth goes dry. He starts at the bottom, unbuttoning each button with a slow deliberate motion as more and more of his body is revealed to you. The groomed hair at the base of his cock thins out to a salt and pepper trail up his soft stomach and connects with his thick chest hair and you have to fight the urge to leave your position so you can run your fingers through it. The shirt gets discarded with little care and he moves on to the trousers. You are intrigued how he plans to get them off with any grace but you say nothing as he turns away again. 

The waistband is already sitting half way down his perfectly rounded ass thanks to your efforts but it takes some time for him to work the material down his thick thighs. You wonder if you should offer to help but before you make a decision he has managed to work them down to his knees and from there much less elegantly kicks them off. You have never felt so desperate to get your hands on someone in your life. He looks at you at last, as naked as you are, well except for the socks and notices you have paused your touches. 

‘Do you need me to take over now cara?’ He questions with a knowing smirk. You nod dumbly as you watch him saunter towards you, unable to settle on where you most want to look. His still achingly hard cock, his toned thighs, his broad chest or his handsome face. He was a feast for the eyes and you wanted him. Just as you think he is going to stop in front of you again he moves to drop down on the sofa beside you. He shuffles closer, laying his arm across the back of the sofa behind you and the other creeps across your thigh and underneath your own useless hand. 

‘Let me get you ready then.’ It seems he is done with his teasing as his fingers easily seek your entrance, sliding in with little resistance. He pumps them in and out, pressing down and spreading his fingers in an effort to stretch you enough to take him comfortably but not neglecting your pleasure either. His thumb grazes over your clit deliberately and he curls his fingers inside you as he finds your spot. You grip the arm rest as he pleases you, playing you as easily as he had played the crowd earlier in the evening. He adds a third finger and you start to feel the stretch but his whispered reassurances and stroking thumb work you through it until you are ready for more. 

‘I think you are ready now Cara.’ You keen at the loss of his fingers but he is already helping you into his lap, positioning you just so you will be able to control how much you take, at least for now. You grip his shoulders as you sink down so ready, you find yourself rushing. ‘Ah ah, now, we take our time or you might regret your haste tomorrow.’ You take a deep breath to steady yourself but you can still feel your limbs begin to shake as you struggle to hold your position. The long day and prolonged teasing make it hard to resist your exhaustion. You rely on him to guide you instead and one hand on your hip and the other directing his cock to your entrance. The first brush against you sends shivers through your body but you wait repeating to yourself over and over that it will be worth it. The tip breeches you and you feel your eyes roll back the stretch so deliciously overwhelming in spite of his preparation. 

‘Oh fuck yes,’ you hiss out as he allows you to press your hips down, taking him deeper and deeper. You want it all, just as you did in your mouth, greedy for the feel of him inside you. When you are fully seated you grind your hips slowly in his lap allowing yourself to get accustomed to the feeling. His eyes had slipped closed as your wet heat had enveloped him, his arms winding around your waist, keeping you close and not allowing you much movement but on a particularly deep grind he fucks directly into your sweet spot making your pussy clench down on him like a vice and his eyes snap back open. 

‘You feel so good cara, so fucking good,’ he growls taking a moment to bury his face between your boobs now you are at the perfect height. ‘I need more though, si? I need to fuck you hard and deep.’ Just his words have your insides fluttering, you need it as much as he seems to. 

‘Please Papa,’ you whisper against the top of his head. It takes all but seconds for him to lift your hips, turning you until you are bent over the arm of the sofa. He moves you like a ragdoll coming up behind you gripping your ass and spreading you open so he can survey the state of you, humming in satisfaction as he lines himself up. The stretch isn’t so all-encompassing the second time so you can appreciate exactly how well he fills you, although not for long as he picks up a driving rhythm, jolting you forward against the armrest and making your head spin. You had thought you had had good sex before, even great sex but you had never had anyone that managed to play your body so fully. There wasn’t a part of you that didn’t feel affected by the way he was fucking you and as much as you craved the climax you could feel building quickly within in you, you really did not want this feeling to end.  

‘Make yourself come on me Cara,’ he leans down to whisper in your ear somehow able to sense how close you are already. You don’t react straight away, not wanting to bring your inevitable end even closer but he is insistent, grasping your wrist, directing it to his chosen destination and leaving you with little choice. He switches his vice like grip to your shoulders, not only giving him enough leverage to slam into you but also helping to keep you upright and keep you working over your clit with quick sloppy strokes. 

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave but he gives you no respite.  His fingers dig into your shoulders, as he pulls you against him with every thrust. The sounds of slapping skin fill the room as he maintains the intensity with a spine shaking rhythm, the head of his cock pounding against your sweet spot over and over and over again. You think you might be screaming but as he fucks you through your climax you can't hear over the blood rushing in your ears. Your whole body convulses  and if it weren't for his bruising grip on your shoulder you would collapse. You are in a suspended state, pleasure clouding your mind completely as he fucks you to heights you have never before experienced and you can’t stop shaking. 

Your arms give out but he is there anchoring you against his chest, the coarse texture of his hair only adding to your over stimulation. He barely falters though, kneeling back and pulling you on top of him. He shifts his vice like grip to your hips, using your body weight to fuck you even deeper. With the change in angle something happens. Your last orgasm hasn’t fully passed but you can feel something else building, something far more intense. You start babbling nonsense not sure if you want him to stop or to please please continue but he just laughs, the vibrations travelling through your body where your sweaty skin is pressed together. You can feel your pussy clenching as he thrusts into you harder, faster, deeper and it builds and builds. 

‘Come on cara,’ he growls into your ear. ‘I can feel how close you are. Do you need something a little more?’ Unsure of what more he could possibly give you, you let your head loll back  onto his shoulder. His fingers creep down from your hip bone, inching lower and lower. As he reaches your cunt he doesn’t even graze your clit instead circling where you are stretched wide around his cock. ‘Fuck, I’m going to ruin this pretty pussy of yours.’ He pulls his hand away, relishing in your whines of loss but you weren’t prepared for his touch to return with a sharp slap directly to your clit. Once, twice and on the third time something inside you breaks. 

‘Oh fuck yes!’ he moans when the first wave squirts out of you, a brief panic crossing your mind until you realise what is happening. Wave after wave comes as his thrusts keep hitting home. He moans, feeling your spend drip down his thighs, milking you until there is nothing left and his pistoning hips start to slow. He presses sloppy kisses to your shoulder and neck, his arms coming to lock around you and keep you pressed against him. You cling to him as your strength leaves you and he eases you down until you are resting on the arm of the sofa once again. When he is sure you are settled he pulls away, sliding out of you completely and you whine at the sudden emptiness you feel. 

‘Hush Cara, just give me a moment.’ He eases you over on to your back, arranging your shaking limbs to his liking, bending you almost in half and holding your legs together. He has a perfect view of your already well used pussy, tracing around it softly with his finger before lining himself and fucking into you with a steady rhythm. ‘I love seeing a cunt like this, all pink and puffy for me.’ Grasping an ankle in each hand he spreads your legs apart giving him an even better view every time he sinks into you. ‘You are wrecked.’ He pants between thrusts. ‘Because I fucked you so well.’ You writhe beneath him moaning and gasping. You would have thought your last orgasm was your limit, the intense pleasure almost making you numb but now as he slides into you with so little resistance you can feel it building again. 

‘You almost ready for me to fill you up eh?’ He asks with a dark chuckle. He must sense how your body is starting to respond to him again, involuntarily clenching around his girth.   

‘Please,’ you whimper barely loud enough for him to hear.

‘You want me to fill you so when you go home back to your normal life you can still feel me dripping out of you,’ he whispers to you but you feel his words down to your core. He was determined to ruin you, completely and utterly you were sure of it. ‘So when you fill yourself with your fingers tomorrow, as you think about me, far away with the next willing hole, you will remember how no one has ever filled you so good.’ You can only moan, so far beyond words and so drunk on pleasure you can't even deny the vulgar things he is saying. You can’t imagine thinking of anything but him. He slows down, fucking into you with slow deep thrusts that fuck the air out of your lungs. 

‘I asked you a question.’ You groan as you realise he is waiting for some response. 

‘Do you not want to come again?’ His slow hard thrusts don’t falter and again you marvel at his self control. ‘Shall I just stop and jerk off until I can paint you instead?’ He stops moving all of a sudden, your full attention now on his words. ‘That option works for me too.’ Your eyes widen in panic as he starts to pull out until just the tip of his cock is still inside you.

‘Please,’ you say, not sure what you are begging for specifically but you need him to do something.

‘Please what?’ With what little strength you have left you try a wriggle back down his cock, enough of the tip inside you that if you could move just a bit he would slide straight back in but another stern look stops you. 

‘Please please Papa please.’ You are babbling again but you can’t stop yourself. He wants something specific from you and you want to give it to him so badly but you just can’t think.  

‘Please. What.’ His eyes darken when you fail to answer properly again. He lets go of your legs which drop against his shoulders now you no longer have the strength to hold them up and pinches your nipples cruelly. Your back automatically arches up off the sofa as your eyes roll back in your head. The sudden unexpected pain brings enough of your brain back online that you are able to form a somewhat coherent thought.   

‘Please please fuck me. Please let me come and please fill me up Papa please.’ You need him to fill you up, more than anything. 

‘Brava ragazza, that wasn't so hard was it.’ He strokes your now tingling nipples soothing the burn but as he massages the pain away he gets distracted by your breasts once again. He leans down between your legs burying his face between them, sucking and nipping and licking at your already abused skin. ‘Oh Cara, they are so beautiful,’ he laments into your chest. ‘I wish I was a younger man that I could fill you up and paint your perfect décolletage but no. I must choose.’ He drops a sloppy kiss to each nipple before sitting back up and smirking at you. He looks absolutely devastating, his face paint smudged and hair in disarray. 

‘And you begged so nicely.’ You were a whimpering mess by the time he began to fuck into you. He had been seated as deeply as he could have been inside you as he had been lavishing attention on your breasts but he had kept up the slow grinding circle of his hips, pushing the head of his cock impossibly deeper and massaging spots you never before knew existed inside of you. But as he picks up the pace again, short sharp thrusts angled perfectly to make you see stars, you know you won’t last much longer. 

‘Come for me cara, one last time for Papa.’ He almost sounds like he is begging now, needing to wring one last orgasm from you before he can take his own. You can already feel it building like a crescendo inside you. Every slap of his hips against you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. He reaches for your clit circling it in time with his thrusts and you are so close it barely takes a moment and you are there. 

‘Yes Papa,’ you breathe with the last bit of air left in your body. It ripples over you and you feel yourself clamp down on him. Nothing registering but blissful rolls of pleasure and his faltering thrusts as he joins you, tipping over the edge. He rides you both through it, filling you up just as he promised and as he collapses against you, face buried in your chest once more you start to drift away. 

You come too to the feeling of a gloved hand stroking your hair and gently scratching your scalp. You stretch, enjoying the delicious burn of well used muscles. Tomorrow is going to be a struggle but it was so worth it. You start to take in more of your surroundings. You are still naked but a blanket has been placed over you and your head is resting on what you decide is probably a soft warm thigh. Your eyes blink open and all you see is burgundy cotton until you look up and see his paint free face smiling down at you having noticed you are finally awake. 

‘Welcome back Cara Mia,’ his voice sounds different, more like the man you first met this morning. You would be confused if you weren't so blissed out so you return his nervous smile as you try to sit yourself up. He looks at you in slight alarm quickly placing the silly little juice box you hadn't noticed until now so he could use both hands to help you get upright. He pulls the blanket up over you so you are still covered and reaches down beside the sofa, struggling to find whatever it was he was trying to reach. You watch quietly wondering what the hell he is doing when with an exaggerated 'ahah' he produces a new juice box and offers it to you with a flourish. 

‘For you? To help after all the screaming?’ You look between him and the little carton of apple juice. This guy, you can't control the half hysterical giggle that escapes from you at the absurdity of the situation. That this absolute sex god that may have just given you the best fuck of your life wound down afterwards by sharing apple juice. You accept it because why not and try to subdue your giggles but he doesn't look offended, the slightly nervous yet content smile still on his face as he picks up his own juice box. 

‘Thank you Papa,’ you say after your first sip, pleasantly surprised at how well it quenches your thirst. Maybe he is on to something with the juice.

‘Copia you can call me Copia,’ he offers, ducking his head down to try and hide the flush of his cheeks. ‘If you want that is,’ he adds, managing to make eye contact with you again. He is nervous and you are confused but you feel a warm feeling of affection towards him for reasons you don’t have the brain capacity to pick apart right now. 

‘Ok Copia,’ you say with a tired smile. ‘Thank you.’ You both lapse into a comfortable silence with your juice and the aftershocks of pleasure still coursing through you when the odd thought pops into your still somewhat addled head. This was the best consequence to being lazy about your washing you had ever experienced.

[reimeichan]

I was having a conversation with a friend, who started their own DID journey around the same time as me. Our recovery goals are different (they call their goal "the Zygarde method" which, if you've seen mention of the Wishiwashi method on this blog, has a lot of similarities to that), and we're in different places of recovery right now (they've very much reached functional multiplicity at this time and we have not), but it's been really nice to have someone grow with me side by side as we figure out our DID together.

We all know what integration and fusion is, right? Integration is the breaking down of dissociation between parts, fusion is when two parts become one part. But I've realized more and more that the nuances behind what "fusion" is may look different from system to system. For one system, fused parts think and act as one identity with no distinct parts. For another, fused parts are aware of the individual composite pieces of themselves and may even be aware of when a specific piece is the "most prominent" piece at that time. Still another system experiences fusion as being a conglomerate of pieces who, while still distinct, are all sharing thoughts and feelings and memories and opinions with each other and are so in sync they effectively seem to be one identity. And these are just a few examples of what "fusion" may look like.

