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bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky · 21 days

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Champagne Problems | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Oh, hi! Truly, sometimes you just don't know the answer till someone's on their knees and asks you, you know? Also I hope my taglist works this time but who the fuck knows.

Word Count: 9.1k

Warnings: engagement / wedding talk, mentions of alcohol

Nat flipped through your list of invitees, crossing off a few names as she scanned the page. She took it upon herself to help you stuff, address, and mail the invitations for your engagement party, because in her words, you were “dragging your feet”. There were only five or so weeks left until the event, and you just hadn’t found the time to sit down and sort out the invitations. At least, that’s the excuse you told Nat- and yourself.

“Okay, we’re finally making some progress, we’re about halfway done,” Nat called from the dining table. “Shit. Without me, no one would even show up to this fucking party.” She didn’t mean for you to hear that second part- but her voice echoed through your nearly empty apartment.

Almost everything you owned was gone; either sold, or stored, or moved into the house you were to share with your fiancé, Cole. All that remained was your clothes, your bed, and a few odds and ends. It would’ve been far easier, far more convenient, to stay in your new house instead of living out of cardboard boxes. And far more aesthetically pleasing. The house was a nice- nicer than you’d ever be able to afford yourself. And it was beautiful. There was a lush garden in the backyard. A swing on the front porch. Even a white picket fence. You described it to everyone as “picturesque.”

But the lease on your apartment wasn’t up quite yet. You still had a few weeks until your move-out date, and you wanted to soak in as much time at the old place as you could. You loved it here. Loved the worn wooden floors and the doors that didn’t hang straight. The dent in the wall where Bucky bonked his metal elbow when you popped out of the hall closet and scared him. The corner in your bedroom where you and Bucky made a blanket fort during last winter’s blizzard. Memories papered the walls and covered the floors of this place- and most of them involved Bucky.

This was home. And while the new house was great- and fully paid for by your fiancé’s wealthy parents- it didn’t feel like you belonged there. It didn’t welcome you in or fill you with warmth. Cole’s mom said it just needed the right décor. Your friends told you it needed time. But deep down, you knew that no amount of beautiful area rugs, no amount of time, could turn your house with Cole into a home. There would always be one thing missing, one glaring and flagrant void.

Bucky.

“You’re inviting Bucky?” Nat looked up from the list and found you coming around the corner with a bowl of popcorn in hand. Her incredulous expression nearly stopped you in your tracks.

You gave her a strange look, “Yeah, of course. He’s my best friend. Why wouldn’t he be invited?”

“Okay, first of all,” Nat scoffed, “He’s your best friend- present company excluded. And second, do you really think that’s a good idea?”

You threw a few pieces of popcorn into your mouth as you settled into your chair. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Nat rolled her eyes, “Because I don’t think it’s smart to invite the guy you’re actually in love with to a party celebrating your engagement to another man.” She threw you a shrug, “but hey, that’s just me.”

“Woah-” you almost choked on your popcorn. “I’m not in love with Bucky.”

It was the most absurd thing Nat had ever heard. “I’m not in love with Bucky!” she jeered, imitating your voice. “Yeah, right.”

“Okay, okay, jesus,” you raised your hands, miming a surrender. “I did- at one point- have romantic feelings for him,” you conceded, “but that was a while ago.”

“Oh, at one point?” Nat crossed her arms over her chest. “You say that like you had a small crush on him for a week, when we both know your ‘romantic feelings’ have been a constant ever since you became friends with the guy.”

Her accusations weren’t necessarily wrong. But they were loud. And pointed. And rubbed salt in your many wounds. “It was …” you gave a small shake of your head. “We never got the timing right, you know? It just didn’t work in our favor.” The heartache with which you’d grown familiar reared its ugly head. “But it’s fine,” you told her. “I’m engaged, now. So.”

Ever since you boyfriend, Cole, became your fiancé, you’d done your best to kill and bury your longing for Bucky. But your feelings for him weren’t so easily vanquished. They were strong and boisterous and loud. At least a few times a day, they launched themselves at you out of nowhere. At work. At the grocery store. At dinner with Cole and his parents. Nowhere was safe. Everywhere you went, things reminded you of Bucky. Of your favorite person. Of the person to whom you were not engaged.

The desperate pining for him tore your still-healing wounds wide open. Every time your gaze landed on your engagement ring, every time a friend mentioned your impending wedding, a sharp pain sliced through your chest. And each time, you were forced to acknowledge the fact that you were not, in fact, getting married to Bucky.

“Um, anyway…” you cleared your throat, “Of course, I’m inviting Bucky. And the subject isn’t open for debate, by the way. It’s my party and I’ll invite who I want to.”

You grabbed an invitation and a blank envelope from the stacks in front of Nat and positioned them in front of you. If Nat didn’t want you inviting Bucky, there was a more than significant chance that she’d conveniently “forget” to address an invite for him. And so, you scrawled his name and address onto an envelope and affixed a stamp in the corner. Come hell or high water, he was going to get his invitation. Even if he didn’t want to come.

The night of the party arrived sooner than you expected. Sooner than you’d hoped.

The house was abuzz with people running in and out, carrying food and linens and liquor; you knew you’d be requiring the latter in order to survive the night. Florists arrived to cover the house in perfect, beautiful blooms. A team of caterers brought with them enough fine food to feed an army. And a flawless, two-tiered cake with delicate lacy piping sat on the dining room table, complete with yours and Cole’s initials. All of it was perfect. Picturesque, really. It was exactly what you wanted- but Cole wasn’t who you wanted it with.

Every few minutes, you checked your phone in search of a text from Bucky. The deadline to RSVP had come and gone almost two weeks ago, and he never gave you an answer one way or another. He ignored your “hey, are you coming to my party?” texts, and your “just wanted to know if you plan on coming to the party” voicemails. He ignored almost all of your correspondence, actually.

Lately, he’d only been answering about a third of your texts and a quarter of your calls. It was unlike him. It was unheard of, really. On multiple occasions in the past, he answered your calls while taking heavy fire; you could actually hear the bullets whizzing by on his end of the line. But now, things were quiet. And you forced yourself to accept that fact that he was not coming to your party.

The festivities kicked off around seven-thirty, and you found your house full to the brim with party goers. All of Cole’s friends showed up. His childhood friends, his college buddies, his old soccer team- they all arrived with bells on. And your friends were well represented, too. High school pals, your book club, a close coworker or two. They were all so excited to see you, so happy that you found someone.

Even Bucky’s teammates made an appearance. They were his friends first, of course, but growing close with him meant growing close to them. And you’d build unbreakable bonds with Sam, Nat, Wanda, and Maria. They were thrilled for you and more than happy to attend your party- even if Bucky wouldn’t be there.

With your house so full, so jam-packed with friends, you thought you wouldn’t notice the pain of Bucky’s absence. But you did. Of course, you did. And you found yourself feeling painfully alone in a sea of people.

Without Bucky there, the night seemed to fall flat. The flowers lost their vibrance. The food was bland. And the music sounded disjointed and off-tempo. Things just weren’t the same.

People swarmed you every few seconds, hollering their congratulations and asking to see the ring again. They asked you about venues and dresses, bridesmaids and center pieces. Everyone meant well- you knew they did. But as the throngs of people refused to relent with their questions about table linens, your chest began to tighten. A hard, concrete cast wrapped itself around your lungs, preventing them from expanding. A suffocating lack of oxygen rendered your dizzy. It was all too much. The people and the music and the impending nuptials. Even the sensation Cole’s hand on your waist was too much, too tight, too smothering.

With a whispered “be right back”, you moved swiftly through the crowd and escaped out the front door. If you could just get some space, some quiet, some oxygen, you’d be fine.

The door provided you with much needed support as you tilted and teetered on unsteady feet. The panic, the alcohol, the high heels- it all combined to form a dizzying, possibly lethal combination. But at least you were outside. As least you were free. The cool night air prickled at your skin, and finally, your lungs filled to capacity. A few deep inhales cleared the fog from your mind. With closed eyes, you tipped your head back against the door and let yourself enjoy the quiet. Sure, the music from your playlist leaked into the night air, but this was the closest thing to silence you’d experienced all night. And you were not going to complain.

As your heartbeat slowed, you told yourself it would be okay. That everything was going to be fine. That you’d figure out how to handle the situation. And, if only for a moment, you actually believed your fabrications. A sense of peace wrapped around you like a blanket, and a welcome calm settled into your bones.

But the creak of a porch step yanked your eyes open.

And there you found Bucky, frozen on the second to last stair, with giftbox in hand. He eyed you as though he were a prey animal, wondering if you’d seen him, waiting for his chance to escape. But it was too late; he’d been caught.

“Buck?”

He forced a smile, “Hey.”

“Hi!” you launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck with an intensity that would’ve injured a mere mortal. He reeled back a few paces as your momentum knocked into him. “I’m so glad you’re here! didn’t think you were coming!”

His arms draped loosely- weakly- behind your back. It wasn’t much- but it was better than no Bucky at all. And after he failed to respond to your messages, didn’t answer your calls, and made himself scarce over the last few months, you’d take whatever you could get.

“Right. Yeah. Well, technically, I’m not-” He untangled himself from your arms and pointed at the perfectly wrapped giftbox. “I just wanted to drop off your present.”

“Oh, thanks. That’s-” Dismay dripped from your words, “Wait, you’re not staying?”

Bucky gave a shake of his head. He avoided your eyeline and chose, instead, to look at anything other than you. The grass. The porch light. His own shoes. “I can’t, sorry.”

It crushed you. Having him stop by for only a moment was far worse than him not showing up at all. Because now, you had to deal with the loss. The pain of his departure. For him to grant you the warmth of his presence, only to snatch it away moments later was almost cruel. How could he leave when you were finally seeing the world in color? How could he go when the music finally made sense with him by your side?

You didn’t want to beg. Didn’t want to make him feel bad. Didn’t want to seem pathetic. But the words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop yourself. “You can’t stay for even a little while?”

The disappointment in your voice broke his heart. And he had half a mind to forget his plan and allow you to escort him inside. But he stood firm. “I would,” he shoved his hands into his pockets. “But I have to go pick up a friend from the airport.”

The words hit you in a strange place. A pin-prick pain nipped at your chest- you’d caught him in a lie. “Buck, no offense, but all your friends are inside.” You gestured toward the house with a nod of your head. It was true- all of Bucky’s closest friends were dancing the night away in your living room. And he was caught red handed.

“Right…” His teeth dug into the smooth flesh of his cheek; his eyes roamed the yard. He should’ve known better than to use such a lame excuse- he did know better. He couldn’t casually lie around you; you knew him too well. But the pressure got to him, and forced cracks into his cool, marble surface. He hadn’t even expected to see you tonight, let alone talk to you. The painful awkwardness of the moment ate through him like acid.

“So… you can stay?” Your words came out too desperate, too expectant. But you couldn’t help it. You’d do anything to get him to hang around- even if he didn’t seem excited about it. Hell, you’d beg him on your knees if that’s what it took. Anything to get him to stay.

“Uh, yeah,” he shrugged. “I guess I can.”

Finally, he let his eyes land on you. After choosing to avert his gaze for so long, he wasn’t strong enough to do so any longer. He had to look at you, to take in every detail of your face. But as he drank you in slowly, inch by inch, in the light of the full moon, a strange solemnity sunk its teeth into him. Perfectly imperfect curls framed your face. A flawless diamond sat at the hollow of your throat. You were even wearing his favorite lipstick of yours- the one he said made you look like a vintage Hollywood star. He eyed your delicate, lacy white dress. Your white strappy heels with bows on the ties. Your white nails. And the perfect, glistening diamond adorning the ring finger of your left hand.

Everything about you was so beautiful. So bridal. It made his chest tight.

“You look really nice,” he said, almost bashful. “Beautiful.”

“I, um- thanks. Thank you.”

This stupid white dress. With its stupid lace and its stupid pearls and its stupid bridal flare. You hated it. Resented it. Wanted to take scissors to its seams. But if you were to play the role of Cole’s blushing bride, you had to dress the part, didn’t you? You had to don your fiancée costume and take part in the production.

But, regardless of your feelings about the outfit, your heart still flared at Bucky’s compliment. One simple word of praise from him had such a startling, intense effect on you. And suddenly, you were in high school again. He filled you with a sense of giddy adoration that you hadn’t experienced since the tenth grade. This was the stuff of love notes stuffed into lockers. Of first kisses under the bleachers. But your feelings for him could never be as fleeting or as shallow as those of your youth. No, this was the stuff of forever.

“Hello?” Bucky gave you a wave. “You okay?”

An awkward laugh escaped your chest, “Yeah. Sorry, I kinda spaced out there for a second. Did you say something?”

“I said, what are you doing outside?” He eyed the packed house. Twinkling lights shone through the windows. Crowds of people danced and drank champagne. Music wafted through the air. “Shouldn’t you be in there? At the party? Cause, you know, it’s for you.”

Just the thought of going back to the party made your stomach turn. Part of you wondered if you might be able to hide outside all night; just stay in the yard until the festivities came to a close. Hell, maybe you could even run away. You could get pretty far if you started walking and didn’t look back. By the time the party ended, you could be deep in the heart of Brooklyn- you could be at Bucky’s.

“Yeah, no, I probably- I should be inside. But, I’m just…” you took in a sharp breath. It hitched in your windpipe and got stuck for a moment. “I got a little overwhelmed, you know? With the noise, and the people and the… everything. So, I came out here to-” To hide. To escape. To flee. “To get some air.”

Bucky could’ve sworn he sensed something lurking beneath your calm surface. It was the slightest change in your voice, the smallest twitch of your brow. He clocked the way your hands never stilled. The way your teeth dug into the inside of your cheek. Something was off.

He sat in the long silence, waiting for you to open the vault and show him your secrets. But the lock remained secure. You didn’t say anything else, didn’t hint at the source of your discontent. He eyed your manufactured smile, but couldn’t seem to crack it.