I think it's beautiful how our experiences can be so different from each other yet there's still a sort of common thread tying all of this together into the same concept that we call "fusion". But I also think that how fusion has been talked about in DID spaces has been so limiting and seems to paint it as only one thing. No wonder some people are hesitant to pursue fusion if they believe it to be akin to losing the multiple parts into one larger part. I encourage people to try to expand their understanding of "fusion" and "identity" and "self", and try to understand what all of that means for you and your system.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 118

Part 1 Part 117

Winter break passes better than summer had for Will. Mom’s loosened his leash enough that he can go to the arcade unsupervised, or hang out at Dustin’s house, or sequester himself in Mike’s stuffy basement and run a campaign like the good old days.

El closed the gate, and everyone’s convinced the Upside-Down is gone. Only Steve, Eddie, and Will can feel their connection stretch the miles between their abodes and know the truth: it’s not over.

Things will never be the same again.

Will doesn’t mention it. This little slice of normalcy is far too precious to jeopardize with the truth.

The holiday’s in the Byers house have always been low-key, but it’s been worse since last year. They don’t even put up lights anymore. No one’s told him why, and he hasn’t asked.

Still, when he asks his Mom, she gladly agrees to host their extended family. They’d done it at the Munson’s last year, hemmed into a space far too small for that many bodies.

It’s Eddie who suggests a secret santa exchange. Everyone huddles in Will’s living room, pulling names from one of Wayne’s baseball caps, groaning when Carol draws the last slip and it’s her own name. They crumple the pieces and try again.

Will stares down at El’s name and sneaks furtive looks up at her. She wasn’t around last Chrismtas, still holed up in Chief Hopper’s cabin pretending not to exist. But, her leash has been loosened as well, so here she is, beaming down at her own drawn name and bouncing on her toes with excitement.

Has she ever celebrated a holiday before? Has she ever even gotten a present?

It’s a lot of pressure. He feels it pushing down on him, but then Steve throws his arm around Will’s shoulders and initiates their usual tug, tug, tug ritual, and it all eases off. Like, Steve, even unknowingly, will always take the weight off Will’s shoulders and carry it himself.

He stares down at the piece of paper and starts to plan.

It takes the entire allotted two weeks to finish. He stares down at the finished project. Will she like it? Is he skipping over some boundary he doesn’t even know is there?

It doesn’t matter: he’s out of time, so he rolls the paper up and pushes it carefully into one of Jonathan’s old poster tubes, and rushes into the living room to wrap it.

Everyone gathers, sitting on couches and chairs and the carpet. Dustin crouches in the corner where they’d all piled their presents, squinting at small handwriting and passing around a variety of parcels.

They go in a circle, gift after gift. Will opens his own, beaming down at a trio of hand-painted figures from Lucas.

When Jonathan opens his, he stares down at it, mouth opening and closing, no sounds coming out. Will leans over to peer around the half-unwrapped gift to see what’s robbed him of speech.

It’s a cassette player, still in the original box, and it must be nice based on the way Jonathan’s staring at it like it’s the holy grail.

“I put a tape in it for you to listen to,” Steve says. His cheeks are pink, and he’s twiddling the ring on his pinkie. “You said I owed you one.”

Jonathan reaches out to pry the box open, staring in like he’ll find the answers to the meaning of life rather than a cassette player. “I was kidding,” Jonathan replies, but he’s smiling down at it now as he pulls it out of the box and pops the deck to look at what’s inside.

“You don’t even want to know what Stevie here had to do to get Johnny boy's name from the draw,” Eddie says, smiling from where he’s sitting on the rug. Steve elbows him in the ribs, but he just keeps talking. “And then he had to do it all over again when Perky Perkins screwed all his hard work and drew her own name.”

Carol gasps, rounding on Steve and kicking out at him ruthlessly close to his crotch. “You told him?” she shrieks.

Will has no idea what they’re on about but he laughs along with everyone else, watching all three of them descend into an all-out wrestling match like the children they’re not.

It doesn’t stop until they get dangerously close to knocking over the TV, and Mom claps to get their attention. They all settle back in to finish opening presents.

Because Will’s life has always been an unlucky one, El goes last. His anxiety ratchets up with every minute that passes, reaching an all-time-high as she finally starts peeling the paper away.

Unlike the rest of them, she picks the tape off the foil, peeling it away, careful not to rip the paper at all. She folds it all nicely, and hands it to Chief Hopper for safe-keeping.

She then stares down at the cardboard tube, brow furrowed until Mike tells her she has to open the other end. El flips the tube on its head, pulls off the top, and pulls out the rolled up paper inside.

With that same characteristic care, she unrolls it, only to gasp at what she finds. Will watches her face, digging his fingernails into his thighs.

“What is it?” Chief Hopper asks, leaning over her shoulder to ger a peek. He looks down at it with an expressionless face before smiling and patting her shoulder.

El nods, not looking away from the page in front of her.

Will has limited supplies, but he’d used all the best colored pencils he owns, and had Jonathan buy him a big piece of paper from Melvald’s.

On one edge of the page stands El. She looks fierce the way she has every time he’s seen her use her powers, hand raised and a huge beam of white light cutting across the darkness.

Within that beam, he’s painted all the people in this room. First, Chief Hopper in his police uniform, standing beside Mom, gun raised and pointed toward the darkness. Then, Mike, Lucas, and Dusin, dressed as their D&D characters holding a variety of weapons. Will, Steve, and Eddie stand farther along the page, back to back to back as they cover each other’s weak bits. Then Jonathan and Nancy, Nancy with a gun, and Jonathan slightly behind her, all ready to face whatever comes out of the darkness. And at the farthest corner, Barb stands with a baseball bat covered in nails, Carol standing slightly behind her, pointing into the darkness like she’s clueing Barb in on a monster’s location.

The whole thing ended up a little messy. Nancy’s hands look wonky, and there’s something wrong with Steve’s nose, but El’s beaming down at it like it’s the Mona Lisa.

“Be careful with it until we can get a frame for it,” Chief Hopper says, hand still clasping onto her shoulder.

She looks up at him, smiling even wider as she asks, “I can put it in my room?”

“Of course, kid.”

El stares down at the page for a few seconds more before rolling it back up with slow movements, making it small enough that it slides perfectly into its roll. She puts it on Chief Hopper’s lap, staring down at it for a second like she can’t bear to look away.

She then barrels across the room, colliding with Will so hard that they both end up on the carpet. “Thank you, Will,” El says, clutching onto him hard.

He pats her back awkwardly, looking around the room for help and finding none. “You’re welcome.”

“It is the best present I have ever gotten.”

That makes Will a little sad, but all he says is, “Merry Christmas.” He waits uncomfortably for her to get off him so he can sit back up.

It’s not long until everyone starts trickling out, Carol and Barbara herding Max and Lucas along with them to drop off, and Nancy snagging Mike and Dustin after sharing a kiss with Jonathan that Eddie makes barfing noises at.

Chief Hopper shepherds El into his truck, and Wayne follows them out, off to work the night shift.

Only Eddie and Steve stay. They all pile into Will’s room. His bed’s not big enough for the three of them, so they curl around each other on the floor, blankets haphazardly piled atop them.

It doesn’t take Will long to fall asleep, comfortable with Steve and Eddie at his back, the comforting sounds of his Mom cleaning up in the other room.

Part 119

[fairy-writes]

😎 congrats on 900 followers my best friend!! You deserve it!! I shall give the first first request to you, and that is, Sanemi x fem reader!!! With the action prompt 1! I give you free reign but for the love of everything holy, please make it fluffy!!!!!

IT JUST MEANS TIME

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

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Fandom(s): Demon Slayer

Pairing(s): Shinazugawa Sanemi x Female!Reader

Prompt: Falling asleep with their head in the lap of their lover (Action Prompt #1)

Notes: This is technically before the reader and Sanemi gets together, but it’s a fun idea, so we’re going with it, lol.

This is for my 900 followers event! Check my pinned post for more info if you want to join! It’s going on between May 1st and May 15th!

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There was always something off about you, but Shinazugawa Sanemi could never place what it was. 

You were a fellow Hashira—the Falcon Hashira, if he remembered right. You were from overseas but talented nonetheless. One of the more talented Hashira, if he had to admit anything. With quick but grand divebombing techniques and lethal strikes that imitated a falcon, after which you were named. The two of you sparred often, usually on your estate. You teased him, saying that he probably had a dirty home. 

He never told you it was because he didn’t want you to see the picture of his family. 

He didn’t want your pity most of all. 

Because he had a feeling that your pity would shatter his heart into tiny pieces.

But he wasn’t sure why.

Sanemi wakes up somewhere warm. His body aches as if he was dragged behind a train. His eyelashes flutter open, and he looks up to see your face. Your eyes are closed. Your face turned forward toward the open window, gently swaying from side to side with the breeze as you hummed a tune. It was calming… relaxing… 

It was something he hadn’t felt since before his mother died. 

The moment he realizes his head is in your lap, he bolts upright, startling you into opening your eyes. You glance at him in confusion before your expression warms, a twinkle in your eye and an expression he couldn’t quite place curling your lips.

“Have a nice rest?” You ask kindly. That was the thing about you. You were never unkind to anyone. You dealt with demons swiftly and painlessly, even going as far as to pray for them as they died. You always had that smile on your face, even when people screamed or cursed in your face. 

“Where am I?” He demands, and you shrug,

“Your estate. Shinobu asked if I could keep an eye on you while you healed. Do you remember anything?” You ignore his guarded expression, instead talking to him as if he was your best friend or even a lover. 

Lover… 

For whatever reason, he didn’t hate that idea. But he knew it was never meant to be. While he cared for you deeply (he wasn’t sure when that happened), he knew that you would never look twice at a man like him. Why would you? You were calm, kind, successful, and one of the only Hashira with a still living and loving family. Why you were a demon slayer was a mystery to him. 

“Shinazugawa? Are you alright?” You ask, breaking him from his reverie. You had cocked your head, and concern painted your face like an art piece. With the setting sun bathing your body in golden light, he thought you looked almost like an angel. 

Sanemi nods,

“‘m fine. What happened?” He eventually says, and you frown (he hates it when you frown) but reply regardless. 

“We were sent on a mission, and you were attacked by a demon. You passed out from blood loss soon after we killed the demon. I carried you back here. ” You explain succinctly, and he blinks. He vaguely remembered going on the mission. He remembers a splash of red. He remembers being moved. 

Had that been you? 

He is stuck in his mind and only shakes his head to clear himself of half-formed memories when you come back in with a tray of tea and a roll of bandages. 

“Shinobu asked that I take care of you.” You reiterate and gesture for him to turn around. He does so without a word. There’s no use in arguing, not when he hurts this bad and can spot speckles of stains on his futon where blood had leaked through the wrappings. You work deftly and quietly, only asking if the bandages are too tight, to which he says no. 

Eventually, you speak. 

“Who are those people in the picture?” You ask, and he immediately knows which picture you’re talking about. It’s the one by his futon. It’s the only picture of his entire family. His father’s face had been ripped from the image, and there were a few splatters of red on the paper, but he kept it nonetheless. 

“It doesn’t matter.” He says gruffly and grunts when you tug a bit too tight on the bandage around his middle. You apologize quietly.

“They’re your family, aren’t they? I think that matters a lot.” You say, voice but a whisper in the breeze coming through the window.  Sanemi clenches his fists and grits his teeth. Here it comes. 

The pity. 

The apologies. 

You don’t look at him with those eyes that he despises. Instead, you look at him with compassion, not pity. 

“I think they’d be proud of you, y’know? You’re helping so many people. I think they’d want you to have a happily ever after.” You say, and he remembers seeing you read a book of foreign fairy tales. When he had asked you about it, you had smiled. 

“I just want a happily ever after someday.” You had said. 

“There’s no such thing as “happily ever after.” It’s just a lie that everyone tells themselves because the truth is too hard.” He says bitterly, his heart constricting.

No. 

He didn’t want to say that. 

Not to you. 

He didn’t want you to look sad. 

But you continue to astound him when you speak again. You don’t apologize. You don’t reprimand him. You don’t belittle him. 

“Happily ever after just means time, Sanemi.” You whisper, putting a hand over his. He revels in the feeling of your calloused hand and the way you say his name with a smile. Normally, he’d shout at anyone for calling him that. But you are different. And that was something he liked about you.

So, when you gently tug him down so he lies with his head in your lap, he doesn’t complain. He even closes his eyes as you begin to hum. 

He falls asleep soon after, feeling relaxed and calm, feeling loved. 

Sanemi always prided himself on keeping his walls up. Because with a past like his, he didn’t want pity. He didn’t want people to say how sorry they were for him. Because frivolous words like that did nothing around demons. 

But… strangely enough… he didn’t feel like he needed to keep them up around you. 

[tasteleeknow-remade]

— horror house

pairing: minho x fem!reader genre: smut, angst, enemies to lovers. content: 18+ minors dni. warnings below cut. word count: 6.2k

summary: you're stuck in a horror house alone—your only way out is with the guy who hates your guts. halloween themed enemies to lovers with minho. pirate!minho with a lip ring included.

afab!reader. profanity. mention of recreational drug use. insecure reader. anxiety mention. pet names. unprotected intercourse. oral (f.rec). jealous behaviour. possessive behaviour. praise kink.

At first it was only out of obligation to your friend. They’d only dated a few months but Minho had been a total dick when it ended, breaking it off over text and offering her no explanation. Then you’d had a class project with Chan, his best friend. You’d gotten along so well you’d accepted Minho was the price you’d have to pay to keep Chan around. You ignored Minho for the most part, still just out of loyalty to your heartbroken friend. It wasn’t until Chan’s birthday that your opinion of him was set in stone. You’d spent the previous month painting a landscape of a beach Chan had declared his favourite place on earth. When he’d unwrapped it and held it up for everyone to see, MInho had burst out in laughter.  

That was when you decided you hated him. He’d fucked with your friend and he’d made you feel like shit about your only escapism hobby. It took months for you to get the soothing feeling back when you painted. You second guess every piece you made, wondering if everyone around you was just being nice when they said they were pretty. He was a dick and you hated him. Unfortunately, he stuck to Chan like glue. He was always buzzing around, making little biting comments about your clothes or your hair or something you’d said.

Tonight was no different. You were at a halloween event at the theme park with Chan, Minho and two other friends. It was supposed to just be you and Chan but when he'd called the day before to sheepishly admit Minho was tagging along, you’d invited two other friends to balance it out. The more people were there, the less you’d have to talk to him. So far you've received snark about your costume, about your choice of food, and about your refusal to ride one of the biggest rollercoasters. The guy was afraid of heights and he was being a dick about you not wanting to go on a ride. When you pointed out the irony he’d just grinned, “Yeah, and I’m going on it. So what does that say about you?” You’d grabbed his stupid pirate hate off his stupid head and shoved it into Chan’s arms. “Fine,” you’d said, “I’ll go on the stupid ride.” You’d marched off to join the queue, ignoring him when he’d begun taunting you about being afraid. When it was all over you’d struggled to contain your laughter. It wasn't that bad. If you were being totally honest it was pretty fun, but you weren’t telling him that. 

He sits across from you now, biting the end off his stupidly long churro. You’d offered to buy Chan one when he’d pointed out the cart and Minho had latched onto the offer—asking at the last moment in front of the staff. He’d never paid for a single thing for you ever. His tongue pokes out to lick sugar off his lip. He had a fake lip ring on. What that had to do with pirates, you had no idea. You’d asked him when he’d shown up at Chan’s place earlier that night. He’d made fun of you for even noticing the fake jewellery. “What are you looking at my lips for?” he’d smirked. 

“You’re gonna swallow that thing,” you say now, watching the small silver ring disappear slowly between his lips as he chews. 

He looks up from his churro and keeps his eyes on yours—his tongue poking out again to push it back in place. Then the corner of his mouth lifts a little. “Still can’t take your eyes off my mouth?” 

“I was hoping you’d choke on it.”

“I wanna go to the horror house next,” Chan announces, interrupting before Minho can offer one of his uninspired retorts. You hate horror houses. You hate horror mazes. Halloween was fun as long as no one was jumping out from behind corners to scare you. But you can’t back out, not after the roller coaster. He’d find some way to make it worse than just going without complaint. 

“I like your costume,” a girl dressed as some kind of sexy demon says as she brushes her fingers across the brim of Minho’s hat. That was another thing, he was the worst flirt you’d ever come across in your life. Anywhere you went there would be some girl draped over him, feeding into his huge fucking ego. You wanted to pull them aside and explain why he was the last guy in the world they wanted to lather in praise. You never did, though. He’d think you were jealous and trying to drive off the competition. 

“Thanks,” he smiles at the girl, “What are you?” 

“A succubus.” 

Honestly, you wish she’d flirted with you instead. She looked hot. Your costume didn’t do a lot for your figure. You wore a long white dress with puffed sleeves at the shoulders—a spattering of fake blood carefully added around the hem. It was supposed to be an homage to your favourite horror film, Crimson Peak. Minho had asked why you’d come dressed in a bedsheet. If you were trying to do a ghost he could cut two holes in it and pull it up over your head, he’d offered generously. 

“The sex demons?” Minho’s voice is deeper than usual as he flirts with the hot demon girl. It was ridiculous. Easy ammunition to use against him later. 

“They visit people in their dreams and seduce them,” she purrs as she fiddles with the laces at the front of her corset. 

You look to the front of the queue you're standing in then turn to Chan, attempting to tune out the flirting. “Please, distract me before I puke,” you whisper in his ear. He chuckles before speaking, not bothering to whisper. 

“It’s honestly impressive how long you’ve kept this up. When will you let him off the hook, hm?” 

Minho and the hot demon girl shuffle forward as the queue moves. You don’t, letting them create some distance before you speak. “He’s a prick. I’ve explained what he did.” 

“He had a messy break up with a girl you aren’t even friends with anymore.” 

You say nothing, crossing your arms and leaning back against the railing. You watch him study your face out the corner of your eye before he speaks again, “Ah. It’s not about that is it?” You keep your mouth shut. “Is it about the painting? You know I love that thing. It’s hung up in a prime location.” 

Minho and the hot demon girl have moved even further forward in the queue, giving you the confidence to speak. “It’s not about the painting. He’s just a dick.”

“Why would I be best friends with someone who is just objectively a dick?”

“You tell me.”

“I wouldn’t.”   

“Well maybe he’s just a dick to me then.” 

Chan is quiet and just as you think he’s dropped the subject he speaks again, “Oh, I get it.”

“What?”

“Can you move up!?” someone behind you shouts. You shuffle forward to where Minho and the hot demon girl are still flirting. Chan nudges you. You ignore him. 

You have your eyes squeezed shut, your grip on Chan’s bicep the only thing keeping you upright. Minho and the others are up ahead, leaving you and Chan to stumble forward clumsily. Every now and then you hear Minho shouting up ahead, he was jumpy—like you. That didn’t matter though, you’d cop an earful if he saw you cowering in fear. 

“Can you loosen up just a little?” Chan asks, attempting to pull his arm from your grip. 

“No.” 

He stops walking, halting you with him. “Let go for a second.” 

“No.”

“Just for a second.” 

You hesitantly release him, instantly regretting it and reaching to grab him again—eyes closed. You feel nothing but empty space. “Chan?” you call, failing to hide the panic in your voice. “This isn’t funny.” All you hear is the sound of his retreating footsteps. “Chan!” When you get no response, you freeze. Too afraid to open your eyes or make any more noise. When his footsteps return you reach out blindly. “Please,” you beg, voice wobbling a little. 

“You alright?” Minho’s voice. Fuck. Open your eyes, you plead with yourself. “Jesus, Chan said you were afraid, not catatonic.” 

You peek one eye open, he’s directly in front of you—smiling like he’s just stumbled upon pirates' gold. “I’m fine,” you mutter unconvincingly. 

“Alright, Let’s head back to the others then,” he says, turning to leave.

You squeeze your eyes shut again. “Wait! I—” you interrupt yourself, regretting the outburst instantly. 

“Mm?”

“I need…” you trail off, cringing. 

“Yes? What do you need?” His voice is sickly sweet. 

“You,” you finish, shoulders slumping in resignation. 

“This wasn’t exactly the place I imagined you finally admitting that.” 

“I need you to lead me through, you idiot.” 

He’s quiet for a moment. “Say ‘pretty please Minho, you’re so strong and handsome’.” 

“Don’t be an ass.” 

Then there was silence. You’re afraid for a second he’d somehow crept away without you hearing. You open your mouth to suck in a breath and call his name—a soft tickle of breath against your cheek halting you. “Say please,” he whispers directly into your ear. 

A small shiver runs through your spine. “Will you please be nice to me for once and let me hold your arm?” 

“Okay,” he says lightly, as if he hasn’t just made you beg for his help. His hand touches yours lightly and you think he’s guiding your hand to his arm—instead he intertwines your fingers. Before you can protest he’s pulling you along, making you stumble a little at his quick pace. You peek an eye open just as something drops from the ceiling. You scream, jumping forward to latch onto Minho—fingers grasping at the linen of his pirate shirt. His fingers tighten around yours, “You really that scared?”

“Shut up.” 

“Can you afford to be rude to me right now?” 

“I’ve got a hold of you now, I’m not letting go even if you decide to abandon me.” 

He chuckles and then he’s attempting to detach you from his shirt. “I can’t walk with you attached to my front like this,” he whines. You relent, releasing the fabric to quickly wrap around his bicep, one hand in his, and one grasping his arm. “Really?” he complains. Before you can respond he's walking, movements slowed by your shuffling. You flinch at each jumpscare, feeling his small jolts as he reacts similarly. You don’t comment on it, afraid if you poke at him too much he really will leave you.  

When he stops moving finally and announces you’re at the end, it takes you a moment to gather yourself. Then you spring off him. Chan and the others are standing with the hot demon girl and her friend, chatting and laughing like they hadn’t just emerged from that nightmare. It’s only at that moment you register Minho had left the girl he’d been flirting with to come back and help you. 

“You okay?” Minho’s soft voice pulls your attention to his face. 

“Why did you come help instead of Chan?”

“He asked.” 

You nod in understanding. “Right,” you say before walking over to join the others. He did it because Chan asked. Because he’s nice to Chan and everyone else, apparently. When Minho joins the group, hot demon girl latches onto him—grasping his arm a lot like you had minutes earlier. She leans up to whisper in his ear and then his eyes widen a little. You watch over the next few minutes as his ears tinge red. 

“Hello?” Chan’s voice breaks through your thoughts. 

“What?”

“I said we’re gonna head back to my place for drinks.”

“Oh, alright.”

“You coming?”

“Sure.” 

“Oi! We’re going back to mine!” Chan shouts to Minho much louder than needed. Minho looks up, eyes meeting yours. He looks away to whisper in the demon girl's ear. She smiles and nods. You turn to follow Chan and the others back to the car. 

“She’s not coming,” you struggle to keep your voice down, looking back over to the others standing around the car. You’d dragged Minho out of demon girl's earshot. 

“Why not?” Minho answers, his calm demeanour working you up more. 

“She doesn’t fit.” 

He looks back to the car. “She can sit on my lap.”

“That’s illegal.” 

He laughs. You want to stomp his stupid hat into the pavement. “You smoked weed a few hours ago,” he says. 

“That’s different.” 

His lips quirk up at the corners. “Yeah?”

“Unless you call the cops yourself, I’m not getting in trouble for that. All it would take is Chan getting pulled over and we’re all fucked.” 

He smiles properly, eyes crinkling. “When are you going to admit you’re in love with me?” 

You throw your arms in the air. “Are you making fun of me right now? I—God.. just—Do whatever the fuck you want then. I’m over it,” you storm back to the car, pulling the front passenger door open and slamming it shut after you. You struggle to hold tears back. Why the fuck are you crying? Overwhelmed from the horror house, you assume. You take a few deep breaths and then everyone is climbing in the car. You don’t turn around, keeping your eyes fixed out the windscreen. When Chan doesn’t start the car after a few minutes you turn, noticing Minho and demon girl outside the car still. She gives him a hug and you look away quickly. When Minho enters the car alone, you say nothing. 

Chan passes you another drink, giving you a pointed look before settling himself back in one of the chairs across the fire pit. You hadn't said much at all since getting in the car. Chan noticed, you guessed. You were getting a little hot in your long dress. You doubted you’d be making it home tonight. You often ended up crashing at Chan’s place on nights like this, it was a bit like a second home—even if he shared it with Minho. 

“You alright?” one of your other friends asks as they lean over from their chair next to you, “You’ve been a little quiet.” 

“Just a bit hot,” you say, offering her a small smile. 

“Oi! Come have a go!” Minho shouts at you from where he’s having a sword fight with your friend dressed as a Jedi. It’s sword versus lightsaber. 

“Nah, I’m good,” you reply, not caring if he can hear you. You make eye contact with Chan across the fire. He nods his head in their direction. You shake your head back. 

“She’ll have a go!” he shouts. Traitor. You knew Chan had a longstanding agenda of making you and Minho friends. He wasn’t subtle about it. 

A lightsaber is shoved in your face. You look up to find Minho grinning down at you. “Take it,” he says, shaking the weapon in front of you. You snatch it, standing to follow him to the patch of grass he’d chosen as the battlefield. He holds his fake pirate sword out in your direction, adopting a dramatic fighting stance. You roll your eyes. 

“How does this thing light up?” you ask, searching the surprisingly sturdy plastic lightsaber for any buttons. You find one. It lights up blue. 

“You ready?” he asks. 

“What are the rules? How do I win?” 

“Stab the other person in the stomach.” 

You lunge for him with no warning. He jumps back, blocking you with his sword. “Sneaky,” he chuckles, backing up slowly as you keep attacking. He keeps backing up until he reaches the fence, nowhere else to go. Then he attacks. He swings the sword so hard you’re amazed the two plastic toys are holding up. He doesn’t seem like he’s actually aiming for your stomach, having too much fun swinging at you wildly. 

He clips your hand. “Ow!” you yell, dropping your weapon to the ground and shaking your hand in the air—failing to ease the sting at all. 

He stops, sword falling to his side. “Oh, shit. Are you alright?” 

You blow on your hand then bend to grab the lightsaber. “I’m fine,” you say, fired up now. “Keep going.” 

He frowns, eyes on your still stinging hand. You take advantage of his distraction, jumping forward to shove the tip of your weapon into his stomach. He grunts as you hit him and then he’s laughing, reaching forward to grab you and wrap his arms around you—holding you hostage. 

“Get off,” you groan, wiggling in his hold. He squeezes you tighter. 

“That was dirty play.” 

“We didn’t make any rules. Let go.” 

“Say please.”

“Fuck off.” 

He releases you and you storm off, grabbing your drink and heading inside. You were hot just sitting around but after that? You needed to change out of this stupid costume. The high collar was making you feel suffocated. You place your drink on the kitchen countertop and lean over the sink to splash your face with cold water. While you shake your hands dry your gaze drifts to the large painting hanging proudly in the centre of the largest wall in the house. When you’d first seen where Chan had hung your painting, you’d been unable to keep a smile off your face. Either he really did like it or he liked you enough to hang it there anyway. Either way, it soothed a little of the sting Minho had dealt when he’d laughed at it. 