Things never used to be this way. He didn’t keep secrets from you, and you wouldn’t dream of hiding anything from him- there was no reason to. Neither of you had to fear judgement or ridicule from the other. Your most embarrassing stories, Bucky’s darkest thoughts- they were all safe with the other.

But an unfamiliar disconnect had pulled the two of you apart. And Bucky could no longer read your soul like a book.

“Everything’s okay, though. Right?” He eyed you with suspicion. With concern.

You nodded- maybe too fervently. “Yeah. For sure,” a fake smile stretched across your face, “Just stressed, I guess.”

“And he treats you right?” It was one of the things Bucky worried about most. Sure, the house was nice. And the ring was huge. But did Cole speak to you with kindness? Did he show you empathy and understanding? Did he make you feel safe?

“Yes.”

Bucky breathed a small sigh of relief. Knowing that Cole handled you with care brought a sliver of ease to his worried mind. “So, you’re happy then?”

It was all Bucky ever wanted for you. A safe life, a happy life. But the answer wasn’t yes or no. This was the farthest thing from a black and white situation. On more than one occasion, you told yourself to just be happy. You thought that if you willed it, if you said it with conviction- then it would be true. And the happiness you were supposed to feel around your fiancé would magically spring up around you. But it didn’t. Every day, you waited. Every day, you told yourself to just be fucking happy. Cole gave you everything. He was nice and agreeable and provided you with the resources to do anything you’d ever wanted. But the happiness never came. At one point, you decided you’d settle for contentment. But that too evaded you.

“Um, do you wanna sit?” It was the best subject change you could come up with on such short notice. “The porch is free. Come on.”

Before Bucky could respond, he found your fingers linked with his. Chills traveled up his arm, over his shoulder, and across his scalp. Even the most innocent of your touches sent his dopamine levels through the roof. He’d never experienced ecstasy like this ever before- and knew he never would again. Especially not after your wedding.

He knew it was selfish to feel anything less than happy for you. You were engaged, you were getting married- this was what you wanted. You wanted marriage. A lifelong partner. A “till death do us part” kind of relationship. And now, you finally had it. So, who was Bucky to ruin it for you? Who was he to hope that you’d leave Cole at the altar? He forbade himself from ever being that selfish. If he was truly your closest friend, he had to be happy for you- even if it meant that he could never be anything more than your friend.

With his hand in yours, you led Bucky to the porch. And regardless of the brand-new patio furniture Cole’s parents gifted you, you and Bucky opted to sit on the steps. Crickets chirped every now and again. A cool breeze wafted through the trees, rattling the leaves. Voices and music and the clatter of dishes seeped through the windows. You didn’t notice any of it.

Because, finally, you had what you wanted- if only for a moment.

It was the simplest, most innocent desire you’d ever had. To sit on the front steps with Bucky. To share a home with him. To drink coffee next to him on the porch each morning. To watch the rain from safety of your porch swing with Bucky’s head in your lap.

If you ignored the white dress and the engagement ring and the pop of champagne bottles, you could almost believe that this was Bucky’s house, too. That the two of you could go inside and retire to bed. That you could wake up in the morning, wrapped in his arms. You could almost believe it. Almost.

The two of you sat in silence, planning your words carefully. Conversation felt like a mine field, and one misstep could send either of you to your death. But the warmth radiating off Bucky’s his body wrapped you in a familiar comfort. The narrow steps didn’t provide much in the way of sitting room, forcing Bucky to sit almost shoulder to shoulder with you- not that he’d ever complain.

With every gust of wind, he caught a whiff of your perfume- the perfume he loved so much. The scent that often clung to his hair and weaved itself into the fabric of his clothes. It mixed with the smell of early spring- crisp air and new blooms. And he felt himself losing his resolve. He did his best to put distance between the two of you, to protect his heart and yours. But as you leaned your body against his and rested your head on his shoulder. He wondered why the fuck he’d ever leave your side.

You, too, lost all strength. And suddenly, you didn’t care about misspeaking.

“I miss you, Buck…” Present tense. Because, even with him next to you, you missed him. Missed the way things used to be. “I feel like I never see you anymore.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy with work, and trying to prove myself…” He let out a heavy sigh. Of course, regardless of his intentional distance from you, work really was killing him. “Everyone at SWORD is paranoid- they’re convinced that there’s a secret faction of Hydra growing within their organization.”

“Hmm, that’s so weird. I wonder why they’d be worried about that.” You gave bucky a nudge, and pulled a laugh- your favorite laugh- from his chest.

“Yeah, yeah,” he shot you an eye roll. “But you’re probably really busy, too. With all the wedding planning.”

His mention of the wedding shattered your perfect, maladaptive daydreams. All the noise from the party once again filled your consciousness. And the weight of Cole’s engagement ring felt like an anchor, dragging you down to the deepest, loneliest sea. Bucky wished he hadn’t brought it up as you removed your head from his shoulder.

“Oh, yeah, no. It’s been-” you felt yourself closing off a bit, and did your best to fight it. “I haven’t actually planned a single thing. At all. So.”

Bucky gave you a strange look. It wasn’t like you to put things off, to procrastinate. He knew you to be an organized, ahead of the curve type of person. You were always the one who had a plan, always the one who over-prepared. He figured that in the few months since your engagement, you’d have planned at least a few things- if not the entire wedding and honeymoon.

“Do you have a date at least?” He pulled out his phone, “I want to put it in my calendar.”

Bucky would be there to support you no matter what, even if watching you marry another man killed him.

“Um, no, there’s no date yet,” you said. “Cole’s parents belong to a really fancy country club and said we could get married there- it’s beautiful. All I have to do is contact the club’s event coordinator and figure out which days are available. I just-” you dropped your eyes to the ground, “I haven’t yet.”

Bucky didn’t like your downcast gaze or your uncertain voice. There was something eating at you- he’d bet his life on it. Maybe you were just overwhelmed. Maybe you felt like you were behind on all the decisions that needed to be made. Either way, he wanted to help.

He threw you a shrug. “Well, there’s no rush, is there?”

He took your left hand in both of his and gave it squeeze, but regretted the gesture when your engagement ring dug into his palm. You were getting married to someone else; he had to stop touching you like this. Had to stop treating you like you were still on the market. He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or disrespect your relationship. And so, he dug his hands into his pockets.

“I mean some people don’t start planning right away, right?” He said, “They wanna take their time and enjoy the engagement for a while, and-

“I’m not.”

“You’re not what?”

“Enjoying my engagement.” You had half a mind to take off the ring and launch it into the street. You’d dreamed about doing so every day, actually. Dreamed of throwing it on the subway tracks. Or dropping it through a grate on the street.

Alarm ran through Bucky’s system like wildfire. “Is everything okay? Is it-”

Finally, you lifted your eyes and met Bucky’s stare.

“I don’t want to marry him.”

Bucky felt his brain short circuit. He forgot how to breathe, how to speak. His thoughts tangled themselves together in tight, writhing knots. Words bounced off the walls of his skull without meaning. This wasn’t what he’d expected you to say.

“Um, why-” he cleared his throat, “why not?”

He cringed at his own question. Maybe it wasn’t his business. Maybe you didn’t want to get into the details. But you were upset. And if there was any chance at all that you’d want to vent or use Bucky as a sounding board, he was going to listen.

But there was nothing for him to listen to. For a long time, you didn’t answer. Because to you, the answer was stupid. To you, it sounded like bullshit. Like you’d wasted Cole’s time and love and money. Like you were some noncommittal, unsure child. You rolled your eyes at yourself- as you had every day since Cole’s proposal.

“I just don’t- I don’t love him,” you finally said. “I’m not in love with him. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s great. He’s a really nice person…” And he was. He was kind. He was understanding. He was thoughtful. But he wasn’t the one- he wasn’t Bucky. “He hasn’t done anything wrong. And he’s given me- he’s given me everything. But, I just don’t love him like I-”

You stopped yourself. The words that danced on the tip of your tongue were too risky, too dangerous. You wrangled them before they had the chance to escape- before they had the chance to push Bucky away- and locked them behind bars.

But they screamed inside your mind. ‘I don’t love him like I love you’ echoed again and again, reverberating every few seconds. Part of you feared Bucky might hear it.

“Um, I don’t love him like-” you rerouted, “Like I always imagined. You know? I don’t feel the way I thought I would.”

Bucky considered your words for a long time. Unlike you, he didn’t think it was bullshit. Or stupid. Or childish. He set his feelings for you aside, not allowing them to cloud his judgement, and thought about your predicament.

“Well, you don’t have to, you know,” he finally said. “Marry him, I mean.”

You gave him a subtle nod. Maybe he was right. But a larger problem- a more important problem- loomed. And while you’d spent the past few months hemming and hawing about marrying Cole, there was another issue at hand that ate you alive every single day.

“Why have you been avoiding me, Buck?” It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t accusatory. You just needed to know.

For the third time that night, Bucky found himself caught red-handed. “What?”

“Ever since I got engaged, you’ve been avoiding me.”

The hurt in your voice was unmistakable. And though Bucky knew it was truth, his first instinct was to refute. To deny. To deflect.

“No, I haven’t. I’m not avoiding you,” he said, putting on an air of offense. “I’ve been busy with work and-”

“Don’t give me that.” Your heartbreak dissolved into cold, hard facts. Facts that Bucky couldn’t refute. “I used to see you almost every day. No matter how busy either of us got, we still saw each other all the time. We made time for each other. But ever since Cole proposed, you don’t answer my texts anymore. You don’t respond to my voicemails. I mean, I’ve only seen you-” The realization was startling. You knew Bucky had been distant, but as you quickly flipped through your memories of the past few months, you confirmed just how detached he’d been. “I’ve seen you twice. Including tonight.”

Bucky’s silence bit through your flesh.

Part of you didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to know. But the question left your lips before you could stop it. “Buck, are you mad at me?”

He shook his head. “No, why would I be?”

“Because Cole proposed, and I said yes.”

A look of bewilderment yanked Bucky’s features upward. Emotions flashed across his face at lightning speed. A scoff barked out of his throat.

“No. No, I’m not-” He was caught off guard. Struggling to cover his tracks. “I’m not mad. It’s not like that. I’m just-”

“What’s it like, then?” You stared at him, expectant.

“Oh, come on…” It was all too much. He couldn’t be in such close proximity to you anymore. Couldn’t have you almost pressed against his side.

He fled from his seat on the stairs and opted to stand in the grass. He paced for a beat or two, wearing down the fresh blades of greenery. And when he finally came to a stopping point, he couldn’t face you. Couldn’t look you in the eye. He just needed a moment. Needed some space. Needed to breathe air that didn’t wear your perfume. And when he cleared his mind- and his lungs- he turned to you.

“You know…” he let out a huff. “You know that things haven’t always been exactly platonic between us. You know that I’ve had- that I’m-” His metal fingers ran through his hair, “Anyway, I’m just… I’m trying to deal with this whole thing. I guess I’m not doing a good job.”

It wasn’t news to you. But it still struck you like lightning.

Things between you and Bucky always teetered on the edge of romance. Always walked a tightrope between friendship and love. And while you adored a good “will they, won’t they” type of relationship on tv, it didn’t have the same charm in real life. The Nick and Jess, Sam and Diane, Janine and Gregory dynamic brought you only pain. Confusion. Heartache. Unfortunately for you, there wasn’t a room full of talented writers scripting your every interaction with Bucky. The two of you didn’t have a well thought out, perfectly planned arc that placed you in a relationship by the end of your third season as friends. No, the two of you were left to your own devices, navigating the difficult terrain without help.

Part of you always believed that you and Bucky would end up together. Maybe it was the Ben and Leslie of it all. Or maybe it was your hopeless romantic side. But you truly thought things would work out for the two of you. The ring on your finger, however, said otherwise.

A wave of remorse washed over you. You rested your elbows on your knees and dropped your chin into your hands. “We just never got the timing right…”

Bucky furrowed his brow, “What do you mean?”

“Our feelings for each other were always out of sync,” you lamented. “They ebbed and flowed over the years- just with opposite timing. When you had feelings for me, I was dating someone. When I had feelings for you, you were in love with another woman. It was just…” you cursed fate and destiny and everything in between. “It was bad fucking timing.

A sharp edge rose in Bucky’s voice, “You think that’s what happened?”

You nodded, “Um… yeah. Yes.”

“You’re wrong.” He was steadfast. Resolute. He wanted to argue with you, wanted to prove you wrong.

“What do you mean?”

“My feelings never ebbed- whether I was dating someone or not, those feelings never went away,” he said. There was a desperation in his voice. A longing you hadn’t heard before. “And they still haven’t. They’ve never gone away or even faded a little bit. I know you had fleeting feelings for me at one time or another, but mine weren’t temporary.”

It was bullshit- it had to be. Right? His “feelings” for you never seemed so concrete, so permanent. They weren’t even feelings; if anything they were more like passing flirtations. Momentary affections that dissolved every time a beautiful woman walked by.

You let out a scoff, “Tell that to all of your girlfriends-”

“I only dated other people because I was losing my fucking mind.” His voice rose an octave or so and he cut his eyes toward the house, watching for a sign that someone had heard him. “Every time you started seeing someone new, it was like I couldn’t breathe. So, I needed something- someone- to be a distraction. And I know that’s a dick move. But-”

You weren’t proud of it, but you were familiar with Bucky’s coping mechanism. With his tactics for surviving every new boyfriend of yours. “I did the same thing.”

“What?” He didn’t believe you- not even for a second. Your engagement ring wouldn’t allow him to.

“Buck, I’ve had feelings for you since we became friends. It was pretty much immediate after meeting you. And they weren’t ‘fleeting’- or whatever you said.” The word actually offended you. “They’ve never ebbed.”

You caught a glimpse of your engagement ring in your periphery and instantly dropped your hand into your lap, hiding the ring from your view- and Bucky’s. “I only dated other people because I didn’t think anything could actually happenbetween us.”