You head up the stairs, making your way to Chan’s room. It wasn’t unusual for you to borrow clothes from him when you stayed over. You’re sifting through his shorts, trying to find the pair that fit you well when you’re startled for the hundredth time today. 

“What are you doing?”

“I’m looking for clothes, get out.” 

Minho wanders into the room, slowly making his way over to you—hands in his pockets. “I’ve got clothes.”

“Obviously.” 

“Use mine.”

“Why would I do that?” you ask just before he presses the drawer closed, forcing you to pull your hands out. You look up at him, too tired to fight him. “Fine,” you sigh before leading the way to his bedroom. His soft footfalls follow you. You turn at his door, blocking the doorway with your arm. “I don’t need help.” He ducks under your arm. 

You debate whether it’s worth trying to make a run for it back to Chan’s room. There’s a lock on his door. “Hurry up, don’t you want to get out of that bedsheet.” You spin around to find him sorting through a pile of clothes at the end of his bed. 

“It’s not a sheet, it’s a nightgown from a gothic horror.” 

“You went to a theme park in pyjamas?” he taunts, continuing to dig through the pile, “You got all that fancy stuff under there?” You say nothing, watching him from the doorway. “Ya know like a corset and stockings and all that olden days crap?” 

“It’s a nightgown, why would I have anything underneath?” 

“You make it sound like you have nothing on at all,” he asks without looking up, busy with his search. You lean back against the doorframe and cross your arms, saying nothing. His hands abruptly halt and he looks up at you. “No…you’re kidding.” 

“Are those dirty?” you ask, pointing at the pile of clothes. He drops the shirt he’d been holding, taking small steps over to you slowly—like you might spook. 

“Not even panties?” he asks, ignoring your question. 

“Don’t be a perv.” 

“Me? You were staring at my lips all night.” You drop your eyes to his chest, the neckline of his pirate costume lower than anything you’d seen him wear before. “Oh, my chest too?” You snap your eyes back to his. 

“If I was staring it was only because of your nauseating attempt at flirting. It must be tiring dropping your voice so much lower than it is naturally. That girl is lucky she got out of coming back here. I bet you’re a lousy fuck.” 

“I dunno how many more of your insults I can take. As cute as the little line is between your brows when you get angry, I do have feelings.” 

You frown. Cute? 

“Mm, that’s the one.” 

You quickly adopt a neutral expression. “I’m going back to Chan’s,” you announce, not moving. 

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he says, taking a small step closer, “I’d rather you stayed here…stay here and take that thing off.” 

“Get out so I can change, then.”

“No.”

“Get the fuck out.” 

“You want me to fuck you instead? Is that it, huh? That’s why you’re being brattier than usual. You watched me all night and then when I paid attention to that girl instead of you, you lost it.” 

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” 

“So you wouldn’t mind if I called her right now and told her to come over? She gave me her number, ya know. Told me to call her if I decided I wanted to fuck her after all. Tell me you don’t want me to call her. Tell me you want me to fuck you instead.” 

“Why—” you pause as he tugs at the strings keeping his shirt together at the front, revealing even more of his chest. “Why would I want to fuck someone who hates me?” you finish, hoping your voice sounds even. 

“Hates you?” 

“Don’t play dumb.” 

His expression softens, catching you off guard. “Why would I hate you?” His voice is soft now too. 

“You—You don’t?” 

“No, baby. I don’t hate you.” 

You examine his face for any indication he’s messing with you. “But—”

“Is that why you’ve been running from me? Hm? Why you won’t admit you love me?” His fingers play with the fabric of your nightgown before he begins pulling it up slightly—the material bunching in his fist. 

Why does he keep saying that? “I don’t.” 

“You don’t love me? I have feelings, remember. You can’t say something nice to me? I won’t tell anyone.” He says, a small smirk forming. The way he was switching between soft tones and snark was giving you whiplash. Your eyes drop to the ring still attached to his lip. “Always looking at my mouth…” 

You're quiet as he continues slowly bunching up the fabric of your dress, then you whisper, “I-I like the ring.” 

He grins. “Yeah? Is that all?”

“I like the shirt,” your voice just above a whisper this time.

“Do you like the shirt and the ring or do you like them on me?” The dress is up to your thighs now, both his hands under the hem to bunch all the fabric up. His knuckles brush your skin lightly. “You really have nothing under here?” he asks before you can respond to his first question. 

You reach down to take one of his hands, keeping eye contact as you guide him up your thighs slowly. You pause, “You really mean it? You—you aren’t fucking with me?” 

“Hm?”

“You don't hate me?” you clarify. 

“You really thought I hated you?”

You frown, confused. “You’re always—You’re nice to everyone but me.” 

“I thought we were playing. You’re so fun to play with.” He smiles. “You don’t like playing with me?” 

“You laughed at my painting.”

He frowns a little. “Your painting? The one you gave Chan?”

You nod.

“I was laughing because all I got him that year was a new case for his phone. He made me promise not to get him anything ‘big’ and then you walk in the house carrying the biggest present I've ever seen in my life. It was bigger than you for fuck’s sake. I held it back until he opened the thing.” He chuckles at the memory. “The amount of wrapping paper around his legs…I got him a phone case.” 

“You didn’t think it was bad?” 

“Why would I hang it up in the centre of the house if I thought it was ugly?” 

“You—You put it there?” 

“Mm,” he confirms, eyes flicking down to where his hand disappeared under your dress. Oh right, his hand was under your dress. You take a deep breath before continuing to guide his hand up your thighs, hesitating when you reach your centre. “It’s alright,” he whispers, retracting his hand a little before you stop him. You hold him there as you examine his face. His ears are tinged red. Maybe he really isn’t messing with you. Maybe he really did want this. You gently guide him to your cunt, sucking in a shallow breath as his fingers brush your folds. He wraps his free hand around the back of your neck, holding you close to him. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You really went to that theme park with your little pussy bare like this? Shit, the way you were latched onto me in the house…you were all shivery and jumpy and I didn’t even know your little cunt was naked…”

You watch the little silver ring on his bottom lip as he plays with you. 

“Bet that guy at the churro stand would’ve lost his mind if he knew you were all naked under here…he already looked like he was imagining how you’d look with his cock in your mouth,” he continues, fingers stroking you slowly. 

“What guy?” you breathe. 

“You didn’t notice him ogling you the entire time we ate? Were you too busy watching my mouth? Hm? Am I that distracting, baby?” You say nothing, focusing on keeping your breathing even. “No? You don’t get all worked up when I’m around?” The tip of his finger dips inside you before retreating, teasing your entrance over and over again. You grip his bicep to keep your balance—legs wobbling a little. His tongue pokes out to play with the ring briefly. 

‘Stop,” you gasp out—overwhelmed. You’re unsure whether you mean his fingers on your cunt or his tongue on his lip. He drops both hands from your body, taking a quick step back. He looks at you like could shatter his world with your next move. 

You grip the hem of your dress and pull it up over your head—stumbling back a step, thrown slightly off balance by the weight of the bunched fabric. When you drop it to the floor and look back up at Minho his eyes are glazed over—hands clenched at his side. 

“Hate you?” he huffs out a breath of laughter before approaching you slowly. He takes your hand gently, lifting it up and turning it back and forth as he inspects it. It’s the hand you’d hurt in your sword fight, you realise. You’d completely forgotten about it, the stinging long gone. 

“Promise me. Promise you aren’t going to take this all back…that you mean it,” you say, giving him one last chance to back out. 

He rests his palm gently at your hip, gliding up and down your waist slowly before dropping to your lower back. He pushes you into him, your torso pressed to his. “Promise,” he mutters and then his lips are on yours. He’s not gentle at all. It’s desperate and messy and it isn’t long before his lip ring comes off in your mouth. You pull back enough to pluck it from between your lips, holding it up like pirate's loot—unable to hold back a grin. 

“Don’t lose this,” you say as you tuck it into one of his pockets before pulling him back to you. His hair is messed from wearing the pirate’s hat for hours and you can’t resist tangling your fingers in it as you hold him to you. He grabs a handful of your ass in return. “The door is open,” you murmur into his mouth as he walks you backwards towards the bed. He makes no indication he’s heard you and then the back of your legs hit the edge of the bed. He lowers you onto your back slowly, your legs dangling off the bed. He pecks your mouth once more before walking over to shut and lock the door. You sit up on your elbows as he approaches you again, watching him pull the flimsy shirt over his head. You trail your eyes down to where his hands work to unbuckle his belt. 

“Spread your legs for me,” he says, prompting you to look up to his face. His eyes are locked between your legs as he tugs at his belt. 

“Say please.” 

He looks up to your eyes, a small smile forming on his face. “Cheeky. You like playing too, don’t you? You’ve always liked it, playing with me.” 

You offer him a small smile in return. 

“Please, spread your legs for me,” he says, shoving his pants down his legs. Your eyes drop to his thighs as you slowly spread your legs apart, offering yourself to him. “Fuck,” he mutters, dropping to his knees. He settles himself between your legs, pushing your thighs apart a little more. “Say something nice to me and I’ll make you feel good,” he says, one finger stroking you lightly. You struggle not to squirm, the teasing touch making you desperate for more. “Go on, you can do it,” he encourages. 

“Your mouth is pretty,” you mutter under your breath. 

“Hm? What was that?” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

“I think…your lips are nice.” 

“I know,” he says sweetly and then he’s leaning forward to press a kiss to your dripping cunt. He holds your thighs apart as you involuntarily attempt to squeeze them together. “Again,” he murmurs, lips brushing against you. You fail to hold in a whine. “Something nice,” he prompts. 

“Thighs,” you breathe out, unable to form a full sentence. 

“Yeah?” His breath tickles you as he speaks. “So I wasn’t imagining it at the beach the other day…kept catching you looking.” You feel your cheeks warm, embarrassed. The man had his face between your legs and you were blushing over the fact he’d caught you looking at his thighs. He presses his lips to your mound, rewarding you by tracing light kisses down to your entrance. You replay the memory of his lips with the small silver ring attached to the lower, how he looked with his tongue poking out to play with it, how he looked licking sugar off his lips. 

By the last kiss you’re failing to keep your hips still in your attempt to get a little friction from somewhere, anywhere. His palm moves to press against your lower stomach, and then his warm, wet tongue is licking a long stripe back up to your clit. A whine of his name slips from your lips. “Yes?” His voice is sickly sweet again, in total contrast with the act he’s engaged in. 

You fail to lift your head off the bed, muscles too relaxed. “More,” you plead, unbothered with how desperate you sound now. 

“More? More of me? You want more of my tongue on your wet little pussy?” 

“Mm.” 

“Say it. You want me.” 

“...want you.” 

“My name.” 

“Minho…want you… please…Min…” 

“So sweet,” he mutters before attaching his mouth to you again. He keeps his palm on your lower stomach, applying just enough pressure to keep your hips on the bed as he works you up to your high. You grasp at his bedsheets as you picture his pretty lips, then he groans. The vibrations against your cunt send you over the edge, mind blanking as you cum. He presses you into the bed a little harder as your hips attempt to rise off the bed. He’s muttering against you. You make out nothing he says.  

By the time you come down he’s hovering above you, lips and chin glistening with your wetness. You pull him down to attach your mouth to his, wordlessly thanking him. He moans into your mouth and presses his body down onto you, your breasts pressing into his bare chest. His hard cock rests against your thigh. He’s kissing you differently from earlier, while that was desperate and rough, this is slow and sensual—as if he’s savouring his reward. 

“You clean?” you mutter against his lips, impatient to feel him inside you. 

“Hm? You gonna let me fill you up?” 

“Answer the question.” 

“Yeah, baby. I’m clean. Now answer mine.” 

“You can, if you like, have an IUD.” 

“Tell me what you want. I wanna hear you ask me nicely.” 

“Or I could just leave. You got me off, I'm good to go.” 

He pulls himself off you, returning to his standing position at the end of the bed. You prop yourself up on your elbows so you can see him, his eyes are trailing up and down your body. “You don’t want this?” he asks as he starts slowly stroking himself. “Look how hard you make me,” he mutters, thumb brushing over his tip. You sit up, eyes level with his cock. You look up at him. 

“Are you fishing for compliments on your dick now? You got a praise kink?” 

“Will you tell me nice things if I say I do.” 

“What do I get in return?”

“I just made you cum.” 

“That’s true, that was nice of you,” you say, watching one corner of his mouth quirk up. “Alright, you have a nice dick.” 

“Is that the best you can do?” 

You drop your eyes back to his cock, his hand still slowly stroking up and down. It was true. He did have a nice dick. It was thick and curved slightly up, not too long but long enough to make it the nicest dick you’ve seen. You wonder if you could handle his ego if you said that out loud. 

“It’s pretty,” you say instead, “pretty and—and it looks like it’d fill me up nicely.” 

“Mm? You gonna let me cum inside? You want me to?” 

You look up to his eyes again, they’re hooded—his jaw clenched. “Yeah,” you breathe. 

“Lay back on the pillows,” he says, “please.” 

You shuffle back on the bed, failing to hold back a smile. His cock bounces as he crawls towards you and then he’s settling himself over you. You hold your breath, anxiety seeping back into your chest again. How could you have got it so wrong? It didn’t make sense. 

“Have you—have you wanted this… for a while?” you ask, as he hovers over you—pearl choker hanging a little from his neck. Apparently he’d decided pirates wore pearl chokers and lip rings. You weren’t complaining. 

“A little while,” he mutters, eyes dropping from yours. 

“Then you’re a terrible flirt.” 

He huffs out a short breath of laughter, eyes meeting yours again. “I thought we were good at it.” 

“It might’ve helped if I knew that’s what we were doing.”

“You know now.” 

“I know now.” 

He kisses you, tongue dipping between your lips. He plays with your lip a little like he had with the ring. You moan, encouraging him to guide his cock to your cunt. He keeps his lips on yours as he enters you, a low groan vibrating through his chest. He’s quiet at first as you both savour feeling the other so completely. Each time he presses in, you can’t help thinking about his thighs—the thighs he’s currently using to fuck his pretty cock deep inside you. He seems to be working himself up as well, his breathing getting heavier. 

“My pretty baby…letting me fuck you raw…” he mumbles against your mouth, “You were so cute… getting all worked up because I talked to another girl, hm?” 

“She was hot,” you say, attempting to justify yourself. 

“I could call her, she might wanna join in,” he says, lifting his face from yours to look over your face. 

You frown. “No.”

He chuckles, “No? You think I’m yours? Think I belong to you?” You wrap your legs around him, holding him to you. The second time you’d wrapped yourself around him that day. You imagine if you could send a message back in time, to the version of you attached to his bicep in the horror house. Would you ever be able to comprehend this is where you’d be a few hours later? That you’d be under him like this in his bed, his thick cock stretching you open. “Yeah? You want me to be yours?” he continues, taking your clinginess as an answer. He presses his face to your neck as his pace picks up. 

“Want you—,” you whisper into his ear, “want you to be mine, just mine.” A whine escapes him, high and sweet—encouraging you to continue. “Couldn’t look away from your lips tonight, that ring…you’re so hot. Prettiest lips…” 

“Shit,” he mumbles against your skin, hips stuttering a little as he fucks into you. 

“And the beach,” you continue, “I was so distracted all day. It was maddening. You walked out of the water with your shorts all wet, stuck to your thighs…made me all hot.”

He pulls his face from your neck, eyes locking onto yours as he pulls out and thrusts into you hard, once, twice, three times. Then he’s coming, mouth attaching to yours as he fills you. You clench around him, drawing one last pretty moan from his lips. He pants into your mouth as he catches his breath. 

“Mm, definitely a praise kink,” you whisper, fingers tangling in his hair. 

a/n: i lied. it wasn’t exactly enemies to lovers. it was enemies to lovers but only one of them thinks they’re enemies, the other has been in love the whole time. unreliable narrator. oop. happy halloween.

please reblog and share your thoughts. caption, tags, replies, or ask box, i read it all. feedback is what motivates me to write more!

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[sukunasun]

WHERE OUR PIECES FALL IN PLACE | NANAMI KENTO X CHUBBY READER

instead of an expected reunion—imagines that he’ll meet you in the middle of the street randomly one day by fate. maybe in a garden among pretty flowers but you’d be the only thing he can’t take his eyes off. or by the ocean, no one else but a man confessing his sins that shall be buried below water and he’ll be anew, he'll be forgiven—nanami is only left with silence on your end.

a sequel to 'SAY IT'S HERE'

sometime in the middle of the twin's birthday party, when the candles are blown out and yuuji's tiger face paint starts to crack around the corners of his smile, geto hands nanami two slices of cake. nice thick wedges of strawberry and chocolate, alternating pink and brown towered high with rainbow sprinkles on top.

it isn't a surprise the twins couldn't decide on a cake flavour so geto layered them both, however, what does surprise nanami is that he hands it to him on a plate with ice cream on the side as well. he pokes his spoon into the melting scoop of vanilla and wonders how people have the appetite for something this insanely sweet. then looks up to see gojo gobbling down his fifth serving of cake, exerting himself in getting that last piece of boba at the very bottom of his milk tea, plastic cup contracting with these resounding pops they both ignore. not to mention that he's already gone through two pints of rocky road.

geto's face is stoic but reluctantly so, a crease forming between furrowed brows, "thanks for coming, and thank you for the gifts, the girls love them," is all he says, voice even. despite his loyalties to you, he doesn't forget that he's nanami's friend too.

which nanami could commend him for, he doesn't make it about himself, this is the day his daughters were born, he's meant to celebrate. call it common ground. geto's lips lift at the corners when he looks over to see the two of them slowly prying wrapping paper off the multiple boxes nanami had flown in. he'd been undecided on what to get because gifts are not his strong suit, he's never understood the need for such materialistic representations of love but he likes the twins, so he bought...everything under the sun. (yuuji helps them with the bigger ones and in the process, screeches so loud he almost breaks a window when it's revealed that nanako and mimiko have received not one, but two game consoles.)

"by the way, i'm not picking sides but i think you should talk to her," geto says warily, his hand clasped beneath his chin as he eases his way into the subject. to say that he's torn would be an understatement because he always does this. gets in his feelings and worries til grey hairs and frown lines appear yet, it shows. geto can't help but care for others and make it known, say it with words that don't get caught in his throat, and proves it through his many sentimental ways.

nanami almost dismisses the notion because it's not like he hasn't tried. it's been the longest time without seeing or hearing from you since...well, since you broke up with him via call, left your job, and stopped coming around the usual places. the cafe, the bakery. there had been a few missed calls in between (47 to be exact, all sparingly spaced out across weeks because he doesn’t want to seem too desperate. he's meticulous like that) some voice messages he's left in your chat that probably went unheard. he's even contemplated if he should show up at your apartment. (but he's not crazy. of course not.)

instead of an expected reunion—imagines that he’ll meet you in the middle of the street randomly one day by fate. maybe in a garden among pretty flowers but you’d be the only thing he can’t take his eyes off. or by the ocean, no one else but a man confessing his sins that shall be buried below water and he’ll be anew, he'll be forgiven—nanami is only left with silence on your end.

"i appreciate your concern, but this is neither the time nor the place," nanami's face is impassive, showing no signs of honing any hard feelings. not on the surface at least. "besides, what good will it do, she has moved on." a tugging in his chest is felt as the memories of you showing up at his favourite bookstore with another man come flooding back.

gojo interrupts his thoughts, "about damn time, she's liked you for ages, i tried warning her but who knows what she ever saw in you," he complains while geto clicks his teeth and shoots him a piercing glare because he's definitely not helping the situation.

nanami clenches his jaw, he doesn't need reminders. he of all people should be very well aware that he sits in geto's living room with pompompurin ears on his head feeling at his very lowest because he's lost you and he lives with that regret every day.

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the tokyo museum hosts an exhibition on rodin sculptures. his life's work displayed in phases, epochs depicting the best and little-known, of stories centred around great heroes and lovers. their lives and feelings depicted in dynamic poses, down to the most intimate of embraces chipped and carved into bronze, alabaster, and marble. a preserved intimacy, a history behind every look and touch. haunting and somewhat forever living...just like the image of nanami in that bookstore haunts you.

"thanks for that," you say to the man beside you. voice travelling over the loud chatter among patrons. young and old and excessively rich. looking down, you peer over the pamphlet tucked by your elbow, stepping before different sculptures of varying sizes. you're stunned by the mastery of craft and precision but the emotions evoking within you are hesitant. like it was...wrong to be here with someone else. to be looking at these figures and having no relation to them. all that passion and yearning, why is it that you feel grief instead. a part of you missing.

"i saw it in his eyes, he's guilty," higuruma strolls next to you, bored out of his mind. “i mean, he looks guilty.”

“i’ve never seen him like that," you explain. not even when there were rumors about his past breakups floating around the office. nanami only seemed nonchalant. like it barely affected him. cutting someone loose a mere task he's checked off before it's back to work.

“what did you think he’d look like?” higuruma asks.

“relieved? happy?” he looked like a shell of himself, hollow, miserable. you wished you could relish in that, take pleasure in the way he seemed so empty, so dejected. payback, you think. for only loving you in silence, and thus, he suffers in silence too. but you find that you've been feeling just as brokenhearted.

hiromi shrugs, “from what i've seen, you’re entirely capable of making him as..." he pauses—tilts his head when you both come closer to a sculpture—then continues, "...afflicted as he is with you."

whatever hiromi means by that, you don’t know. his voice almost lost on your ears when he moves away from you to examine it closer. here, the sculpture portrays the man as a figure who is fully at the woman's disposal due to the adoration he possesses for her. 'The Eternal Idol' it reads. tenderness, sensuality, submission, and humility to the world in a woman's form.

you dismiss him, “please, you say that like he was head over heels in love with me, i think he just pitied me,” luring you in with the homemade bread and leatherbound jane austen. a voice so soothing and a face you see in every other man. an urge to place him next to them in comparison, hoping they’d shift and mold themselves to be the capable salaryman with blue shirts and a suit jacket that pools over your shoulders, smelling like tea and galettes and that they’d be just like him. only that they’d love you differently, loved you more, kiss you til your lips swell, and there wouldn’t be a need to hide or to fear or make you chase after the unknown, you’d know he loves you and only you. 

"these accusations you make are unfounded,” higuruma merely states, "and it's also rather unjust to yourself." when he turns towards you, you expect to see a teasing, flirty glint in his eye. instead, you're greeted with nothing but his flat expression before he looks away. oh, he was just being factual.

“you should be his attorney," you try to joke.

his lips quirk up by the corners, “not even i could plead his case, the man reeks of remorse, even if he did deceive you, he’s not proud of it, which makes him less likely to defend himself..." his hands come up to brush over the engraved caption on the plaque. they're nice hands, rough, but a little too big, too gentle, like he could let you go at any moment if he wishes. nothing like nanami's. if nanami were to hold your hand he'd hold on for dear life.

“there’s no justice in that,” higuruma's decided he's done with this sculpture, picks his head up and moves away to the next one, he doesn't get attached. he doesn't linger. maybe that's why you never took things further, he's always seen things in black and white, like you were just another one of his cases. saw the teary look on your face, the long hours pouring over every detail leading up to the end and he couldn't leave it alone.

you sigh, wrapping a hand around his arm as you continue to walk down crowded corridors. "speaking like a true lawyer, one who's so distinguished."

he breathes out a rare laugh, not a real one, just these puffs of air he exhales along with a grin. "so depraved, haven't i told you the system's fucked?"

at that, you let out a laugh too, for the first time in awhile, "i'm afraid it's the same when it comes to matters of the heart." you look up, savouring him for now. he's just here right the wrongs, bring some perspective, and that was all there was to it.

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by midnight, your phone starts buzzing by your side, jittering against the mattress. without looking at the screen, you have an idea of who it might most likely be on the other end.

ding. ding. you reach for it to see that it's nanami again. for the fifth time today. a new voice message he's recorded for you sitting there in your messages. waiting as always, for your recognition, for your reply. you wouldn't want to give him the privilege or the pleasure. you've broken up with him after all, but you're unable to pull away from him and his futile attempts. forget that you have yet to wake from the lingering bits of a dream, or that you've got an interview come morning.

nanami's voice fills the emptiness of your room, spine-tingling and molten hot. you almost miss the intros—hi, hello, please bear with me, all the usual. you've heard it in clipped and composed tones, as if he's rehearsed these lines, must have written them down on his legal pad before pressing record, his lines spoken awkward and uncertain way, tightly wound in guilt.

only now he sounds different. the exhausted drawl, the languid pulling of his syllables, slurring and seductive. "those hyacinths..." he starts, "don't over-water them." he had them delivered to your place and you had only accepted them because they were a gift, it would be sad to turn them down after he's paid for them. plus, it would be a shame to send them back, these florists have put in so much effort.

nanami pauses for a second, you hear him taking big gulps, no doubt the whiskey bottle is empty at this point before he continues, "am i any closer to getting you back?" after a short pause, the message goes silent, like he's realised what he's asked.

you press play on another where rambles on, or whatever is nanami's version of rambling. a deep voice rumbling from his chest, a heavy sigh, a string of words you can't tell decipher. if they're genuine or not with how needy he gets. nanami never gets needy. nanami never begs. it's just the alcohol talking, you wouldn't know what he's like when in the throes of proclamation...still, his voice curls its way into your heart, wringing it tight when he drawls, "tell me so i can be put out of my misery, or better yet, come back into my life."

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geto and gojo sit across from you at the library. their bodies dwarfing the kid-size chairs and desks. close by, mimiko and nanako work on their math problems both with equal amounts of distaste but suguru's promised they'll get double the snacks as a reward for tackling their multiplication tables, hence they try their best, fingers counting down one by one.

on the other hand, you're busy colouring a page from a fairytale. a scene of a royal couple dancing at a ball, lingering by the edges is a crowd looking on happily as they twirl under glittering stars, a whole universe cheering for their union. you hold back the forlorn sigh as your hand involuntarily reaches for a yellow crayon, even here, you wish to colour in blonde locks below the prince's crown. you can't see it any other way.

"sorry about the party," you apologize, missing their birthday bash hadn't been the plan, but suguru had given you the heads up on nanami's appearance and you thought...it wouldn't be a good idea. things were still too fresh, too new, it would've been uncomfortable for everyone.

you know it was a selfish excuse, but suguru won't hold it against you. "i understand," he replies but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. 'i understand' doesn't mean the same as 'it's okay to miss out on a special day because you're afraid of conflict'. which is why you're trying extra hard to make up for it now. shifting focus to your friends instead, you avert your attention. dodging any discussion about the breakup, or nanami, or the fact that you cling on.

satoru however, doesn't fall for any of it and jumps into his interrogation. his honesty comes out sharp and biting albeit genuinely oblivious—"how long are you planning on avoiding him?" his voice is too loud for comfort and the librarian would shush him if it weren't for his charm. he's been flirting with her so they get to check out as many books as they want, plus, waiving late fees goes against geto's rules but he'll take it as a kindness for now.

you roll your eyes, he's way too good at reading you, or maybe you've just been so transparent anyone would've notice. "i'm not avoiding him, it's called moving on," you try to reason, although it's starting to sound exactly as gojo puts it.

nanami chases you down for reconciliation and nothing more, a settlement of sorts. you've already assumed it was because of guilt. he doesn't want to be the bad guy possibly. why else would nanami be leaving messages, making calls, and sending a million flowers if not as an act of atonement.

and when has he ever needed to repent, nanami's always been so aloof, you've seen him brush things off with a calm and cool demeanour, sorry is merely a word he gives to strangers he's accidentally bumped into on the train. he'll come out of this with that perfect head on his shoulders held high after the remnants of past memories have faded and no longer hold any significance to him. he could always bake more french loaves and there's more wine to be tasted. he'll continue siphoning his emotions into the separate little folders of his makeup. you've never taken up the space of his heart because that shall be reserved for someone else—"he'll get over me in due time," you say, loathing how the words taste, how it makes you hate yourself.