Bucky’s chest tightened. He instantly mourned the lost time, the years he could’ve spent with your lips on his. Of course, the friendship you shared was never a waste. And he’d never trade the years you spent as confidantes. But he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about how different things could’ve been. How much mutual pain could’ve been avoided.

He took a step away from you, too confused and upset to be in your orbit. “And you never told me any of this?”

Your brow furrowed; your lips stretched into a thin, frustrated line. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“What?”

With fury smoldering in your chest, you rose from your seat on the porch steps. Anger glistened behind your eyes and hurt coated your words. “I told you! I bared my fucking soul to you!”

The puzzle pieces came together for Bucky. He let his head tip back a bit and covered his face with his hands. He let out a deep groan that only added to your rage. He didn’t have to ask- he already knew what you were referencing. But the part of him that wanted a fight egged you on. “Oh my god, are you talking about that night at the bar?”

“Of course I am!” you spat. “I told you everything- I confessed everything! I told you I loved you and that I wanted to be with you. I told you I was in love with you. And you just brushed it off!”

Bucky grimaced, “I know...”

He wandered a bit farther, putting a few more paces between your body and his. He knew he was wrong. Knew he fucked up. Every time he thought about what you said at the bar, and the way he reacted, he grew nauseous.

“But I didn’t think it was real.” Another wave of desperation sent his voice booming through the yard, “I didn’t know you actually meant it! And I didn’t think I should hold you to something you said after six margaritas.”

He had a point. He had good reason not to believe a drunken confession. But you gave a fervent shake of your head; it wasn’t his actions that night that hurt you, it was everything that followed.

“But you didn’t even acknowledge it!” The words echoed down your street. You wondered if your neighbors had gathered around their windows, watching yours and Bucky’s drama unfold like a soap opera. “You could’ve asked me about it the next day or-”

The pain in your voice cut Bucky deep. His tone was softer now, his voice a little quieter. He knew he should’ve handled things differently. Knew you deserved better. “Well, you never brought it up either…”

“I tried to!” A rogue tear dripped down your cheek. You wiped it away in a hurry, hoping Bucky hadn’t seen it- though you knew he had. “But you told me ‘not to worry about it’ and then you walked away. And that was it.”

Bucky watched as a few more tears gathered in the corners of your eyes. He wanted to wipe them away with the sleeve of his shirt. To offer you a hug. But he couldn’t- he was certain you’d swat him away. Regret sat in his stomach, weighing him down like lead.

“Do you know how embarrassing that was for me? I told you how I felt, and you pretended like it never even happened,” your voice wavered ever so slightly. “And when I tried to talk to you about it, you waved me off. I was so humiliated- I didn’t want to say anything else.”

The weeks that followed your drunken- but true- confession were some of the most miserable times of your life. Bucky simply carried on like normal, inviting you over for movies and pizza and wine. And you didn’t have it in you to pull away. To put some distance between the two of you. To take the time you needed to lick your wounds. And if you were honest with yourself, you didn’t want to stray from his side. Didn’t want to retreat. Because being around him was better than being without him, even if the rejection left you broken and bruised.

“After that,” you shrugged, “I thought you didn’t want anything more than friendship with me.”

“But I-” Bucky shook his head; you were wrong- you were so wrong. He’d always wanted more, always wanted you. “I’ve always loved you…”

“How was I supposed to know that? I mean, your string of girlfriends says otherwise.” You thought back on the litany- on the catalogue- of beautiful women Bucky paraded around. “And I know I dated other people, too. But you had so many. And you were so- you gushed about those women. You flaunted them. You talked about them nonstop.”

Bucky knew it was true. He brought his girlfriends to every event, every team dinner, every casual hang. The one time, the one place he deemed too sacred for the presence of his rotating cast of lovers, however, was the one-on-one time you shared. He never dreamed of allowing them to tag along when it was just supposed to be the two of you- that was one line he’d never cross. He did spend a significant amount of time talking about them, though. He went on and on about his many, many forays into the dating world. And truth be told, you had trouble keeping track of all the names.

Because, while you’d had a few boyfriends here and there, Bucky dated enough women to field a soccer team. Or two.

But you weren’t mad at him for it. You didn’t hate him for seeking companionship. You just couldn’t believe that he had real, legitimate feelings for you while simultaneously telling you that he planned to propose to Isabella. Or Nadia. Or Violet.

“Honestly, you made it seem like you wanted to marry every one of them,” you told him. “The way you talked about them- it was like you were so in love. So, I didn’t think…” The whole situation was too messy. Too confusing. “I didn’t think it was possible for you to have real feelings for me. I thought you were a flirt. And a ladies’ man. And I thought you only showed me affection when you were bored between lovers.”

Bucky thought back on all the girlfriends. All the hook ups. All the times he left a one-night stand and ended up at your apartment after. He hated it- but you were right. He may have flirted with you; he may have showed you fleeting affection. And maybe he made a joke or two about growing old with you- but he never made a declarative statement. He never confessed his true and undying love for you. Never made the effort to take your friendship to the next level.

Only you’d been brave enough to do that. And he’d paid you dust.

“And I mean, you made it very clear that you didn’t want to talk about my feelings for you,” you said. A flood of familiar embarrassment rose around your ankles. You found yourself struggling to wade through it, just as you had after Bucky brushed you off. “So, I just… I found Cole. And I stayed with him- I stayed long enough that he asked me to marry him. And I knew you didn’t want me, so… I said yes.”

Bucky couldn’t imagine a reality in which he didn’t want you. “I’m so-” he slid a hand over his mouth. He let his head drop a bit.

The weight of your words- of the truth- almost forced him to his knees. He’d only ever known longing, wanting, yearning- for you. And he always told himself you didn’t see him that way. But knowing now that you’d felt the same, that your confession was real and true, didn’t assuage the hurt. He couldn’t believe that he brushed you off. That he didn’t take the time and summon the courage to ask you about what you said at the bar.

But he’d been too scared. Too scared he’d ruin your friendship. Too scared he’d make you uncomfortable. Too scared that your drunk words were just that- drunk words with no meaning.

As your point of view stood next to his, the puzzle pieces aligned. And the two of you finally got a look at the full picture. It was a picture of mutual love, mutual longing, mutual heartache. A picture of two best friends who couldn’t find it in them to have a serious- sober- conversation about their feelings for fear of ruining a good thing.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky finally said. “I didn’t know you were serious at the bar. I didn’t mean to hurt you- I never want to hurt you.” He swiped his sleeve across his face, mopping up a stray tear that threatened to run down his cheek. “And I really didn’t mean to push you into the arms of another man. I just... I didn’t know you meant it.”

A tired sigh deflated your chest, “I meant it.”

Bucky wasn’t sure what to say. Or how to handle the situation. He hated that things got so muddled. Hated that you felt so hurt. Hated that he hadn’t just been honest. The two of you were so close, so comfortable together, he never thought things could get this messed up. This disastrous. But he supposed it was par for the course. After the way his life had played out, why would he think that something as important as falling in love would be easy?

“So, it seems like we’re…” Bucky frowned, “terrible at this.”

“Yeah,” a dark laugh escaped your chest. “I guess we’re both stupid.”

Bucky nodded. If there’d been one- just one- honest conversation between the two of you, none of this would’ve happened. There’d be no Cole. No hurt feelings. No argument in the yard. All this time, you could’ve been sleeping next to Bucky each night. You could’ve shared a home with him. Kissed him good morning each time the sun rose. And the engagement ring- albeit a smaller one- resting on your finger would’ve been from Bucky.

But it was too late now, wasn’t it? There was too much pain, too much hurt. And you were very much so engaged. Hell, you and Bucky were standing in the front yard of the house you shared with your soon-to-be husband. But Bucky had to ask, didn’t he? He had to dig deeper, to find the truth.

And after he’d failed to acknowledge your truth last time, he wasn’t going to do it again.

Knots twisted around in his stomach. His lungs failed to expand all the way. But he needed to know. “Do you still-

“Yes.” You didn’t hesitate. Didn’t leave even a sliver of room for doubt. “I still love you.”

Bucky said nothing. He simply drank in the words. Replayed them in his mind. Relished in the sound of your voice- sober and steady- saying that you loved him. It was all he’d ever wanted.

But his silence pushed you to the precipice.

“So, um,” your hands shook. “What about you? Are you-”

Bucky almost laughed. “Oh, come on. Of course, I do- of course, I love you. What kind of question is that?” He shot you a wink.

There it was- his truth laid out before you. And to think, you’d dreaded this night for weeks. Dreaded celebrating your engagement to Cole. Dreaded answering questions about your impending wedding. And now, the love you’d hoped for, the love you’d always wanted, laid perfectly spelled out for you in the grass. Somehow, the party celebrating your engagement to another man provided the perfect venue for Bucky to bare his soul.

And while the two of you relished in the others’ words of love, uncertainty still filled the air. Bucky stood firm on his side of the lawn, and you yours. This wasn’t a perfectly scripted episode of sitcom, there weren’t people telling you what to say. What to do next. Your shared predicament was messy and awkward. And though you didn’t have a director telling you how to act, you knew your neighbors were entertained.

“So, what do we…” Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets. “What do we do now? You’re supposed to marry someone else. Your house is full of people celebrating your engagement. And-”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence.

You pursued him across the lawn, stalking toward him until your lips crushed his. Instantly, his hands found your waist and pulled you tighter. Your hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, and buried themselves in his hair. The chill in the air fell away. The noise of the party evaporated. Nothing existed outside of this moment, this kiss. Bucky snaked his arms around your back, encircling you completely. He wasn’t going to let you slip away. Not again.

But an errant sound from inside the house made a grab for his attention. And suddenly, the stark reality of the situation hit him like a train.

He pulled away ever so slightly, only allowing a few millimeters between his lips and yours. His gaze landed on the packed house, “Someone might see us-”

“I don’t care.” You gave his hair a gentle tug and closed the gap between you. Now that you’d finally tasted his lips, you didn’t want to spend a moment without them. Ever.

And while Bucky wanted only this- only you- for the rest of his life, his anxiety needled at him as it always did. He did his best to swat his worries away and devote his focus to you and only you, but he couldn’t fight it. He had to tell you, had to clarify.

Again, he pulled away.

“But you know I can’t- I can’t give you the things he can give you. You know that right?” He searched your face for any hint of realization. Any flicker of regret. “I mean, the big diamond ring, and the fancy wedding, and the house. I don’t want you to be disappointed, I don’t want you to-”

And again, you cut him off. Your mouth melted against his, hell bent on consuming him right then and there.

“Buck, I don’t want any of that,” you finally said when you came up for air. “I want you. That’s it.”

And there it was- Bucky’s confirmation that you wanted him for him. That you didn’t care about his small, shabby apartment. Or his lack of funds. That you loved him for who he was, not what he could gift you.

“And honestly, all the fancy stuff isn’t really my vibe,” you shrugged. “I mean, I’m not really the type to play tennis at the country club. And I don’t use ‘summer’ as a verb.”

Bucky’s laughed boomed through the yard. It cut through the noise and chatter of the party and made you feel more at home than you ever did in this godforsaken house.

“So, do you want to make a run for it?” Bucky asked between long, deep kisses. “If we go now, I don’t think they’ll catch us.”

It was enticing. The thought of absconding with Bucky set you alight from the inside out. All you could think about was spending the night in his bed, wearing his clothes as pajamas, and then ditching them entirely for a night of passionate debauchery.

But there would be plenty of time for the two of you to make your escape- after you carried out the plan forming on the outskirts of your mind.

“I say, we run- but not quite yet,” you told him. “I think you give me a few minutes inside so I can snag a couple bottles of champagne and some of that fancy whiskey Cole’s dad brought by. And then we jump in the getaway car and run like hell. How does that sound?”

How could Bucky possibly say no to that? He watched with bated breath as you snuck back into the house and hoped to god that no one noticed your return.

And his prayers were answered. Everyone was so drunk, so distracted by the music and the lights, that they didn’t even glance in your direction.

A quick trip to your room allowed you the opportunity to rid yourself of Cole’s ring. Sure, it was beautiful. And sure, Cole was a nice guy. But you didn’t want it, didn’t want to be shackled to him for the rest of your life. You slid the ring from your finger and instantly felt the weight of the world fall from your shoulders. It was the most instantaneous relief you’d ever felt- aside from kissing Bucky for the first time. You tucked the ring safely into the drawer of your nightstand and told yourself you’d return it to Cole tomorrow.

Tonight, you had more pressing matters to attend to. You snaked down the hall to the kitchen, undetected by the raucous partygoers. And without drawing any attention to yourself, you snaked two bottles of champagne out of their ice bath and tucked a nice vintage whiskey under your arm. If you and Bucky were going to celebrate, you were going to do it in style.

With the alcohol safely cradled in your arms, you made a mad dash for the front door. But just as you turned the handle, the sensation of someone watching you gave you pause. Slowly, you turned around, fearing that you’d find Cole’s confused, heartbroken gaze staring back at you. Instead, it was Nat who’d caught you in the act.

She gave you a wicked smile and mouthed “I told you so” from across the room. And with a sweeping gesture, she urged you to “go, go, go!” She didn’t have to tell you twice. Quick as a flash, you escaped out the door and sprinted down the porch steps.

Bucky paced up and down the front walk, waiting for your return. Part of him feared that you might not return from your trip inside. Maybe you’d change your mind about the whole thing. Maybe you’d decide to stay with Cole. But the way you tore down the front steps and launched yourself into his arms quieted his anxieties.

He took your face in his hands and captured your lips with his. “You got the goods?”

Your laugh vibrated against Bucky’s lips, “I don’t know about you, but I think stolen champagne tastes better.”

"That's my girl."

Bucky snaked an arm around your back and ushered you across the yard, out the front gate, and across the street to his car. He stole the booze from your grasp and placed the bottles gently in the back seat. And once he ensured that the alcohol you worked so hard to pilfer would make it home safe, he turned his attention to you.