"geez," satoru shrugs off the tension from his shoulders, "melodrama doesn't look good on you," the jab strikes where it hurts the most.

your face falls, give it a few seconds and you'll start crying in the middle of the children's section, "i guess i wanted more," you swallow down the embarrassment, typical that you've ended up here. back to where you've always been. single, jobless, a few pounds heavier, a few more cracks in your aching heart.

"there's a lot going on—" suguru cuts in, hoping it'll make you feel better, "—it's okay to feel as you do." sympathetic as it is, you start to wonder if you've traded in a birthday for a pity party when there's a truth in what satoru says.

in the silence that passes, the scene you work on is full of colour, save for the stars you've left in white. the twins have completed their exercise sheet, and satoru stretches his limbs and yawns like a cat basking under an afternoon sun. suguru might give him a pep-talk after this and he might feel bad for bringing up the whole thing, but it has to be said— "talk to the guy, he's never looked worse."

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on the walk home, the clouds start to gather. greying skies and thunder roaring above you. behind the clearing of mist and cold, you see him standing right outside your building. not knowing how long he's been there, but judging by the steady rhythm of his pacing feet, nanami's been waiting for a while. if anything, he's patient and—god help you—persistent.

the drizzle gets heavier and rain pours down over his body, soaking through the layers of fabric; his coat, his tie, his white shirt. golden blonde hair turning into a muddy shade of ash, strands clumping together, droplets hanging off and sticking to his skin. to his foggy glasses, thin-rimmed and shining. although drenched and dishevelled, he is every bit the man you love, and you hate that you can't look away, turn him down and kick him to the curb, pretend he doesn't exist.

taking him in, your heart clenches when the light of a lamppost next to you cuts a glowing line across his sullen face, highlighting the deep depths of his cheeks. you see that he looks exhausted, more so than usual, and he's lost a little bit of weight. you think to say something, ask him if he's been skipping meals, that it's no way to deal with his remorse. anything that would break the tension but kento beats you to it.

"we need to talk," he says in a low voice but it takes almost every fibre of his being to say it, "i thought this was the only way we could do so." he recognizes what he's doing, he's being invasive, he's being desperate and when was that word ever associated with him. not til now he supposes, not before you.

“don't you know it’s embarrassing to chase after an ex?" the bite won't be drowned out by pitter-patter, it stings, but he doesn't move an inch. swallows that lump in his throat and prepares himself for the words he's about to utter.

"i am not the best with words, but believe me when i say i am not ashamed of you–" he pauses. waits for your reaction but chooses to continue, nothing will come in between, not here and now, "forgive me—for my ignorance, for my restraint, it is because of me that you felt our relationship was one-sided."

that should do it he thinks, he's laid it out on the table, he's said what he came to say. placid and concise. and at first, he's relieved, he professes and proclaims without expectation. he didn't come here hoping for more, that part of him has been tampered with and put out by his own self-doubt. he only wishes to let you know. he'll force himself to be content with solely acknowledgement.

but he starts to worry when he sees the anger seep into your features. “you’re upset,” he states, unsatisfied, "i thought it would be best if we got closure—"

“did you come all this way just for closure?" your question hangs in the air. each passing second filled with the sound of raindrops and the million thoughts bouncing off his brain. you shouldn't put him through this anymore, it's practically ruining him from the inside out. “you’re forgiven, let it ease your conscience,” you say, ready to turn away and leave him for good this time.

he sucks in a breath, frustration prickling all over, “i am a man that’s lacking, trying to convey to you the things that cannot be conveyed, i have never been a passionate person and you knew this." you can see it so obviously in his expression that you've made him this way, twisting him up into knots over the need for verbalization, for definitions and arguments he can't give.

your eyes narrow, getting defensive. you always thought you could be the exception, that you'd be the one to experience it firsthand, his fervent need for you, whatever version of it you could get. "you denied me in front of people you cared about, you were always so cautious and constipated, like you couldn't bear it, i get that you're not into big girls but—"

"that's not true!" he says quickly, voice rising with tension. his hands come up to hold your face in them, thumbs rubbing over damp cheeks and warm skin before realizing...he's neevr actually felt it. how does a man concede, he's scared, fearful of an inevitable end, "i didn't want to lose you," he admits softly. lips less than an inch away, breaths a hair's width apart.

you try to pry his hands away, shaking your head, there's no use when "you can't love me the way i want you to and maybe i'm not the one who's meant to be loved by you."

nanami doesn't let go, "i can only love you the only way i know how, it was never my intention to make you feel less than—" with no more hesitance, no more weighing speeches and consequences, he tells you the truth—"my love for you...has made me selfish. it has consumed me, i want you so much that i don't know what to do with it. why should i put you through that, burden you with me."

"you were never a burden 'ken," his name sounds so bittersweet, as if there's still a fondness there, the way you gently hold those syllables without spite but he hears the longing, the hurt. "i didn't want you holding back for my sake, i've liked you for so long, i was ready for it all, even when it came to losing you, i don't need you to be something you're not."

he's never had that ability, despite his efforts, he isn't capable of detachment, with all his distractions and defeats, he's ultimately bound to you, too well tangled in his soul. "you shall move on but i cannot do the same—my life starts and ends with you, do you understand?” 

you nod silently, looking up at him with widened eyes and catching the specks of dew on his lashes when his eyes travel toward your lips, his thumbs caressing them tenderly, benevolently.

"despite my shortcomings and the fact that you are now seeing someone else, i would like to try again, please allow me to do my best." nanami opens up to you as a flower blooms, petals blossoming, coming apart to reveal the innermost parts of himself. red spreading across his skin from the tips of his ears to his lips when he parts them under yours. he wasn’t made to hide it, all that restraint keeping him from you, from what he knows is his deepest desire. made to love, loudly and forever. there, where two lives meet again, coming together and converging.

[heygerald]

Falling Without A Harness - Chapter 5

AU where Tom Ryder is still an asshole, just not a psychotic one. When he has good news, but no one to share it with, Parker invites him along to her brother's birthday party. A moment of weakness, or a moment for him to prove he's more than just his Hollywood ego?

read the story here: prev / next

"—and Jody said she was going to wear something simple, maybe jeans and a t-shirt, but I'm not really sure I want to match that vibe or go for something a little more, you know, fun. Maybe I could finally break out the bucket hat tonight," Colt's voice droned on from the phone tucked indelicately into the crevice of her neck and shoulder. Parker was only half listening, as was the usual when it came to her brother's incessant rambling about anything related to the pretty blonde camerawoman, and while he talked, she made work of slowly peeling strips of painters tape from the freshly painted wall. The ball in her hand was nicely sized by this point of the conversation. "So, anyway... uh, wait, what was the point?"

"Was there a point?" she mused aloud. "I stopped listening when you started talking about some pony she rode once at her twelfth birthday party."

She heard him snap his fingers. "Right—the birthday party."

"Hers or yours?"

"Mine! Listen, I know that you all put a lot of work into planning this shindig—"

"Shindig? God, you're old!"

"—but I would really appreciate if you told me what to expect tonight. Just a hint will do. I'm not trying to show up wearing dress shoes to a disco if you know what I mean."

Parker stuck another piece of tape onto the ever-growing ball with a blithe snort. "I never know what you mean."

"Park," he whined, much like a child, and not the thirty-something year old man that he was. Was this year number thirty-seven or thirty-eight? She should probably figure that out before putting candles on his cake. "Come onnnnnn. Just tell me. Just a hint!"

"And ruin the surprise? No way, Jose."

"But it's my birthday surprise! You can spoil it for me. I mean, realistically, no one would blame you if, maybe, you accidentally let the surprise slip. It'd be expected coming from you, actually."

She frowned. "What do you mean it would be expected coming from me?"

"Well, you know, you can't keep a secret to save your life."

Parker tossed the ball of tape into the trash and picked up the broom with an indignant scoff. "Excuse me, I am a very good secret keeper."

A long winded and high-pitched whine followed, and she winced at the volume of it. Parker switched the phone to her other ear, certain that between her brother and Melissa she had permanent hearing damage.

"Oh, so now all of the sudden you're a locked vault!" he blathered on. "Where was this dedication to silence when I got sick at Macy Lindwigs wedding and you spent the entire evening telling everyone you could find?"

An image of Macy Lindwig, dressed to the nines in a beautiful handmade wedding dress, staring in horror as her brother puked in an azalea bush three minutes before the ceremony started came to mind.

"Oh, I totally forgot about that," she snickered, the memory almost too sweet to ignore now that it had been brought back up. "You ruined her heels that night, you know. What was I supposed to do? Not tell everyone?"

"For starters. Or, at the very least, you could have refrained from blabbing about it at Christmas," he muttered petulantly. "Grandma never looked at me the same way again. She still won't let me near her rose garden."

"Cause and effect," Parker chirped. "You drank one too many tequila shots the night before, and thus, you have to suffer the fate of Grandma judging you every Christmas Eve."

"Miami Vice premiered the night before!" he argued, shouting, in what she suspected was a deranged manner. Parker hoped he was somewhere public; perhaps a grocery store or laundromat. "Just another example of how you can't keep a secret for the life of you, not even when your brother's good name is at stake. Your only true sibling, might I add."

"And here I thought I was an orphan found in a box."

She could hear Colt kicking something, palm clasped over the speaker as he whined, before he was back. "You're worse than Judas, you know. You ruin lives just for the fun of it, no silver needed."

"Are you offering silver?"

A cough. "Uh, I mean, I'm a little tight on silver at the moment. I think I have a free sub from Publix somewhere around here."

"A coupon. Wow. So generous."

"It's a punch card, and those aren't easy to fill out, you know," he huffed indignantly, obviously put out that Parker wasn't going to accept his lackluster offer. "What if I say pretty please?"

"Ha! Nice try. I happen to like Jody, so even if I wanted to tell you what we're doing tonight—which I don't—I'm not going to. She was really excited to help me plan this year."

Some spluttering followed her resolution, before he was kicking something again. Apparently, whatever he kicked was harder than he thought, however, and the next moment her brother was wheezing in pain.

"Jesus, take it easy, alright? You're going to need your toes for tonight."

In a breathless voice, he weaseled, "tonight at...?"

But Parker was no novice when it came to keeping secrets from her brother, and so she didn't fall for the trick. "Ha, nice try," she snorted while stooping to sweep her pile of dust and paint chips off the ground. Shades of green and white stained her hands, but she didn't bother to clean them off. It would be a pointless endeavor, after all, considering what they had planned for Colt's birthday party later that evening. "I'm trying to stay on Jody's good side."

"Both of her sides are good sides," was his immediate response, something wistful coloring his tone. "She's gorgeous. If you haven't noticed."

"Trust me," Parker deadpanned with a blithe glance at her own disheveled appearance, "I've noticed."

"Do you think I should bring her flowers?"

"To your birthday party?"

"Girls like flowers. Plus, she's planning the whole thing."

"I helped!"

"I'm not bringing you flowers to my birthday party, Park. It's not about you, you know."

"Right, of course, how could I have forgotten?" she deadpanned. However, despite his disinterest in showing her any gratitude, Parker smiled at the concept that there was a man out in this world so infatuated by a woman, that he not only spent all his time talking about her, but he also wanted to bring her flowers for no good reason. If only she could find someone like that who wasn't her brother. Wishes and wants, she supposed. "As nice of a thought as that is, don't bring her flowers tonight. They'll end up wilted by the time she gets back home from the party. If they aren't totally trashed first, that is."

His tone pitched higher, eagerly. "Trashed? Why would they be trashed? Are we doing some floral vandalism tonight? Oh!" Colt cried, hands clapping together. "Are we going to a wreck-it room? I've always wanted to do something like that. You know, somewhere that wasn't on a set, anyway, where I'm being beat up for a living with props."

Parker covered the speaker of her phone to curse at herself. While she hadn't ruined the surprise, Colt was like a dog with a hambone, and was not likely to let it go anytime soon.

She cleared her throat and attempted indifference. "Not even close," she said, but it didn't sound super convincing, and with an exasperated huff, she threw her hands up. "Jesus, Colt, you're going to get me into trouble! Just chill out. Jody should be picking you up soon, anyway."

"Picking me up soon for...?"

Colt's whining was interrupted by the tinkle of the front bell, and as she switched her phone back to her right ear, Parker took a moment to scoop up the paint-splattered tarp sprawled across the floor.

Melissa had been on to something with her suggestion to repaint the store, and while they had only gotten the walls finished over the past two and a half weeks, the mossy green color with gold accented picture frames really gave some life back to her shop. It still had that musty smell, as well as a pair of flickering lightbulbs from the janky electrical sockets, but they were definitely taking a step in the right direction. The color made everything feel cozier, and once they coated the bookshelves with shades of blue and yellow and replaced the overhead fluorescents with something warmer, she thought it might look like an entirely new store for the price of a few gallons of paint.

Not to mention the color stood out from the recent tan and brown trend that had swept across Hollywood hills. Win, win.

"Ugh! Stop trying to spoil your own surprise and let it happen, alright? You're going to love it," she pacified half-heartedly while booting a stool out of the way. Too deep of a breath had the smell of laquear and paint fumes killing off some braincells, and Parker dropped the tarp along with the rest of the paint materials with a cross-eyed huff. "Plus, it was all Jody's idea, so if you hate it, I would keep that to your..."