His hands slid over your hips and traced up your spine, sending goosebumps over your skin. His mouth met yours in a kiss full of love and desperation. Longing and need. This was what you’d always wanted. What you’d begged the universe for. What you’d cried and agonized over. And now it was yours- Bucky was yours.

He pulled away only a fraction of an inch, “You ready to go, baby?”

“Get me outta here, Buck.”

------------------------------------

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tteokdoroki · 9 months

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VOICEMAILS AND DIAL TONES - yuuta okkotsu.

✩ — about. “back then, you didn’t have words to describe the way that he made you feel. maybe, you were a little too young to understand.” there are rules to a friendship that’s lasted as long as yours and yuuta’s has. the first being that you tell each other everything. the second, try not to fall in love. all you know, is that you’ve failed at both, and now your best friend is half way across the world without any idea as to how much you truly love him. is that something you can say over text or voicemail? ( 8.7K )

✩ — warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact! nsfw, smut, fluff, angst, with a happy ending - video banner! characters are in their 20s. coffee-shop!au, childhood friends to lovers, forbidden romance, long-distance, misunderstandings, miscommunication, situationships, arguments, hospitalisation mentions, death mentions (non-major characters), cucking, somnophilia, praise, fingering (f!receiving), oral sex (f!receiving), phone sex-ish, clothed sex, unprotected sex, overstimulation, creampies, fem!reader.

✩ — things to note. hi everyone!! jumping on the yuuta hype and dropping this fic i wrote as a commission last year!! it's so interesting to see how much my writing has changed, but i remember having fun when writng this. either who!! i hope you all enjoy <3 - m.list ⋆ read on ao3 ! ִ ࣪𖤐₊ ⊹

absence makes the heart grow fonder — at least that’s what they tell you so that the feeling of missing someone hurts a tiny little bit less.

you’ve always wondered if that were true. if willingly putting space between yourself and the person you loved truly helped soothe the soreness as if it were medication for the body’s aches and pains. perhaps the theory could best be applied to your friendship with yuuta okkotsu.

he’s been your best friend for as long as you can remember — from the moment he moved in next door, his bambi eyes were big and brown, safe and inviting…who were you to keep hiding behind your mothers leg and deny him an invitation to play on the swing set his parents had put up for him in the garden just over the fence? yuuta was the sweetest boy to date, he was always polite with your parents and asked their permission before taking you into the depths of his cardboard fort in the front yard.

he would walk home with you from pre-k, your chubby little fingers tightly intertwined and the matching charms on your backpacks swinging about the place jingling with every step you took towards home. when you got to middle school and kids were meaner, yuuta stood by your side while you were teased for being quieter than most. he defended you, his shy, patient best friend.

okkotsu still walked you home, his pinky finger hooked over yours — greeted your mother with that same shy, yet charming tight lipped smile and offered to help her with cooking dinner with that same airy voice of his. your mother would reward you both with a kiss to the forehead and a plate of warm walnut and chocolate chip cookies and your pinkies — still linked underneath the table.

you were always linked. it’s always been yuuta and you. back then, you didn’t have words to describe the way that he made you feel. maybe, you were a little too young to understand the butterflies in your tummy and the blistering temperature to the back of your neck and your ears — maybe too naive to understand a metaphorical doctor’s diagnosis of a case of early on-set puppy-love. knowing back then would’ve explained why you wrote yuuta’s name on a heart alongside your own or why you squirmed every time you touched.

there was only one explanation. you liked yuuta, loved him.

you wished that you’d known what that feeling was…because it's soon ripped from your grip and your whole world changes when rika orimoto enters your lives. she was pretty, had a beauty mark smeared daintily across her cheek and gentle eyes that made you feel safe. she was pretty and yuuta thought that too — inside and out. that’s why they became fast highschool sweethearts and why you were left in the dust.

rika easily made a mess of him, tearing yuuta into a million tiny pieces that only she could put back together. she asks him out on white-day, okkotsu a bumbling mess by the lockers in between gym class and economics as he clutches her neatly written love letter — hearts over the I’s and T’s crossed ever so cutely. she had done to yuuta what he’d been doing to you all of your lives and you’d hardly seen her talk to him around school until that day.

much to your dismay, they date throughout the rest of highschool and it nearly kills you, having someone that you were once so close to fade-away into near nothingness with growing distance. life where yuuta has a girlfriend ( that isn’t you ) drains the happiness that you got from being around your childhood best friend. it’s selfish, you know, to have wanted to keep him all to yourself. to have him want you instead of her.

they make plans for after school, babies with names that start with the same letters as theirs and a wedding that’ll be small and flowery and whatever rika wants because yuuta okkotsu would give the girl he loves the entire world. you so badly want to be her. that person who is the centre of his universe. it should be you, it should have always been you — making plans with yuuta and imagining the perfect ring, the one that he would give you in the front yard of his childhood home. it should be your life with him, one that you’d dreamt up with him…and the sick thing is, you can’t have him — because you’re best friends and you’d be risking it all in the name of childish love.

rika, dies just days shy of your highschool graduation and it changes your best friend. a tragic car accident violently takes her life and okkotsu along with it. he’s a shell of the person he used to be, void of his dazzling smile and the comforting warmth that was unavoidable if you spent even just a minute with him. yuuta used to be like sun rays on a sunday morning but after the incident, he felt like blizzards on a dark november's eve. he lost his love, and you were starting to lose him even more than before.

his first love is memorialised at the graduation ceremony and while everyone sends her their thoughts and prayers — you feel sick to your stomach, knowing that for a brief second you’d felt relieved that your competition was gone. loving him was forbidden, he’d just lost his person and so despite your guilt you had to stick it out. be there for him. be there for your friend above all else and hold him up so that he didn’t sink in the deep water of his own grief. you’d save him, at all costs, you’d stop him before he drowned.

things start to look up when the pair of you head to college — you both get into the same school and find the cutest little off-campus apartment to share. it feels like a home away from home to you both, since your nights before semester begins are spent attempting to master your mother’s famous cookies while practising how to introduce yourselves since you’re both nervous as hell for this new beginning. everything feels like it was when you were both children and didn’t have a single thing to worry about — except now there’s crippling student debt and a four year workload ahead of you…but you’re both excited, together again and it seems like the distance between you has shrunk just a little.

then your love life takes a turn for the worst ( yet again ) and yuuta finds himself running around town with a new crew of friends that he met in a club run by one of your elective professors, satoru gojo. they stay out later than you’re used to and your best friend comes home smelling different too, of strong perfumes and cigarette butts even though you know he doesn’t smoke. as it turns out, there’s another girl.

maki zenin.

you don’t like her, and to be fair, she doesn’t like you either. so you keep your distance once more, keep your head down when maki does her faux walk of shame out of your best friend’s room — her thighs and her neck covered in bite marks and scratches, his shirt slipped over her body to cover the rest of her decency. he made her breakfast with your food and tea in your designated mug. it hurts to hear her mewl the sweet syllables of his name late at night while you’re stuck with the soundtrack to your own sobs.

it should be like this, distant — far apart because you care about okkotsu and you love him, so it’d be better to avoid it all rather than get him hurt.

your phone ringing in the distance gently lulls you from your reminiscent thoughts and you scramble to pick it up before you end up with a missed call.

yuuta’s contact flashes across your screen, framed by light and making him look like an angel. it rings and rings, and you know that you should let it go to voicemail. let the space between you grow so you can protect what’s left of his soul.

but you were never strong when it came to him.

and you pick up before he can listen to another second of dial tones.

voicemail #1 - “hey yuuta, i hope you’re good, you’ll never guess who stopped by the cafe today— professor satoru! i haven’t seen him since your graduation! anyways, are you still coming over for dinner tonight? i miss you!”

this isn’t like him.

even after all these years, from pre-k to college — yuuta okkotsu has never missed one of your calls. after graduating you'd made a promise to one another, to keep contact no matter where life took you, a promise of his own volition. you’d have dinner with each other at least once a week just like when you were kids and catch up on your not-so crazy adventures into adulthood.

you kept up your end of the bargain as your way of keeping okkotsu afloat — to ground him. he’d seen and been through enough hurt to last him a lifetime and if he had to use you as a crutch for comfort, despite your raging feelings for him, then so be it. so you never missed a call, always checked in and made him something nostalgic and tied to the memories of afternoons where your mother would fill you up with her wondrous baked goods or heartwarming soups.

but still, this isn’t like yuuta to not pick up when you call.

to feel…more distant than usual and of his own accord.

panic sets in while you listen to the third dial tone, trying to contact him again. taking a deep breath, you pace around the fridge-freezer in the back of your bakery — one that you’d set up shortly after graduating from your business degree. there had to be some explanation for your best friend’s absence. perhaps traffic? maybe he was on the subway catching a ride over? or maybe he just needed space. he’d been going through a lot recently. yuuta didn’t get a job straight out of college and he broke things off with maki shortly after — they wanted different things and had different aspirations.

even still, with the free time left on his hands, there was too much room for him to think about his losses and his loves…it made you worry for him, it made you panic and chew on your nails just like this. “c’mon yu,” you whisper to yourself, the shaky syllables of your words bouncing off the metal house for your ingredients, muffled by paper bags of powdered sugar and organic flours. “where are you?”

you can barely hear the automated message telling you to leave a voicemail for your friend over the bustling of your afternoon service. if yuuta hadn’t been off the grid, he’d be here helping you with the customers that know him all too well, the old ladies that pinch his cheeks and the younger ones that twirl their hair in an attempt to flirt over miniature cherry bakewell tarts. except he’s nowhere to be found, and you’re nauseous, worried sick about where he could be and what he could be up to.

you try his cell one more time in an attempt to grab at his attention. there's something weird about today...as if he’s avoiding you, hiding. yuuta always picks up and you always pick up for him, it’s an unspoken rule.

when you’re met with the dial tones again, you hang up — slumped and distraught. there’s hungry customers to feed and you’re overly friendly college professor waiting on a fresh box of sweets you’d used as an excuse to escape to the back of your shop. yuuta can wait for another call from you.

but you’re not sure if your heart can wait for one back from him.

voicemail #2 - “it’s yuuta, we need to talk.”

oddly enough, silence is comforting to you. it reminds you of your best friend, the nights you’d spend coupled up in your dorm with your fingers running through his silken midnight hair, his head in your lap and the both of you shrouded in darkness. more often than not, you could tell how one another’s days went just by body language and when shoulders were slumped and eyes were droopy — yourself and yuuta would curl up together and just…take in the quiet.

be close to one another.

so, you bask in the tranquillity of your quaint little cafe as you clear up after a day's work. you sweep floors, wipe tables clean and arrange the tables and chairs with perfect precision. the only sound that accompanies you is the clink of silverware and porcelain plates as you wash the dishes. it’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop and the slightest noise is enough to make you jump — just like your phone that vibrates deep within your back pocket, startling you as you scramble to dry your hands so you can see if it’s him who’s been trying to get in touch with you.

it’s embarrassing how quick you are to smile when you see a few missed calls and a voice message from yuuta. though you’ve never quite heard the tune of seriousness that plays in his voice before, your heart won’t stop racing at the mere sound of him speaking. your mind wonders…what could be so urgent that he’d need a ‘talk’?’

maybe it was a thank you…for always being beside him or maybe he even liked you. perhaps okkotsu had finally come to his senses and realised how much he’d always needed you…how much he loved you.. the racing thoughts in your brain hopefully jump towards a confession from your best friend and you find yourself getting giddy at its prospect. you practically skip, hop and jump to the back of your cafe, switching out your flour stained clothes for one of the spare and cleaner shirts you keep in the back — you touch up your makeup too, brighten the dark circles under your eyes and blot your worry lines with care.

you even manage to heat up a few of yuuta’s favourite pastries to serve up by candlelight — rehearsing your own words of confession as if they haven’t been looming around in your head for years.

the bell to your quaint little cafe chimes with his arrival, a rush of cool, late night air tangling with the temperate atmosphere as you lay your finishing touches on the meal you’d prepared for you both. when you look up, yuuta’s eyes have settled on you — warm and inviting as usual, but bright with a light that had been missing from them since you were young. you’ve missed it, the subtle spark that brings life to the coffee brown oasis in his eyes.

he remains as handsome as ever, taller than you by however many heads — limbs long, arms slightly muscular and waist slender, though his build is more like a dancer’s. yuuta okkotsu grew up to be a fine man and you’d be a fool to have not noticed. he crosses the room in short strides, rushing to take you into his arms and hold you close and squeeze you to his chest. yuuta smells like cookies, you note, hardly paying attention while his lips softly brush over your hairline in a sweet kiss.

“hi,” he whispers, voice smooth like melted chocolate dripping through your ears. “i’ve missed you.”

you only hope that he can’t hear your racing heartbeat, it’s speed picking up as you decide that this is your moment. the moment. “i’ve missed you too,” you mumble back, toying with a loose string on the cream cashmere the dark brunette is wearing. “yuuta…i have to tell you something—“

“i-i have something important to tell you,” he breathes out at the same time as you do, almost shy as you both sway in the centre of the room and enjoy one another’s embrace.

the both of you share a laugh that’s light and airy before you drag him over to a table and set of chairs, forcing him to sit and to eat the baked goods you’d set out for him. “you first, yuu,” it makes you happy to see him tuck in, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “you owe me a story after disappearing on me today.”

okkotsu nods in agreement, his cheeks adorably full of food and pastry flaked across his milky skin. “‘m sorry, i was sortin’ something out la’sht minute.”

“yeah?”

“y-yeah! i’m moving,” yuuta drops the bomb like it’s nothing. “abroad. for a job! professor gojo set me up and it’s s-supposed to help build my confidence and stuff—“

your world falls apart in an instant, sucking away the oxygen in your lungs until you feel like your lungs are failing. yuuta is leaving you and this time it’s for real.

confessing to him now wouldn't mean shit, you’d only be holding him back. your face crumples faster than you can control at the thought and after years of knowing you— okkotsu instantly picks up your change in mood.