Parker paused halfway up the aisle.

On the far end of it, a brown and black colored dog sat patiently wagging its tail at her. Its tongue was sticking out of the side of its mouth, but despite Elon Musk's predictions about the existence of intelligent life in the galaxy, she was pretty sure that the local population of Hollywood mutts had yet to grow opposable thumbs capable of opening a door.

She blinked at it.

"Er, listen," she muttered into the phone, gaze darting past the dog, but not seeing its owner. "I have to go. There's a dog situation that I need to take care of."

"A dog? I've been asking you for years to get a dog, and now you finally decide to get one on my birthday! That's so totally fu—"

Parker hung up before he could complain any further, and slowly tucked her phone into the back pocket of her jeans. The dog barked at her, as if excited to finally have her attention.

"Er—hi. Did you—how did you get in here?" she asked.

It responded by tilting its head to a ninety-degree angle. She stared, waiting, as if the language barrier would suddenly disappear.

Unsurprisingly, it didn't. The dog barked a second time.

"I don't have any treats on me," she said again, not sure else what to say, but certainly feeling like she should say something. It trotted towards her, and though it seemed friendly at first, when it stuck its head into her crotch to take too deep a sniff for comfort, Parker jumped backwards. "Ah—fuck! Buy a girl dinner first, huh?"

She sidestepped the dog, hands splayed out in front of her like she was a robbery victim, and did her best to avoid being felt up as the dog followed her towards the storefront. It nosed her rear end, and Parker let out an undignified squeak.

"Jesus! I know the humane society is underfunded and all, but this is a little ridiculous, don't you think?" she asked it.

The dog darted in front of her, nose going right back for the crotch, and Parker just barely managed to leap onto Melissa's sunken reading chair when an increasingly familiar head of blonde hair stepped out from behind one of the bookshelves.

"Talon, Jean Claude," he said, and as though the dog hadn't just been harassing her, it plopped down onto the floor right beside him. Dog and owner blinked at her in bemusement. "Don't seriously tell me that you're afraid of dogs."

Parker shot him a disgruntled glare in response, but Tom didn't seem to mind the heat packed behind it. Instead, he smirked at her, crossed one arm over the other, and languidly leaned back against the front counter.

It was obvious he was laughing at her, and not with her, and Parker added it to the list of all the things she couldn't stand about Tom Ryder. Worse though, she couldn't help but subconsciously smooth a hand over her hair, because where Jody was effortlessly gorgeous, Parker required quite a bit of effort not to look awful. And right now, with paint-stained pants, a half-assed pair of dutch braids, and miscolored converse, she was certainly not showing him her good side.

If she even had one, that is.

"I should have known you would have a pervy dog," she said while looking down her nose at him. Literally, too, considering she was still standing on the chair. Parker flushed a bright red at the realization and none-too-glamorously clambered down onto her feet. "And French, too. I think that's stereotyping, Ryder."

Despite the distrustful look she shot the dog, he seemed a whole lot less pervy and rabid now that she knew he had an owner, and when she approached it, its tail flapped back and forth excitedly.

"Insulting an entire country?" Tom harrumphed as she started to scratch the dog between its ears. "Maybe you should sit through PR training with me next time Gail hosts a session."

She blew a bland raspberry as she read the dog's name tag.

Jean Claude. Huh. Cute.

He let out a low whine when she hit a particularly sensitive spot, and in delight, he rolled onto his back with half-lidded eyes.

"Is this the one you were talking to the other day, or do you have any other expat mutts that I should know about? I can only be felt up so many times before I file a harassment complaint."

"Jean Claude isn't a mutt," he corrected her, disdain at the very idea of owning a mutt. Parker supposed adopting a kennel-dog was likely below him, being a superstar and what not. "He's an Australian Kelpie, pure-bred, and he certainly wasn't fucking cheap. His parents are award winning cattle dogs in the Australian circuit."

"That's an award category?"

"Hmph. Laugh all you want, but I'd bet he's better trained than you are. He's even trained to attack someone in the balls on command."

"So am I," she sassed while making kissy faces at Jean Claude. "Oh, he's cute. Yes, you are. Yes, you are," she cooed.

He ate it right up, tail flapping in every direction, and when she spared Tom a glance, she could feel the jealousy rolling off him that someone else was getting more attention. Dog or not. Parker snickered.

"Sorry you're stuck with this one," she added, jerking a thumb over her shoulder to gesture in Tom's general area. "But trust me, you're way cuter, and probably lower maintenance than he is."

Tom cleared his throat. "Are you done?"

"Jealous?"

"Of a dog?" he deadpanned, rolling his eyes beneath a pair of expensive Ray Bans—not at all disproving the theory—and Parker smiled at her private joke. "Hardly."

She leaned closer to Jean Claude, and spoke in a stage whisper, "I think he's jealous."

And—yup—that seemed to do it.

Tom pushed off the counter with a sharp huff, unamused by her teasing, and make a command in French. Jean Claude bounded onto his feet, trotted to where Tom was, and curled up between his legs.

Parker stood and planted her hands onto her hips. "Real mature."

"I can always show you his attack command," Tom threatened. "I doubt you'll find him as adorable when he attacks you. It's always a hit at parties, watching someone get their balls bitten off."

"I think I'm missing a critical component for that trick to work," she pointed out with a dry smile. "But, anyway, what are you doing here? If you came to return my books, they're yours, considering how much you paid for them the other day."

He shrugged. "Maybe I want my change."

"You came all the way here, through traffic, to get your change?" she echoed, clearly disbelieving his piss poor excuse. Under her stare, Tom shuffled uncomfortably on his feet. "Hm. I thought I was supposed to be the penny pincher between the two of us."

"Maybe it's not the money I care about. It's the principle of the whole thing."

"Ha! You expect me to believe that you have principles?"

Tom huffed, but she caught the crooked upturn of his mouth. Still, he played the victim—always acting, this one. "You're right. I don't just deserve change. I should get a full refund, considering how awful your book recommendations were. Not to mention the books practically fell apart when I touched them. Clearly, you sell cheap products."

"Clearly," she muttered, while flipping the sign on the front door from OPEN to CLOSED. There wasn't much going on outside, anyway, and she doubted she would be missing any customers by taking the day off early.

"You want to tell me what you're really doing here? Because we both know you liked my recommendations," she said matter-of-factly, moving to the cash register now. She had made a few sales throughout the day, more than a typical Friday, and so she carefully began stacking her receipts. "I mean, who wouldn't? Those are good books I gave you. Contact is in my top ten."

Tom leaned on the counter. "Books I bought."

She waved him off, stack of receipts in hand, as she locked the lower cabinet. Tom could complain all he wanted, but she did know that he liked her book recommendations. He had finished them all within a week, when he likely should have been spending more attention devoted to practicing for his audition. Granted, it was a sci-fi movie he was auditioning for, but—

She startled.

"Oh, duh!" Parker sprung to her full height with a curious look. "Did you get the part?"

Tom smirked.

It wasn't bashful or pleasant or soft like authors typically described their tall, dark, and handsome characters, but it was so very him that she hardly minded it. In fact, Parker sort of liked it. It crinkled the soft lines by his eyes, loosened the tension in his shoulders, and made him look younger. Nicer. Cuter.

"Of course I did," he sassed. "I told you I was going to get it."

She ignored his blatant peacocking to punch him in the shoulder. The action seemed to shock him, and Tom clutched the spot with his other hand—as if she had done some real damage—while Parker grinned. "Holy shit, that's great! I mean, sure, you were a shoo-in or whatever, but this is a big deal. Right? It's a big deal? You must be jumping off the walls right now!"

Tom gave a bemused huff, eyes darting over the length of her face, and nodded. "Biggest movie I've gotten yet," he said. "My first sci-fi film too, so, that's going to get my name out there even more than it was. I mean, if I thought I was well known before... after this, everyone will know who Tom Ryder is."

"That's awesome!"

Tom rolled his eyes at her enthusiasm, clearly not buying into it, and though Parker was so excited on his behalf, Tom seemed like he was fighting off indifference to the news. "Yeah, well, a role's a role, you know."

"Well, yeah," she hedged, waving a hand at him, "but this is your first sci-fi role, and it was one that you even told me you wanted to get. You must be at least a little excited for it. Sci-fi is so interesting, I bet filming it is gonna be a ton of fun."

"Sure," he echoed dryly. His smirk had returned, and though she wouldn't necessarily classify what his face was doing now as a smile, it was certainly close. "Fun. That's what I'm aiming for in my career: fun."

"Oh, please," she clucked her tongue at him, receipts shoved hastily into their folder. "You can be a huge movie star and still have fun doing it. I mean, isn't that the point? Doing something you love and all that. I'd imagine it's going to be a whole new experience for you, stepping into a sci-fi set."

He hemmed, mouth twisting between a smile and a frown. "I guess."

He didn't sound all that convinced. In fact, when Parker thought about it, she seemed to be far more excited about the role than he did. She tilted her head at him suspiciously. "Alright, well... what are you doing to celebrate?" she asked. "A vacation? Buying yourself a new car? Oooh��Legoland?"

He furrowed his brows at her in surprised. "Legoland?"

"It's what I would do," she shrugged. "Probably, anyway. I've never been because the tickets just don't seem worth the price, but if I had just landed a giant role in a giant blockbuster, I think buying a ticket would be the least of my worries. You could probably even write it off on your taxes."

He blinked at her. "Poor people are so sad to me."

She stuck her tongue out at him, and took delight in the way that he huffed in amusement. "Well? Come on—make me jealous—what are you doing?"

Tom shrugged. "Gail's throwing a big party next week to announce the role. She always does that. Invites her producer friends and talent agents and that sort of stuff. There'll probably be some sort of attraction, singers or a zebra or something."

"Casual," she snorted.

"She has a weird thing for exotic animals, I don't know."

"Seems like it. But that's what she's doing, what are you doing?" she needled further. "I mean, I assumed you would do a big party with your friends before then. You know—cops get called, party crashers—the whole scene."

Tom hesitated to answer, and when he did, he didn't sound all that much like himself. "Well, I can't really do that—she controls when I make go public with the news—has the whole timeline figured out, and manages all the press for it. She doesn't let me tell people ahead of time."

"I'm people."

He rolled his eyes. "You're a nobody," he said. Not to be mean; no, Tom was very clear in his words when he intended to be mean. Instead, he had said it nonchalantly, as if it was a universal truth that everyone understood. And, in all honesty, Parker got it. "I mean, who are you going to tell that would care, you know?"

"Okay, ouch," she muttered still, before barreling on. "Don't you have any non-work friends that you can go get drinks with?"

"All my friends are work friends."

"What about people that don't know Gail?"

Tom huffed and waved a hand at her. "That's the same thing, you know. She introduced me to everyone I know in the industry. Other than some set hands, we have the same circle."

Parker sank onto her heels, feeling slighted on his behalf, but knowing that she didn't really have a right to. Surely, Tom Ryder would have stood up to Gail if he didn't like her hands-on, helicopter parent approach to managing his life. And clearly their work relationship was beneficial to them both. He certainly didn't need a nobody like her feeling sorry for him.

And yet, she did.

Because, as she listened to him talk, it felt like he had to give up everything just to be a somebody in Hollywood. And while it might have been the norm for him, it was absolutely not the norm for everybody.

Did he even realize that?

"Fuck that," Parker said before she could think better of it, emotions getting the better of her. Colt always joked that she had a bleeding heart, but she had never thought there was anything wrong with that. "Come hang out with me, then."

Tom arched a brow at her, mouth parted dumbly. "...what?"

She shrugged, feeling a little like a specimen beneath a microscope, and struggled to explain herself. "I mean, you just said that Gail doesn't want you telling anybody that matters, and I only hang out with people that don't matter in the grand scheme of Hollywood politics. I'm getting ready to head to Colt's birthday party after this, and if you're not doing anything else, you may as well come with me. It won't be a celebration for you, obviously, but... it'll be fun."

He blinked at her slowly, surprise written in the fine lines of his face.

"We're not going to murder you," she huffed indignantly.

"I—I never hang out with Colt or those guys."

"Yeah, for good reason. They all sort of hate you for being an asshole on set to them. Like, all the time. I wouldn't want to hang out with you outside of work either, if I was them."

He scowled. "Oh, well, when you put it like that," he huffed. "Obviously, they're not going to want me to come. And, I may be an asshole, but I try not to gatecrash birthday parties."

She waved his concern away with a paint-stained hand. "First off, you won't be gatecrashing, I'm literally extending an invite. And secondly, they only hate you because you're a prick on set. What better way to prove that you're not a prick, by coming to Colt's birthday party, and—you know—actually being nice for once. Just don't be a dickwad. Or an asshole. Or any sort of thing that you usually are on a normal day."

"I think the saying is 'always be yourself'," he deadpanned.

"That absolutely doesn't apply here."

"Smartass."

Parker nudged him in the shoulder with an exasperated look. "Come on! What else are you going to do? Do some irresponsible spending and buy everyone a round of drinks. I bet they'll think differently of you after everybody is a few beers in."

Tom didn't seem too convinced with her logic. "Crashing his birthday party doesn't seem the best way to get on Colt's good side. I didn't even know it was his birthday."

"Now you do," she shrugged, as if it wasn't a big deal. And—well—her brother was probably going to bitch about Tom's presence at the party, but Parker also believed that after a few shots of liquor, everyone would get over the issue fairly quick. Not to mention the party itself was designed for stress relief. Bringing Tom may actually make the night. With a conniving wiggle of her brows, Parker tried again. "I know for a fact that there's room for one more. Jody and I planned the whole thing together, and if she's allowed a plus-one, so am I. Jean Claude can even come. Colt loves dogs."

Tom seemed to sway a little further with her reasoning, and with a slow nod, he finally agreed. He certainly didn't look happy about it though.