“what’s wrong?” he says your name and even that hurts to hear.

“n-nothin’ yuu, i’m happy for you, really.” comes your broken voice over the quiet, you fake it until you make it.

“really? you don’t look like it.”

running a hand over your tired face, you force a smile. “really. especially if you think this is what’s best for you.”

“it is!” yuuta nearly snaps, controlling himself— stopping himself from yelling at you and tearing your friendship apart before he’s gone. “i need this, need’a be my own person. after college, after highschool i didn’t have time for any of that! i need this.”

needs it more than he needs you.

“okay.” you say simply, blankly.

“okay.” he says back.

the debate doesn’t last that much longer after that — the room fills with silence as you grieve your faltering friendship. whatever confession you had planned, now forgotten.

voicemail #3 - “yuuta! i wasn’t sure how long your flight was but please call me when you land! you’re gonna do great at your new job.”

yuuta doesn’t call after he lands, in fact two entire days pass before you actually hear from him. after the argument, you’d try to stay on good terms as though not to lose him for good — helping him pack and sort out his currencies, buying him language books since you knew he would struggle with the new dialect.

you figure it’s because he’s unpacking and not because he doesn’t want anything to do with you — and while you make some late night tea, you find that it’s better to imagine him alone in a new foreign country, picture his pretty pink lips struggling to form the vowels of the new language too, envision how he’ll tan under the blistering hot heat and how excited he’ll be to try new things.

its humiliating how easily he can preoccupy your thoughts from thousands of miles away and makes your heart race so fast that it might burst through the bones and flesh of your chest. he occupies your every thought like a fungus crawling across your brain that’s only disrupted by the sound of your phone ringing loudly — making you drop your tea and jump up to answer.

“hey,” the way yuuta says your name sends tingles down your spine — filtering out any pain you feel from burning your hand. he looks good too, dark hair flopping over his eyes, voice gravelly with sleep as if he’s just woken up and you’re the first thing on his mind. “i got your message, s-sorry for not calling i’ve been—“

you cut him off, eager to speak and draw the call out for as long as possible because you missed him. “busy? a guy like you must be extremely popular on the other side of the world.” you’re chipper in an attempt to cover how flustered you are and to cheer your best friend up when you notice how nervous he looks.

“not exactly… i’m nervous. e-everything seems so big ‘nd scary without you here…”

without you.

you shake your head over the grainy FaceTime call. “you’ve always done fine without me, you’ll do even better without having to cover for my shyness!” he laughs at that, the sound like a sweet song to soothe your aching heart. “you got this yuuta.”

your best friend gives you a sleepy smile, one that melts you like a knob of butter on a hot stove and has your knees knocking. “you’re the best, you know that? you always know what to say.”

the static crackles between you and your heart leaps into your throat.

“i’m always here for you, yuuta.”

“and i’m glad for that,” he yawns. “i love you.”

you have to remind yourself that what your best friend says is strictly platonic but you almost selfishly repeat the words back to yuuta until you notice he’s fallen back asleep.

ending the call, you clutch your phone and burned hand to your chest.

“i love you too.”

voicemail #4 - “hey sorry i missed your call, time zones can be crazy! work has been catching up with me and, well, i made a new friend!”

for the first week, you and yuuta text everyday while he’s away. you do your duty and act as his crutch like you always have— keeping him company while he works, eats and commutes all on his own. you feel bad that you lap up the attention he gives you over the phone through his loneliness. you could be compared to a desperately hungry stray animal at the way you drink up every little interaction you have. giving pieces of yourself away to keep your best friend happy.

but as time goes on, okkotsu seems less and less worried about his job — easily slipping into the language here and there, no longer relying on you to stand on his own two feet. the frequency of your communication dwindles to the point where you really feel like you’re oceans apart.

even yuuta notices the change within himself — the confidence that filters through him when he says yes to the pretty girl who works in the cubicle next to him when she asks him to tag along for drinks with the rest of the office one night which soon becomes a regular thing. he knows that he speaks less with you and that your texts are barely there but he’s sure you won’t mind the distance. you’re a busy girl, you run a cafe, a few days of not talking wouldn’t do any harm.

“oooh, she’s pretty. who is that?”

kasumi miwa is the one to pull yuuta out from the fog of his thoughts. the brunette looks up from his phone, your face flashing across it’s lock screen as the background. a photo where you have your arms wrapped around him from behind and your smile is as bright as the sunshine. miwa is a pretty girl, different from you. her voice is smoother and eloquent where yours is charming and sweet — she doesn’t remind him of home, or smell like the warmth of a chocolate chip cookie…but she is pretty. her presence is enough to make him shy.

he’s caught her looking a few times, her touch lingering whenever miwa passed him paperwork and right now; her cheeks are tinged pink probably from the alcohol the office is drinking inside where yuuta had come out for some fresh air.

okkotsu clicks his phone shut and stands up at full height to face his blue-haired coworker. “i… i haven’t spoken to her in a while. i miss her.” he says wistfully as he gives your name

“well, if i were dating a girl that pretty, i would miss them too.”

“o-oh! we’re not together! she’s my best friend!”

the woman beside yuuta cocks her head, a satisfied grin spreading across the slope of her lips. “you should call her — i’ll be waiting inside.”

he follows her eyes as she walks off, along with the whiff of her chanel perfume, before his gaze lands on his phone — he calls your phone.

you answer after the second ring, though don’t speak straight away, letting the silence wear the both of you thin. “how’ve you been?” you say quietly, lacking the chipperness to your tone that you usually have whenever the two of you ring each other up. there’s no hello, no warmth, you’re cold.

but yuuta doesn’t ask — he’d like to think he knows you well enough not to. he thinks that you’re fine, probably tired from work and it’s late over there too. if he cared to catch up with you, he’d have been more considerate of that.

“good!” the brunette chirps in order to keep the mood light, leaning over a nearby railing. i miss you. yuuta wants to add, but the words feel like cotton in his mouth, sticking unpleasantly to every surface and for some reason they don’t feel right to say— feel foreign. “work’s been good. i think i’m getting the hang of things around here. my co-workers are great, i get this amazing view every morning a-and—“

“and?”

“i met someone! i think! i wanna get to know her more but she’s been great to me so far…you’d like her!”

hearts don’t make a sound when they break, but if they did— you’re sure that yuuta would have been able to hear yours even from halfway across the globe. over his own ramblings he can hardly make out the shatter of your vital organ as it falls to pieces, cracks into tiny shards with jagged edges that could make you bleed if you tried to put it back together…because your best friend having met someone means he’s moving on. leaving you behind. and he’s too tone deaf to notice.

through the static of a phone call, okkotsu misses the crumple of your face and the way your throat bobs as you swallow back salty tears and two decades worth of unrequited love. you’re devastated and he can’t even tell, barely noticing the way you rush off the phone while he’s halfway through a sentence.

his brows furrow when he realises you’ve hung up.

“i take it that didn’t go well?” kasumi questions when yuuta re-renters the bar, her face sympathetic but voice elevated with smugness.

he shakes his head once. “no, but it’s okay. she’s been busy.”

he excuses you but kasumi doesn’t let up, pushing for more of yuuta — breaking him out from his shell, stealing and keeping the pearl of his heart for her taking. “don’t be too sad yuuta, you have me and your new friends, we’ll keep you company instead.”

there’s a hidden meaning behind her cherry picked words. she’ll keep him company — and for once, yuuta doesn’t feel guilty for trying to break away from you.

voicemail #5 - “what happened between us yuuta? you used to tell me everything and now you’ve got a girlfriend? i didn’t even find out through you!”

there’s an unspoken rule to a friendship that’s lasted as long as yours and yuuta’s – you’re supposed to tell each other everything. there’s not been a secret between you in all the years you’ve known each other except for minor white lies that couldn’t amount to major forms of harm. he might have told you that your hair looked fine on days where you’d barely any time to tend to it and you might have told him that he hadn’t been awkward presenting in front of your entire college class… but those were worthless lies. strings of words tied together that didn’t mean anything, that didn’t have any intent to harm.

there were no secrets, no major ones.

until now.

“he’s got a girlfriend, yanno…”

the news is shared with you casually from over the counter one day by your irritating white-haired ex-professor who makes a habit of annoying his old students. he comes in for sweets often and the daifuku you make is his favourite – you offer him extra in exchange for updates on the classmates you used to share since he’s nosey like that.

with every visit to your little cafe, gojo filled you in on everything yuuta had been up to in the blurred weeks and months since you’d last spoken – including his relationship status. “she’s pretty too, long hair. s’blue which is an odd colour, but she’s been good to him, ‘pparently. boosted his confidence.”’ the man cocks his head, watching in real-time as your movements in packing up his order slow down.

your throat bobs whilst you swallow your fading pride in front of your teacher, forcing down a wave of tears. it doesn’t matter how many times yuuta gets over you, moves on from you, finds someone to love other than you… it still hurts. it’ll always hurt knowing that he can fill the other half of his heart with someone that isn't you, while your own stays void and empty.

as always, satoru gojo sees right through your resolve as you total up his order – again forgoing charging him extra for the little tid bit of gossip he’d given you. there’s a shell of someone he doesn’t recognise in place of the girl he used to teach – the one who was once full of life and eager to learn, get out into the world and achieve your dreams. yuuta okkotsu had chipped away at you, the years you’d spent protecting his feelings had caused you to drown in your own.

and gojo could see that, he knew that. he’d been through it before.

he only wishes he had better words of comfort for you.

“you love him, don’t you?” he asks you quietly as you ring him up but you answer with his total in yen instead – sniffling as you do. professor gojo takes his brown paper bag, full of enough sugar to make the heart stop – to kill a person, but even that’s a better death than the heartache you’re going through now. you sniff and he offers you a sad smile that doesn’t quite reach the sapphire eyes behind his shades. “better yet, don’t answer that. i don’t need anymore tears in my daifuku.”

voicemail #6 - “oh fuck yuuji, right there…” “here baby? oh you’re so cute, fuck ‘m gonna—!” “oh… yuuji!”

( incoming voicemail from - yuuta: “hey, call me back? who’s yuuji? are you okay?” )

yuuta knows that he shouldn’t have kept listening – he should have deleted the voicemail as soon as he caught onto what was happening. it didn’t take a genius to know what was going on, the sounds of skin slapping on skin, your voice wavering with the tune of lust even over the static crackle of the voicemail you’d left.

he wishes that he’d never heard you moan out like that for someone else, that he wasn’t picturing the faces you’d make underneath the body of another man…but he couldn’t help it. the more he listened, the angrier he felt, the more betrayal flooded his veins and clouded his usually clear judgement. the brunette had no right to be this mad at you, he was supposed to be happy with miwa, supposed to be letting you move on just like he had done from you.

and yet, like a necrotizing parasite – jealousy feasts at the back of okkotsu’s mind. it disrupts his work, distracts him from his girlfriend and fills his mind with flashing images of you being fucked five ways by another man. one that isn’t him. yuuji. who even is yuuji? how did you meet him? were you dating him? you hadn’t talked in so long so the guy had barely come up in conversation. you were best friends that used to tell each other everything and now he felt like you were fucking someone new behind his back. yuuta knew nothing of what that stranger meant to you, he had no idea that yuuji itadori was just some college boy you’d brought home one drunken night – to act as a salve for the burns your childhood best friend had left on you.

it's a temporary fix, yuuji’s tongue laps at your wounds – pleasures you with teeth and tongue until your head is light and you’re almost too dizzy to think properly. in the moment, he felt good, he took care of you…but he wasn’t who you wanted. he wasn’t yuuta.

was it bad that you basked in the jealous rage and attention the brunette had bathed you in? drowning you in a barrage of text messages the morning after you’d slept with itadori, when yuuta finally had the chance to listen to the voicemail you’d left by accident. it was the most you’d gotten out of him in the months you’d been separated.

yuuta - 7:16AM: hey…did you mean to send that? call me when you’re up.

yuuta - 7:45AM: i don’t think i was supposed to hear that…

yuuta - 8:34AM: who’s yuuji?

yuuta - 8:36AM: are you seeing someone? call me please.

yuuta - 8:57AM: pick up the phone.

yuuta - 9:21AM: it’s not funny anymore. i’m worried. pick up.

you answer your phone around noon, having given yourself the space to think over cooking a hang-over breakfast for yuuji. the sounds of spitting oil underneath frying eggs had provided the soundtrack to your thoughts – helped you pick and choose the words you would say to yuuta before your companion slips out of your apartment and you tell him to grab a pastry from your cafe downstairs on his way out. a little thank you for the night you’d shared.

“what the hell was that?” is the first thing yuuta snarls down the line once your call connects.

you shift your phone in your grasp, as if his seething tone has scorched the palm of your hand. “are we past greetings or somethin’, yuu?” you fail to admit that it hurts you, starting the call without his tender and caring ‘hello’, you feel like an enemy on the battlefield to okkotsu, rather than his friend.

“i think we are well past that, especially with the kind of voice messages you’ve been leaving me.” he says it like he’s disgusted with you, when he really just misses you. craves you. he’s angry at himself and for letting you slip between his fingers into the grasp of another man. not at you. never at you. but even cell phone lines connecting calls from across the globe can’t properly convey the way yuuta feels. “what’s going on with you? why are you acting like this? we haven’t spoken in weeks and you–?”

“why is what i do any of your business anymore, yuuta?” you snap through his flurry of questions, growing heated yourself. “i accidentally left you a voicemail of me fucking someone, that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me.”

“you’re just… not like this. we don’t speak and all of a sudden…y-you’re different!”

you clutch the phone tighter, swallowing thickly. “and who’s fault is that? let me answer that for you. it’s yours. you’re the one who got a girlfriend and left me in the dust. not the other way around!” you argue, trying to sound stern and steady though yuuta can hear the wobble to your words loud and clear. “you shouldn’t have listened, you should have called. you let the distance become a problem between us.”

he scoffs, an action so unlike your best friend. “we’re not children anymore! you should have talked to me about the distance!”

“i couldn't!” you defend yourself, desperate for the pain in your heart to be heard for once. “you were finally happy again yuuta! that mattered to me—“

“you think i'm happy about hearing my best friend get…defiled over the phone?”

“well you should be! it means I’m not hung up on you anymore, that i’m moving on from being in love with you! leaving you so that you can be happy in your new life!”

the silence from yuuta’s end of the phone is both too loud and too deafening.

“you…loved me?” he whispers, switching back to that same sweet tone he always used when it came to you. “why didn’t you say?”

your stupid little confession, the one you’d been holding back for more than half your life, sips out before you can catch it with the tip of your tongue and you instantly feel terrible for weaponizing your crush on okkotsu against him. at least that’s what it feels like you’ve done. “i never told you…because i’m not selfish, yuuta,” you stutter out, your face hot with oncoming and flustered tears. “i-i'm not a selfish person. i wouldn’t sacrifice our friendship or your happiness, not just because i loved you.”

yuuta says your name, but blood rushes through your ears in embarrassment – way too fast for you to catch it, and you hang up before you can humiliate yourself any further.

before you can hear him say that he loves you too.

voicemail #7 - “open up, i'm coming home. please be here when I’m home.”

the number you have dialled is unavailable, please try again later.

after the slip of your tongue and confession to yuuta— he was met with radio silence. you’d blocked him on every form of social media possible and he couldn’t even blame you. you wanted to be free from him, from that silly and imaginary red string that had kept you tied to his soul for all of these years. it hurt to think when everything reminded you of him, so you buried yourself in your cafe and worked yourself to death because even the sweet relief from life would be better than living without your best friend.

gojo had stopped by and taken you to the hospital twice since you’d worked yourself into exhaustion — tonight was no different, sentenced to bed rest by your ex-professor and the best doctor he could find. he always did look out for his students.

sleeping your sadness away had caused you to miss a barrage of yuuta’s calls — if you’d picked up you’d have known that he was coming home. coming home for you. in the wake of your love confession, okkotsu had realised how much he needed you and how much he loved you. you had never left his side, no matter what yuuta had been through, and now, nothing feels right without you.

so he broke up with his girlfriend, took leave from his job and flew halfway across the world for you — to give his message in person.

it’s near midnight by the time yuuta gets back to japan, the warm yellow of the streetlights illuminating the path right up to your apartment after getting out of the uber. there’s a spare house key, glinting gold, hidden under your cupcake shaped doormat just as yuuta remembers and he uses it to slip inside — dumping his bag and kicking his shoes off at the entryway. his socked feet locate the bedroom with ease, perhaps drawn by your aura and the anticipation of seeing you again.

and there you are, so close yet so far away — your face peaceful and painted with an adorable expression of slumber. okkotsu notes the way your chest slowly rises and falls, the crease between your brow as if you’re having a bad dream. he could fix it… whatever’s plaguing your sleeping mind, he knows that he can, because whenever you touch each other, it’s like your bodies know to relax and that they’re safe.

tiptoeing deeper into the room, the brunette slinks up to the side of your bed and the mattress dips underneath the weight of his knee as he seats himself beside you. you’re so beautiful, so calm. he doesn’t know how he went his whole life without choosing you, choosing other people over you time and time again. “i love you,” yuuta whispers into the dead of the night, brushing a thumb and forefinger over the apple of your cheek — hesitating when you roll into his body heat. “i love you. i’m so sorry.” he says again, while pressing a feather light kiss to that same spot.

his breath hitches when you reach for him this time, grabbing at the man in your sleep.

yuuta kisses you again, but on your forehead. then your other cheek, your chin, your inner wrists and finally — your lips. each brush of his own against you is increasingly feverish, pouring unspoken emotions into them as he quietly utters the words ‘i love you.’ over and over again. he feels like he has something to prove, as if the brunette has to show you how much he cares for you — leaving a trail of sweet smooches between the valley of your breasts from over your night-shirt to between your thighs that spill out of the loose material.

he only hopes that this is enough for you to forgive him, for you to love him back like he does you.

your best friend… or ex best friend really should feel bad about this, teething on the swell of your thighs— his fingertips sinking into their apex to pry you apart for him. you could end up hating him more for this, yuuta’s slick and drool stained tongue rolling over the seam at the crotch of your panties hungrily, softly as if to test the waters. he takes it as a good sign when your face contorts with pleasure even in your sleep and slots his entire mouth against the sweet treasure between your legs— sucking the juices from the fabric of your underwear.

you taste so good and he’s not even got you properly wet yet. yuuta’s next move is to hook two fingers over the garment to pull it aside — revealing your twitching hot cunt to the cool night air in your bedroom. even your scent is divine, enticing just as you’ve always been and the brunette can’t believe he was too blind to see it before. he presses a chase kiss to your clit, feeling it pulse to life against his lips before said kisses become open mouthed and sloppy— tongue diving into the tightness of your little hole, circling it to flick your flavour back into his mouth.

his movements start slow, tenderly testing which spots inside your pretty little cunt make you sigh out contently while you slumber but the wetter you get, the sloppier yuuta becomes — lapping at your sex and your clit in eager movements like a kitten at a bowl of milk. you only stir awake when his fingers travel up to grip onto your ass and tug your pussy onto his face, guiding you up and down on his writhing tongue like he’s fucking you for real.

“y-yuu?” you grumble, still finding your footing in the reality of consciousness. “whas’ h-happenin’… oh my god—!” the questions you have for the mop of hair between your legs, groaning like a starved man into there too, taper into an angelic moan. pretty and airy, like music to yuuta’s ears. once you come to and fully realise what’s going on, your fingers slip into the roots of his hair and your hips buck into his mouth instinctively — even though you should be pissed. even though you should be screaming at him and kicking him off. you can’t help it that this is what you’ve always wanted. that you’ve always wanted him.

“w-what are you doing here?” you manage to ask through a whine, brain fogging up at the way yuuta’s tongue runs laps over your swelling clit.

he pulls off of you with a lewd pop that makes both of you shudder, two of his slender digits easily sliding into you where his tongue once was — guided by spit and slick. “i came home for you. i love you,” your best friend doesn’t have time to formulate proper reasoning, drunk on your saccharine flavour like you’re the finest wine he’s ever had the honour of tasting. “f-fuck, i-i missed you.”

yuuta gives you those big puppy dog eyes as he curls his digits inside of you and hits spots you can't quite reach on your own. you should be talking about your feelings not fucking through them but you’ve missed him so much and need him so bad. both of you groan in unison when he brushes over your g-spot, your hips jumping up and his grinding down into your silky sheets.

“missed you too,” you breathe and yank him up by the hair to meet your lips — making out with him feverishly, swapping the words your mind can’t seem to force you to say, pouring the mixed emotions into him as he finger fucks your tight little hole like his life depends on it.

every movement you make with one another is sloppy and uncoordinated, tongues doused in one another’s saliva— saliva that tastes like you. your moans mingle in the hot and heavy air and you clench down on yuuta’s fingers as they pump in and out of you, his palm slapping against your folds while you leak into the seat of his palm.

“are you close?” yuuta slurs into your mouth so quietly you almost miss it underneath the lewd sound of your pussy. “i want to make you cum, show you how much i love you.”

blood rushes through your ears, heat pin pricking like needles under your skin. “y-yes. p-please yuu…”

his thumb dragging smooth circles over the pulsating bud between your blooming pussy lips is all you need to trip over the edge into your high— the knots in your lower tummy unwinding faster than you can register, waves of your nectar flowing from your cunt onto the sheets below and soiling yuuta’s hand right up to his wrist.

your head tips back into a high pitched squeal, eyes locked away and rolling back while you damn near black out from your orgasm. but your best friend is right there like he should be, sucking love-bites into your neck to ground you. dark tresses of yuuta’s chocolate-like hair tickle at your tingling flesh while he manoeuvres himself between your legs and shifts his pants down enough to let his rock hard cock spring free.

“c-can you take me now?” he pleads more than he asks, brown and warm eyes trembling with need, anticipation. “i don’t think i’ll last long and i need you.”

you feel him press at your entrance, his angry red tip glistening with opaque beads of precum— yuuta softly ruts his hips against you, smearing…claiming you with his own essence while he waits for your consent. “i’ve always needed you, yuuta.” you say breathlessly, giving him a small grin and nod when he looks up from drooling against your neck.

that’s all the go ahead he needs before his thick girth pushes all the way into you at once — weighty and temperate against your ribbed and creamy walls. “‘ohmyfuckinggod,” he whimpers wetly against you. “y-you’re so tight wrapped around me. so perfect i—“

“move, yuuta. fuck me, please,” you remind him, tugging on his air and crossing your ankles at the base of his spine.

“y-yeah okay…g-god you’re so good. so sweet ‘n tight.” with that, he draws his hips back — hesitant at first. brown eyes watch your face for any signs of discomfort and yuuta’s lust driven instincts take the lead when he only notices how blissed out you look. your pretty lips are agasp, forming a pleasure-filled ‘o’ as you mewl and claw at his half-clothed shoulders. “i love you, o-oh god!”

all you can do is whimper in response, fingers drifting up to the nape of yuuta’s neck to tangle in his dark locks— tugging him into you as if it’ll make him hit deeper, churn up your guts and make you see stars. “y-you’re stupid…” you manage to get out, the warmth of your breath glossing his lips as if to taunt your best friend with a kiss.

“i know…” calloused fingers grab at the backs of your thighs with a bruising grip before yuuta pushes your legs towards your shoulders, both of you grunting and whining in unison when you tighten around him at the new angle. gushing sweet juices that paint his stomach and pelvis.

“y-you shouldn’t have left me,” tears start to brim, collecting in your lash line like diamonds before they hit your cheeks.

you’re so beautiful like this, even when you’re crying— when you’re crying because you’re fucked up on his cock, claiming it with your cream as ur clings to his balls and the veins that spital down his length.

yuuta’s red hot tip nudges against the soft and squishy spots along your sensitive walls, keeping his thrusts at a rhythmic and passionate pace to make sure the only thing you feel is heaven on earth. your pussy is hot and warm and heaven-like around him, sucking him in so selfishly and tightening every time yuuta’s strong abs grind against your puffy clit.

“i know,” he sighs dreamily and with an airy voice, licking a stripe from your chin to your cheek as a tear streaks it’s way down it. “won't ever leave you again,” his fingers touch at your face, sinking into the softness of your cheeks as he drags you up to face him. “i’ll never leave you again.”

“never?” you ask, hiccuping.

“never.” he moans.

you see it there, the love glittering amongst the almond flecks in your childhood best friend’s eyes — he means it, he promises it and you can feel it with every roll of yuuta’s hips into you while he pins you to the bed. he makes love to you and says what he needs to through his actions this time. through your tangled mess of sweaty limbs and fluttering lashes you find okkotsu’s hand, linking them together.

the sight of your hands meeting one another brings emotions bubbling to the surface of your skin, hot to yuuta’s touch — it's a symbol that you’ve finally come together after being worlds apart for so long. “you’re finally mine, ‘m never letting you go,” his warm breath coasts across the seam of your lips before he dips into kiss you— tongue gliding over yours as it pushes into the depths of your mouth just as his cock does, brushing up against your g-spot and just kissing your cervix. “you’re always going to be mine.”

“i-i’m yours,” your eyes roll back and yuuta loses his pace, his entire body twitching the closer you both get. sex taints the air, both in sound and scent, your cunt squelching around him with how wet you are and how much he leaks into you. “g-gonna cum, yuu! make me cum, make me fucking cum.” you slur out, anchoring the man down to you with your arms around his neck until yuuta’s forehead is pressed against yours. sweaty locks of his hair and all.

yuuta’s body collapses against you and his thrusts switch to sensual grinds that never let up on your spongey g-spot. “f-fuck me, b-baby. ‘m cummin’,” he croons, panting against your lips and with one, two, three more pumps you’re squirting all over him— the pressure unwinds in your lower belly and you’re hit with blinding white lights and your nails dig into yuuta’s shoulder to the point where you leave bright red crescent moons. “that’s it baby, cum for me, make a mess for me. show me you love me— fuck!”

you’re still trembling with the aftershocks with your orgasm when the brunette follows suit — the warmth of his seed floods your quivering cunt, painting your folds an opaque white before yuuta pulls out. the last droplets of his cum hit your soft tummy accompanied by his high pitched whine and then he crumples against you, exhausted from the height of it all.

“i love you so much,” yuuta hums against your skin, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder. “it’s always been you.”

“i love you,” you affirm, knowing that no matter what distance is put between you and your best friend (now lover) — you’ll always find your way back to each other.

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oldermenlvrgrl · 1 month

Text

Filthy animal

Logan doesn’t regret much in his life but pushing you away is his biggest mistake.

Logan howlett x human! reader.

Word count: 6.5k

Warnings: hella angst to cry to, swearing, excessive drinking, loss & grief, his fighting era, dark themes, he’s an alcoholic, stalking, insecurities, depression, anxiety, memories of sex & sexual themes, kissing, talk of breeding/pregnancy, hormones, ovulation, mentioning of self harm, a/b/o themes, he eats raw meat like a feral animal.

A/n: to the one person that wanted me to write this, between when origins end and x-men begins era. He has a bike in this before he goes to the academy idc he’s hot when he’s on a bike

The house is too quiet. The log cabin stood on a mountain top overlooking the vast earthly landscape below. His fingers trace over the wooden bannister of the front door. Feeling every crevice and panel. His mind is numb to the feeling of longing. He doesn’t even know why he did it anymore. The pain in his chest that never yields is too unbearing. He sighs, locking the door and leaving it behind him, like he did with you. Locking away the love he had for you in a cage and leaving it behind.