Parker punched the air. Oh, Colt is going to love this.

"Awesome! Give me a minute to lock up, and then we can go."

"Fine," he huffed, not too unlike that of a sulky toddler. "But I'm driving."

Parker smiled. Her car was a piece of shit that barely worked on a good day. She was going to insist he drive in the first place. Plus, now, she could get really drunk.

"Fine by me," was all she said, not eager to give away that piece of information just yet. "Just promise me you won't be an asshole. I won't be able to keep my reputation of favorite sister if you ruin the night."

"I'm not going to ruin the night," he snarked with a petulant glare. Parker shrugged, grabbing her things, as he asked, "...wait, I thought you were his only sister?"

"Exactly. Now, come on, I want to get there before they start assigning teams."

The bell rang as she stepped outside, Jean Claude trotting with her, and Tom hesitated for a brief moment before what she said caught up to him.

"Wait," he called, jogging after her. "What do you mean teams?"

---

Tom's presence did not go unnoticed. In fact, it had taken a mere three minutes before Jody was elbowing her to the side, a stern, disbelieving look furrowing her brows. She had let it go in a huff, however, when Parker pointed out that Tom had promised to be on his best behavior, as well as promised to buy the first round of drinks once the game was over.

That had been a lie, of course, but she supposed she could deal with that tantrum later.

Colt, on the other hand, hadn't been so easily placated, and as the twenty odd players stood in a circle, listening to the instructor drone on about safety, he weaseled next to her with a glare.

"I can't believe you brought Ryder," he hissed for the third time that night, hot breath on her face. She would have shoved him away if the instructor hadn't already reprimanded then twice for being distracting. "I mean, seriously Park, I can't stand the guy."

"Oh, really? I couldn't tell."

"Really!"

"Well, I'm sorry," she shrugged, although the apology was half-hearted at best, and Colt seemed to know this as he narrowed his eyes at her irritably. She huffed. "What was I supposed to do? Leave him behind?"

"Yes," Colt whisper-yelled. Dan glanced over his shoulder at the pair, and in perfect Seavers' sibling unison, they plastered fake smiles onto their faces with a friendly wave. He shook his head at them, but likely didn't think they were worth whatever trouble they caused, and faced forward once more. "That's exactly what you should have done!"

"It's not that easy," she argued, hissing as well. "He looked so sad! Like a little abandoned puppy dog that had just been kicked. It was a moment of weakness!"

"Oh, really?" Colt drawled. Together, they glanced over at Tom to find him ignoring everyone in the group with his head stuck in his phone. When a fly buzzed too close, he swatted at it with an icy glare. "That? You couldn't say no to that?"

"I said I was sorry!"

Parker's voice hitched higher than she intended, and the instructor paused in his speech to glare at the duo. She gave him a weak smile in return, mouthing, a guilty, sorry!

The man only got two words back into his speech, however, before Colt started whining again.

"Look, I'm totally stoked about the surprise party, okay? You did a stand-up job on it and the guest list. So how could you fuck it all up so close to the finish line?"

"What the hell does that even mean?" she asked in bewilderment. Parker shook her head. "Seriously, you need to update your sayings."

"Update my—?" Colt bit off a groan, pinching the bridge of his nose to take a long, overdrawn breath. "Why was he even at your bookstore? Since when did you two become friends? What happened to the whole—asshole, asshole, asshole—bit you had going on?"

"I still think he's an asshole," she shot back. But, well, when she caught Tom's gaze across the grass, she faltered. Did she think he was an asshole at his core? Or had he simply become someone she was beginning to understand—a dog that lashed out when someone got too close? Parker rubbed circles into her temple. "And we're not friends. And, even if we were, you have no one to blame but yourself."

"Myself?" he echoed in disbelief. "What do I have to do with this?"

"You're the one that gave him my phone number."

Colt snorted, shaking his head at her. "Fat chance of that," he said. Parker, thinking he was joking at first, fell silent when he caught the look in his eye. But, if Colt hadn't given Tom her phone number, then who had? she wondered, mentally counting down the list of people it could have possibly been.

Bigger fish to fry, she reminded herself when the list made her go cross-eyed.

"Whatever. We're not friends or buddies or whatever you think we are, so you can stop worrying about that."

Colt snorted. "Oh, sure you're not. He just happens to hang out around your bookshop and you share recommendations and, oh yeah! You bring him as a plus-one to my birthday party!"

Parker scowled. "I made the guest list, I think I have a right to bring someone along with."

"Sure, someone. Not Jaws over there."

She frowned at him, thrown off by the random insult. "Jaws?" she echoed, crinkling her nose distastefully. "What does a shark have to do with this?"

Colt sighed. "No, not the shark, the James Bond villain."

"That's a stupid name for a villain."

"I didn't write the damn thing."

"Okay, well, maybe he has the arrogance of a James Bond villain, but at least pick one from this century."

"Silva?"

"Nah. Whose the the one with the weird eye?"

Colt hummed thoughtfully, gaze darting over towards Tom. "Le Chiffre?"

Parker snapped her fingers and pointed at him. "That one!"

"Yeah, alright, I'll give you that," he conceded, nodding. "He does give off Bond villain vibes with the sunglasses and hair-do."

"Right? Oh you should have seen these glasses he was wearing last time. They were huge, and yellow tinted; like Tony Stark would wear. They were so ridiculous."

Colt snickered for a moment, enjoying mocking Tom with his sister, before realizing that he was currently mad at her. He threw his head back with a subtle groan. "Stop doing that! I'm still mad at you!"

Parker gave her brother a blithe look. "I think you're looking at this all wrong."

"Wrong? What other way should I look at it?" he snarked. "With my eyes closed?"

Resisting the urge to smack him, Parker instead gestured to their instructor, the paintball gun in his hand, and then towards Tom. "You literally get the chance to chase down and shoot, Tom Ryder, bane of your existence or whatever. Shoot him. Think about all the welts and whining and, maybe, if you're lucky, the tears you can get out of this experience. Legally. Without getting fired or arrested. What's better than that, huh? It's your very own personal rage room."

Colt considered all of that silently. He swept his gaze from the large pile of paintball guns set off to the side, to the acres of arena in front of them with inflatable obstacles, and then to his blonde alter-ego sulking at the edge of the group.

He slung an arm around Parker's shoulder with the boyish grin. "Have I ever told you how much I love you?"

Parker snorted, amused by his mood swings. "Not nearly enough. It's all Jody this, and Jody that anymore."

Jody, having finished listening to the instructor's demonstration, peered around Colt's shoulder to blink at the siblings. "What about me?"

Colt and Parker shared a silent look.

"Nothing," she said, whilst he cooed, "just talking about how pretty you are."

Jody blushed a bright rouge instantly, and Colt obviously took pleasure in that when he slung his other arm around her shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he let out a happy sigh. "My two ladies. Paintball. The smell of tears and blood on the horizon. What better way to spend a birthday?"

Parker glanced at Jody, expecting her to roll her eyes, but the camerawoman instead just smiled with something soft in her eyes.

Parker responded by wiggling out of Colt's reach. "Ew, blegh, that's disgusting. They say cooties are contagious you know."

"What on Earth are cooties?" Jody asked.

"An STD," Colt replied, only half joking, and though Jody appeared mildly disturbed by his joke, Parker had known her brother long enough to appreciate his odd ball sense of humor. "And they're not contagious if you have a shot."

Jody, not wanting to know if he was serious or not, let it go as the group slowly filed forward to get their guns, face masks, and coveralls. They followed shortly after, snickering like kids the entire way through.

In the end, Colt and Jody both got white, while Parker and Tom were given black ones.

Karma, she supposed, is that she wouldn't be able to shoot the asshole after all.

"Somehow, this is a step up for your usual clothes," said asshole chirped, pinching the baggy material hanging at her waist between his forefinger and thumb. Parker swatted him away, only for Jean Claude to bark at her. "Easy, you want to get taken down before the game even starts?"

"Please, you're lucky we're on the same team," Parker teased. He didn't seem to buy it if the blithe look he shot her was anything to go by, and she huffed at him. "I bet I could have gotten the first hit on you if we weren't on the same team. I have mad skills at paintball, Ryder. Seal Team Six type stuff., you don't even know."

Tom rolled his eyes at the same time that Colt reappeared, face mask propped on the top of his head, looking just a tad too comfortable in his onesie. Jody and Dan flanked him, and Parker didn't like their smiles one bit.

"What?" she asked.

"You suck at paintball," Colt egged. "Remember Tallahassee? You were covered in welts for weeks!"

Tom snorted, and Parker considered him the greater threat considering the fact he was standing closer to her than Colt was. She glared at him to state, "I'm not joking. I could literally take you out. Any of you," she added with a stern point of the finger sweeping through the group. "All of you!"

Not a single person believed her.

Tom went so far as to snicker at her. "I don't buy that. for a second. You're a total klutz."

She gasped. "Am not!"

Colt raised a hand. "Are too. Remember when you broke your ankle trying to play hopscotch?"

"Just—stay out of this!"

He did not, in fact, stay out of it. "What was it you said, Park? Cause and effect? You suck at sports, and the effect of that, is you're about to go down on the course."

She blew a rather wet raspberry at her brother. "Please, if you and Tom were on the same team, I would smoke both of you."

They bickered for a moment, amusing some, but boring Tom, and the A-lister broke up their argument with a long-weary sigh. "Oi! Whose to say either of you could get a shot on me?" he taunted.

The siblings turned to face him.

"Is that a challenge?" Parker asked, hands planted on her hips, whilst Colt raised his brows.

Tom shrugged, unconcerned.

"In fact, I bet I'll make it a whole round without getting shot once," Tom tacked on, ego puffing his chest out as he smirked at the group standing around. Dan rolled his eyes, while Jody coughed into her hand to hide an obvious laugh at his showboating. "I'm serious. First one to hit me gets five hundred dollars—"

Thwack! Thwack!

Tom gaped at his chest, now dotted with one yellow and one blue splatter. Parker and Colt stood in front of him, guns still smoking, and while his eyes widened in anger, the pair of siblings were more concerned with claiming the prize to notice.

"First!" Colt cried.

"What? No fucking way," Parker argued. She waved at the yellow paint splatter haphazardly, almost taking out Jody as she did so. "I was so first. Tom! Tell him!"

Tom, now even more unamused by their bickering, blinked in wide-eyed disbelief at them both. "Are you fucking serious?" he shouted. "The game didn't even start yet!"

"But you just said—"

"I meant during a match. Christ, Parker, we're on the same team," he blustered, attempting to wipe off the paint, but only managing to smear it further down his chest like a bad Jackson Pollock painting. "Fuck!"

Colt, sensing a blow-out was coming, swung his gun behind his back with a wide eyed, innocent look. "Hey man, it was all her," he started. "Totally uncool. And immature. And, really, if you need me to smack her around a little after this I totally can."

Tom glared at Colt, effectively shutting him up in seconds, before turning to Parker. Everyone watched in baited breath, nervous what he might do, and while Parker hadn't been on set long enough to know what his meltdowns looked like, the ones most familiar with Tom were left stunned by his reaction.

Or, really, how utterly tame this one was to the hundred others they had seen.

"Are you happy now?" he asked.

Parker hemmed and hawed for a moment before deciding that honesty was the best policy. "I mean, I'd be happier if you gave me my five hundred dollars."

"I'm not paying you shit."

"Oh, come on," she rolled her eyes, popping a hip as she did so. "It's not like you're cash poor or anything. You're just upset that I shot you."

Tom gaped at her in disbelief. "No shit!"

Parker, shifting her gun over her shoulder, waved the other at him blithely. "You'll get over it once the game starts. It's—heh—surprisingly therapeutic."

"Shooting me is therapeutic?"

She paused, caught up in her own statement. "Er, well, not you exactly. Just someone, in general, you know." Parker swallowed when Tom continued to stare at her. Awkwardly, she laughed. "Just... wait till you get out there, and you'll see."

Tom remained silent, blinking at her for a long, tense, moment before he rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh. And—

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

His gun went off before anyone could stop him, and Parker gaped at the trio of yellow paint that was now splattered across her chest. "Fucking ow!"

Tom smirked at her, blowing the muzzle of his gun for extra flare, before swinging it over his shoulder. "Huh. I guess you're right. I do feel better."

"Asshole!"

"Yeah, well, takes one to know one, right?" he snarked.

And—oh.

She could kill him. Really, seriously kill him.

But, well, the longer she stared at him and he stared at her, eyebrow cocked and a daring smirk in place, Parker realized above the hatred simmering in her chest, she felt something kindred and wanting flutter like butterflies. Something amused by the curve of his smirk, flushed by the scorching burn of his gaze, and—dare she think—understanding at the retaliatory strike. She had, afterall, shot first.

He had only lowered himself to her level; played by her rules.

And with a strong suspicion that Tom Ryder wasn't so much an asshole as he was just looking for someone to understand him, Parker's only response to that was to throw her head back and howl in laughter.

Despite this, no one else moved for a long moment, too busy darting their gazes between Parker and Tom in case they needed to intervene, but in an even more surprising turn of events, he laughed as well. Not so outright, and not nearly as loud, but he did. Prompted by his positive reaction, it wasn't long before Colt started to laugh, and then Jody, and then suddenly everyone was knelt at the waist in laughter.

It wasn't until their instructor honked a blow horn at them, none too amused with the pre-game warfare, that they calmed down. He honked the horn a second time at Parker and Tom, threatening to kick them out if they kept breaking the rules, and while they managed to stay straight-faced, the moment he turned his back on the group, they shared matching grins.

Maybe, she thought as they got into place, it hadn't been such a bad idea to bring him along.

And maybe, her brother thought at the exact same time, Parker and Tom being friends wasn't the end of the world.