He goes to the bar, the only place known to give him comfort is at the end of a whiskey bottle. A fat stogy lit between his fingers. The smoke dancing in the air. He doesn’t care that he’s told to not smoke. He nurses the glass, hunched over the bar. Aggression flaring up his face. A hungry dog with food aggression bowed over lapping at liquor. He clenches and opens his hand, feeling the metal under the skin gyrate.

For weeks this is all he has known. Lumber yard (when he shows up), fighting cage, bar and home. It wasn’t even home without you there. You were the only thing that was home to him. Now that you were gone he didn’t have a home.

“Now introducing…the Wolverine!”

Logan gets up staggering along the sea of people. Putting the head of the cigar in the drip of whiskey that resides in his glass. Shedding his flannel and his tank to his bare chest. His veins pulsing and his vision impaired. They open the fenced gate and his head is hung down as he focuses on walking straight. He never planned to win this fight. He didn’t want to. He wanted to get the shit beat out of him so he can feel something other than grief.

The man before him is about seven foot, a mutant with the way his skin is stretched. The bell rings and they size each other up. Walking around the cage. They don’t speak and he prefers it to be that way. He raises his fists and cowers his head behind them. The abomination swings and hits him in the side of his head where his ear is. The hit wasn't normal, the hit felt like he got his head run over by a train. He smiles knowing that this beating was exactly what he lusted after.

He staggers up against the side of the cage. The coldness of the metal burns his hot skin. His drunken eyes look at the crowd and he faintly imagines that he sees your silhouette. Another hit to his abdomen. He holds his arm over his stomach and holds onto the fence. He stares out with unsteady eyes to where he sees a mirage of you wearing his dog tags around your neck. Your pretty neck, your pretty hair, your pretty face. His pretty girl. He starts to smile wider, white bloodied teeth. The blood poured behind the crevices in his mouth. Down his chest. Speckling his skin with rogue.

His head rears back as the abomination throws his fist into his nose. Blood starts flowing down his nasal passages. The square part of his chin where it’s shaved is covered in fluid. Another, another, another. He’s surprised he’s not missing teeth as he’s sprawled down on the white plastic floor in a splattered bloody pool. His torso, bruised and battered. He’s laughing. It’s taxing as he feels his broken ribs poke into his lungs. He watches the man parade around him in a victory lap, money starts being handed to and fro. Cradling his ribs as he continues to laugh. He laughs at himself, at how much of a joke he is. How he doesn’t have any restraint or respect for himself. He’s a mockery of who he once was. He looks to the crowd once more to see your face and he doesn’t.

The usher lifts him up and shoves his balled up clothes into his chest. Telling him that he’s banned from the establishment. He’s a joke to the fighting scene and to the bar. Logan isn’t sure if it’s the concussion or the liquor that makes him hear “come back tomorrow.” So he pats the man on his shoulder with a bloodied grin and goes back home.

He drinks himself to sleep that night. If he doesn’t drink, he can’t forget and he’d rather go bankrupt with all the liquor he buys than to remember you. There’s a part of him that desperately latches onto your memory. The bits and pieces that were domestic.

He doesn’t even bother going to the yard. Deep down he knows he’s fired, he couldn’t care. He sits in his big empty wooden cage and just watches the sun change into the moon and stars. Fighting off war flashbacks and memories of you. The only cure is whiskey, and he hadn’t eaten in days. His hunger only grows with each passing day. He can’t eat anything after remembering those home cooked meals you made him.

Nothing suffices. His house was destroyed after he purged it. His couch was torn to shreds, his clothes, and walls. Everything. He didn’t have a television or radio.

So he sits in a leather chair overlooking the mountain in the loose boxers that hang loosely around his hips. His legs spread wide and out, his arms lazily laid over the rests. His bicep only flexes as he sips from the lip of the bottle. A lit cigar he lethargically puffs on occasionally, feeling the burn in his chest simmer down his stomach. The tendons in his neck bulge as his heart rate rises. Fuck, he thought about you.

He thought about the times he’s hurt you.

Once it was deep in his sleep, you cradled against his broad sweaty chest. The sheets scattered in the dark. One of your legs kicked over his torso. His arm around your back, pushing you closer. His body is rigid and tense. His body feverish as he perspires. Sweat drips along his brows and temples.

His face winces as he watches his brother dismember innocent people before him. The hopeless desperate yearning he feels in the pit of his stomach grows. He feels nauseous as his face twists in agony. He shouts and shouts to no avail. The metal between his knuckles, pushing out. He grows anxious.

He feels you shuffle and that’s when he slices your upper arm. Your breath staggers as you jolt awake with fearful eyes, he’ll never forget you pulling away from him. He stands from the bed, watching you with horror, stricken across his pale face. He watches your feeble hand touch the blood that welts from the wound. The sheets draped over your torso as you stood and walked to him. He doesn’t look into your remorseful eyes as your soft red painted hand comes to touch the hair on his face. Cradling his jaw in your palm. He doesn’t welcome your warmth, he doesn’t deserve it. As your touch lingers, his claws retract.

“It’s just a scratch.”

You whisper softly. He doesn’t listen.

“It’s just a scratch.”

He mutters to himself as he takes another drink from the bottle. It wasn’t just a scratch, not to him. That single cut meant that he couldn’t even protect you from himself. How was he supposed to protect you if he contributed to your harm? He thinks of another memory.

He was close. His abdomen tightening and his balls drawn tight. He feels your walls constrict around the thickness of his cock. Pulling and tugging with each bounce of your hips. His head thrown back into the pillows as he grits his teeth together, thick eyebrows furrowed as he concentrates on feeling your wet slick coating his wide thighs. The smell is brutalizing him. The smell of your cunt weeping for him.

He peeks and watches your breasts bounce and your nails dig into his hairy chest. The hair on his lower stomach glistening with your slick. He bucks his hips up into your core, hitting that spot deep inside your womb. He feels your heated breath on his neck. Your nipples brushing against his own as you lay on top of him, the metal of his dog tags pressed between each of your chests.

Allowing him to bury himself inside you. His strong hands hold your hips in place, your legs widening to let his aggression grow. He pours everything he has into breeding you. His heart hammers against his chest as he hears your whimpers. The silent cry of yours to breed you full of his pups.

He growls deep in the back of his throat. Jackhammering his thrusts, the filthy sound of your squelching cunt is music to him. The sweet smell of your ovulation makes him drunker than any whiskey. He can’t control himself anymore. He ruts and ruts against your puffy pussy as you squeal for him to slow so you can breathe. He doesn’t and continues to pound into your pelvis, rocking your entire body against his. It’s painful how hard and fast he’s pulling you down. His legs half bent as he pulls your ass down to touch his thighs with every thrust. He growls as he pushes all the way inside and releases his seed into your weeping cunt.

The pain from his bleeding knuckles is excruciating but not as much as the quiet squeak from your little mouth. He pulls his head up and sees the little slits he made on your thighs. He lays his head against the pillows with a long sigh. Knowing that he couldn’t bear hurting you anymore. He couldn’t have you baring his pups and risk hurting you.

He couldn’t even get hard anymore without you. He couldn’t smell your hormones, couldn’t smell how desperate you wanted him. It wasn’t the same without you. He drinks. The cigar burns the inside of his index and middle, he doesn’t care. He lets it scorch his tanned skin. If it burnt the entire cabin he wouldn’t care either. He remembers the night he ended it with you.

He was drunk to the point where he was a vegetable on his leather couch. Shirtless and only in his dirtied torn blue jeans. He waited until you got home after work. He made up his mind a couple days ago and he didn’t have the courage to do it sober minded so he drank himself to it. He smelled you before he watched as the door knob wobbled and you stepped forward. He hated how beautiful you looked and his stomach twisted. You had groceries and a pretty smile on your face. It turned into a frown as you saw him with the bottle.

You asked him if something happened at the yard and he said no. You took the groceries into the kitchen after kicking the door closed with your foot. You started taking the groceries out and putting them into the cupboards. The raw meat you had to get from the local farmers was bloody as you put it in the fridge. You turned to get another item and were met with his glossy eyes. His mouth turned into a snarl. His eyes glanced over your confusion and his heart weakened. He desperately wanted to comfort you, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t in his nature to. His chest heaved as he looked at the inscribed dog tags around your neck.

“I want you out of my house.”

His words were heavily slurred, but he knew you understood them as your brows pinched together and you stopped looking for things to put up.

“What?”

It was weak and it killed him. He stared at the wooden floor, taking another swig. He raised a thick eyebrow and looked down the curve of his nose at you with blurry hazel eyes.

“You heard me.”

You shook your head and placed your hands on the counter, trying to ground yourself. Your world was falling apart in front of you.

“You’re drunk.”

You say meekly, barely above a whisper. He doesn’t reply. That was true, but the saying drunken words are sober thoughts still apply. A wave of emotion hits you, and your eyes water. You sniffle and turn to him. Your Logan wasn’t there. His eyes were glossed over and he was a shell.

“You don't mean that.”

He watches your bottom lip wobble and tears fall down your face. His heart drops and he drinks. His lips polished over with alcohol. The tension is thick and restricting.

“What happened to our future together? Where you wanted me to be your wife and to have your kids?”

You look down at your feet as you cry.

“When you said you’d never leave and that I’d always be your girl?”

He doesn’t speak and resentment grows in your heart.

“Is there another girl?!”

He doesn’t know why but you insinuating that he’d be able to love another woman than you angers him. His snarl grows and he shakes his head.

“Answer me!”

You push his chest and he stumbles back. That enrages him, his claws push out. He puts the bottle on the counter and pins your hands together and pushes your hips against the wood. You try to move and get his grip to loosen but it doesn’t. He pins you with your hands together behind your back and his body pushed against yours. His hands pulled into fists as he attempted to control his anger. He smells like liquor and his musk. He smells your fear and sees the same sorrow he feels.

“No. There’s never been and never will be. If you come back to my house and if I ever see you again..”

He trails off and looks to the bottle of booze, not wanting to admit it but deep in his heart he knows it’s for the best.

“I’ll kill you.”

You frown and choke out a sob as he lets you go. He stands in the middle of the kitchen with his head downturned. He hears you weep as you gather your things. Dreading the sounds of hearing the wheels of your suitcase trail down the wood. He hears the door open.

“You don’t mean that.”

He listens to the door close and the scent of you leave. Fury rages through him as he destroys everything around him, it doesn’t matter if it’s handmade or expensive he ruins it. He destroys his entire house trying to defile the thought of you. Destroying everything you’ve touched or reminded him of you. He wanted to destroy himself.

He decided later that night he had to see you. Had to breathe in your smell and that’ll fix him, put his mind on track. He was still scared as hell to hurt you, but the agony of being without you is greater than the risk of hurting you. Logan was selfish and all he wanted was you.

He sat outside the building where you worked on his bike and waited. Perched like a predator waiting for prey. He was surprised that he was steady enough to even get there unscathed. He sat on the side of the road, not in the parking lot. The engine turned off and he listened to the birds chirp. He made sure to not let you see him. Digging into his pocket he takes the fat cigar out and places it between his lips. Taking the lighter and cupping his hands around the flame as he puffs it to life. The embers burn and the smoke swirls around his head. The evening slowly dying into night.

Raising his nose to the air and sniffing as he smells your hormones. Your car pulls out of the lot shortly after and passes him. He sees the side of your face through the window and his heart burns. Your face is puffy and gloomy, completely contrasting the sunshine you exude.

Chewing on the end of the cigar, he starts the motorcycle and turns behind you. A good couple cars between him and you to separate the distance. He follows you down the familiar path down to your parents house. The long pine trees and barren fields full of crops. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he’s doing or what he’s going to do. All he knows is that he needs to see you, something primal deep inside him tells him that.

He pulls into an open field, overlooking the farm house. Staring with foggy eyes as you pull in. Gazing at your car door as it opens and you step out. He leans forward to fully look at you as much as he can from the distance. Whistling low at the pretty sight. Then as if you were never there you leave his sight and enter the house. He sighs, leaning back on his bike. Looking to the sky he determines that night shouldn’t take no longer than an hour. He waits.

He waits with a cigar between his plush lips. His hands flexing on top of his thighs. Clenching and opening, enticing the burn of his knuckles spreading open. Observing with eager eyes as each light in every window turns dark, except yours. A wishful smile spreads on his face. Knowing the next thing you’re about to do before going to bed is cracking your window open, and without fail he sees your little hands opening the pane. His heart soars as he’s proud that you’re still his girl. Still, having the same habits and quirks he’s grown to admire.

With that, he takes the cigar from his lips and pushes the end into the palm of his hand. Snuffing the smoke and flicking it into the field. He swings one of his long legs over the bike and starts his trail down to your window.

Begrudgingly, he comes to terms with having to climb up the side of your family's house to your room. The ivy woven into the side provides a grip for his climb. The poor gutter he tried to climb groaned and cried as the hinges unscrewed from the roof as he tried to pull his body weight up it, so the ivy would just have to be adequate. As he climbs, your scent grows stronger and his head starts to get fuzzy. The toes of his boots stuck between some panels. The broad pads of his fingers stuck on the window sill.

Propping his head up, he watches you lay on your bed watching television. Some movie played that you weren’t too keen on paying attention to. If you looked over you’d be able to see his wild hazel eyes and his tufts of hair poking far above his head.

You move to lay on your other side and he wishes to see your pretty face again. Without fail and as overplayed as it is, you truly were a sight for sore eyes. He listens eagerly to your mother’s voice beckoning you to dinner. Like the good sweet girl you are, you obey. Getting up from your bed and walking over to your door. A hand outstretched and touching the knob, but hesitantly, you pause. Logan’s heart drops and the hair on the back of his neck perks up. Can you see him? Your beautiful eyes wander over to the window screen and he ducks his head. Almost losing his grip and falling into the grass below. Your mother yells your name again and he doesn’t pull his head back up until he hears the door close.

He takes one of his hands and summons the metal between his knuckles to grow out. Cutting open the side of the window screen, he pulls it to the side. Hoisting himself up and over into the other side of the window ungracefully.

He’s not as nimble as he once was. He falls on his hands and knees with a loud thud, similar to a cat. He stills, anxiety rushing to his face as he listens for a reaction. Only hearing the chatter of common conversation between your parents and you, he stands. Reality hits him with a rush of adrenaline. He’s in your room. What the fuck is he doing? Guilt crawls up his spine and he flicks his head, ridding the fear. He needs this. His fingers trail over various objects in your room. Wooden dresser, mattress, vanity. His slow saunter stops as he looks at your vanity closer, his dog tags nestled with a Polaroid tucked under the chain.

The weekend your parents took you both camping. He was supposed to propose to you on that trip but got cold feet.

You’re sitting in a little dress on one of his spread thighs in a lawn chair. The neck of a beer bottle was between his fingers over the side of the arm rest. You’re wrapped behind one of his big burly arms. The veins and muscle in his bicep flexed. Caging you to his strong chest as he holds you close. He’s only wearing his white sweat and oil stained tank. He just got done working on the bike, trying to figure out why it’s making a funny noise and arguing with your father about something. It’s evening time and the sun is shining between the maple trees. Everyone waited eagerly as your father grilled dinner. Your cheeks are rosy with a big precious smile as his face is shoved in your neck, pressing kisses into the tender area making you giggle. Your mother took that picture.

He swallows thickly as he sits with that feeling deep in his chest. Logan knows what he did was wrong and he feels like a reformed prisoner in his own mind. The duality is that he is also the police officer always beating him with a bat, constantly repeating the same behavior that has caused him to get in the prison. He loves to self sabotage and he fears that this fatal mistake was the end of it all. All he was and ever will be is an animal.

A strong aroma hits him all at once, he lifts his face and sniffs the air. Oh, god. It’s your clothes. Your smell is on all of them and it's surrounding him. Suffocating him. Something spurs him to start opening drawers. He pulls out various clothing, shirts, and jeans are too faint.

Pulling out another drawer, he goes to his knees. Panties. He grabs a handful, one of them being a devious pair of white cotton that has your name embroidered on the top and shoves them into his leather pocket of his jacket, closing the drawer. Stealing one of your dainty shirts that had your scent on it the strongest and holding that to his chest. He holds it to his nose and takes a long breath in, holding the smell deep in his chest. He almost moans as he exhales. He feels the front of his jeans tightening and his metal belt buckle poking his abdomen. He groans and adjusts the crotch of his jeans, trying to ease the discomfort, but it only makes his fervor grow.

He stares at himself long and carefully in your vanity mirror. An animal is all he sees, stealing your clothes because he can’t bear not breathing your scent. A pervert even. He smiles at the names, pride swelling in his chest. The pride is shot with a steady arrow as he hears a set of footsteps coming up the hall. Looking frantically for somewhere to hide, he figures your closet would be as best as he’s going to get. He makes sure that everything was in place as he first saw it and barricades himself inside your wardrobe.

This great and powerful Wolverine had fought in many wars and witnessed things that not even the most seasoned veteran can survive. Yet, he’s scared of the judgment of a woman he’s in love with. He’s sweating bullets, fat dwallops of sweat rolls down his hairline and neck.

Through the slits in your door he watches eagerly as the towel wrapped around the bust of your breasts falls. His breath stutters and he balls the shirt up and presses it against his mouth to stifle his hurried breaths. His almost green eyes roll back in his head, watching your bare breasts contort along with your body as you bend over to find clothes in your dresser. The smell is unbearable, the fresh scent of your dewy skin. The warmth of the water falling into every hidden crevice that only he can see.

His stomach growls. His starvation is growing worse. He palms his hard length. Raising your arms you put on one of his old hockey jerseys he gave you. He groans and his head thumps against the back wall. He can’t bear it. What if he jumped out and ravaged you? Would you be upset? He’d never forgive himself for it, but the need for release is far too much for him to withstand. You’re just a little woman, he couldn’t do that to you. Defile his sweet girl and breed her, only in his thoughts he entertains the thought. Stepping into some of his old boxers too. He’s been wondering where those had gone. Maybe he and his girl weren't too far off. Cut from the same perverted cloth.

You crawl into your bed with a deep sigh. Cuddling up with some childhood teddy bear. He watches your heavenly face twist as you cry into the fur of the bear. His heart breaks. He’s defeated, he hates to see you cry and it’s even worse when he can actually feel the sorrow fill his heart. He stands there for what seems to be an eternity watching you break down into a helpless little girl. Broken and distraught. In that moment he knows that you’d never love him the same.

He waits until your puffy eyes close and the soft snore falls from your parted lips to leave your closet. Closing the door behind him, he stands before your sleeping beauty. Admiring your face from afar. Logan is a hated man and he’s never cared, but he cares all too much that you do. He goes to his knees, quietly. Tucking your shirt into the waistband of his jeans. He tucks a fallen strand of hair behind your ear and kisses your nose gently. As gently as an animal like him could. Pulling up your blanket under your chin.

“I’m sorry.”

He whispers. He stands to his feet again, marveling at the memories he’s had with such a dream of a woman in the glow of the moon. Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t hear the wiggle of the door knob and your mothers breath of your name. He twists his body and jumps out of the window. Again, he lands on his feet and he runs. He runs on all fours. Dirt getting under his fists as the claws give him leverage to run faster.

Your mother places a gentle hand on your shoulder as she sits by your feet. Blinking your eyes open, you look at her with blurry vision.

“Logan?”

He’s panting and his eyes are wild as he flies down the road on his bike. Feeling as if he just robbed a bank. He’s a wanted man. You know that he was there. You had to. The deep pit in his stomach is too expensive for you to not have.

As soon as he’s up the mountain and parks haphazardly in front of the cabin, he’s stripping off his clothes. He’s burning alive. He’s left only in his tattered jeans. His stomach twists and turns and before he knows it, he’s pulling out every single meat he has in his fridge and tearing it open. He feasts like a wild animal. Tearing the plastic open and the blood dripping down onto him. His chest and jaw slathered in dead animals. Pork, poultry, cow it’s everywhere. He doesn’t care if it’s not cooked, his hunger is far greater than his rationality. He doesn’t even breathe as he devours. His hands were coated in blood like he murdered someone.

When he finishes he stares at his destruction. Only bones were left in various places. His torso was even coated in red. He groans, chewing the fat of some animal and swallowing with a gulp. He finds whatever beer he has in the fridge and pops the lid off with his claw. Taking a prolonged gradual swig. Your shirt, surprisingly, still hung sloppily and pure under his belt.

He roams to his trophy case, full of all his war memorabilia and opens the door. Taking the wooden case full of cigars out and putting one between his bloodied lips. He sets the bottle beside the case and lights the cigar. It’s almost as good as an orgasm. For the first time he feels full. His needs were almost completely met. The only thing missing was you. He walks sluggishly to his open front door, leaning his shoulder against the frame. Switching between smoking and drinking as he listens to the night's ambiance. Listening to the wild animals howl.

Just a game of hide and seek was all it was. It was Fall. The leaves were scattered like a carpet on the floor of the woods. It was a random day where both of you were off and rather going into town, he thought it’d be fun to teach you how to fish. After multiple failed attempts of you becoming bored, he decided to play a game with you.

The game was completely rigged. Who would’ve thought the man with insane primal senses would be great at finding things that didn’t want to be found. The adrenaline was catching up to you both as you sought after him. The widespread woods were winding and confusing, but you were determined to find the animal. The cold nipped at your face as you kept your perseverance. Suddenly, you stopped. Realizing that instead of you finding him, and him staying hidden he reversed the game and was trailing you. A peculiar feeling arose, the thought of him following you without you even knowing coiled your stomach.

All of your theories were proven right as his big arms wrap around your torso and pulls you down into the leaves. He laughs heartily against your neck as you push up, straddling his waist. You hit his chest softly.

“You filthy animal I was supposed to be hunting you!”

He shakes his head with a small smile, squeezing your hips as he stares up at you with childish eyes.

“Maybe you’re just not that good of a hunter.”

Your eyes widen and your mouth falls open.

“Hey!”

You hit his chest again, and he sits up. Kissing your nose.

“It’s okay, lil’ bunny.”

It sincerely unnerves him how unobservant you were. How oblivious you were to the world, but that same reason is why he loves you. He loves that you’re different, even if you were human you understood what it felt like to be a mutant. He flicks the end of the cigar down into the asphalt and closes the front door. The blood on his body is dried and caked on him. Stripping the rest of his clothes in the hall as he goes to the bathroom. His house is still trashed and he doesn’t care to clean it until his life is put on track again. Until you’re in his life again.

He turns on the faucet and lets the water warm. Looking at himself in the mirror while he waits. He looks righteously like an animal. His hair wild on his head, the blood goes from his mouth down to the v-line of his hips. It’s brutal and chaotic. He wonders if this is what life is going to be like for him for the rest of eternity. Nature made him a freak, man had made him a weapon, and god is making it last too long. The water blurs the mirror and he no longer sees himself in the reflection. He steps inside the scalding hot water and his thoughts don’t slow.

All he’s thought about is you, all he can think about is you. You’re the last thing that’s keeping his humanity. Without you he turns into this beast of regret. He watches the blood pool around his feet. The blood mixed down his chest and face and down the drain. He wishes to drown but knows he can’t. He wishes to die but that’s too humanly for him for it to be possible. Maybe even love was too human for him to obtain. He thinks about calling you and then it passes. He thinks about his mother for a minute and that passes. Every wave of emotion, feeling and thought passes through him as he cleanses his body. He stays in that sauna of a shower for an hour.

When he gets out he pats his skin dry from one of the towels you bought out of the cupboard and ties it around his waist. Pushing his wet hair back it slicks back and stays. He knows he’ll wake to the two tufts being straightened on his head in the morning, he doesn’t bother. Bending down, he picks your shirt up off of the hallway floor and holds it to his nose. Closing his eyes and breathing in your intoxicating bodily perfume. He can already smell it fading. It’s damp from the water still clinging onto his chest. He sits down on the leather couch that he’s shredded. Contemplating if he should call, it’s late and he knows you have work in the morning. He shouldn’t bother.

The smell of you gives him motivation. What if? What if she does misses me and wants me as much as I want her. That’s blasphemy, he thinks. Yet, he ponders it seriously. He breathes in your shirt once more and finds the phone he’s thrown against the wall a couple weeks before. He dials your number apprehensively. His nerves shot to hell as he holds the phone to his ear. The buzzing and monotone hum of service sends his perturbation to his chest. His stomach clenched tight with bated breath. He hopes that you don’t answer, but his soul wants you to. He almost thinks about hanging up and it continues to ring. What is he even going to say? He doesn’t know. He never knows. His eyes widen and he doesn’t breathe as he hears your sleepy voice.

“Hello?”

You whisper into the phone and he doesn’t say anything. He’s internally panicking, on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“Hello?”

You whisper again and he doesn’t speak, his head is in a frenzy and his hand is shaking.

“Logan?”

When you say his name he drops the phone. Trepidation strikes him. He hadn’t heard you say his name for weeks and the sleepy softness of your voice sparked something in him. He’s scared of that feeling, petrified even. Logan Howlett’s only fear is love.

He fell asleep with your shirt cradled tight into his chest. The morning’s sun is the only thing that awoke him. He didn’t fall asleep that night until dawn. He was too paranoid and scared to fall asleep, the anxiety of possibilities kept running through him. He sighed and the feeling he felt was worse than any hangover. He knew he was broke in every way possible, he didn’t have any money, he didn’t have anything. He didn’t even have you. He groaned and cursed himself as he saw last nights doing in his kitchen. He honestly doesn’t remember anything after what occurred at your house. He didn’t have any food left nor any liquor. He had to do one of the things he hated the most, grocery shopping.

His strong anxiety was almost numbing to him now. He’s felt so high strung the past few weeks that he’s used to it. He strolled through the store with a shopping cart that had one of its wheels broken and he almost thought god did it purposefully to mock him. He wandered helplessly through the aisles, grabbing miscellaneous food. Knowing most of it wasn’t going to even last him the rest of the week, but he needed something to get by.

Most of his cart was filled with strong liquor. He wanted to forget you and move on, and maybe finally kick the bucket with alcohol poisoning. He’s reaching into the fridge to grab another case of beer when he feels a soft tap on his shoulder. His stomach drops. It couldn’t be. He stands and looks over his shoulder and sure as shit, there you are.

You have a little smile on your face and your cheeks are dusted red by embarrassment. Looking to your feet, you see a pair of cotton panties peeking out of his jacket pocket. Your cheeks grow a darker red as you see that your name is embroidered on the top.

“I- uh, I-,”

You shut your mouth tight, cursing yourself for the hurried stutter and if he wasn’t so nervous himself he’d think you being flustered was cute. You look up at him through your lashes. He takes notice of the flint of his dog tags around your neck and his heart soars.

“I’m cooking dinner tonight at my parents house and was wondering if you’d like to come,”

You scratch the back of your neck, uneasily. Beaming timidly.

“You don’t have to come of course! And it’s just if you’d like if you’re not busy, I’m cooking steaks and I know you like-“

“What time?”

Your rambling stops and you give him the best kid going to Disneyland look he’s ever seen.

“Six.”

He nods and you smile. The trajectory of his life seemed to be on track again. This was the right timeline.

“I’ll be there at five.”

You smile wider.

“Thanks, Logan.”

He gives you a small smile and nod of his head in response. You start to turn to leave before turning back, looking both ways before you whisper to him.

“If you wanted a pair of my panties, you could’ve just asked.”

You give his cheek a quick kiss and walk away with a bounce in your step. Leaving him blushing and blinking at the case of beer in his hand, trying to figure out what actually just happened. Those small moments that are just so humanly indescribable makes him feel much less like a filthy animal.

#xreader #fanfic #fluff #smut #logan howlett #wolverine #wolverine x reader

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razrbladekiss · 2 months

Text

HITS DIFFERENT | Chapter One - Summer Bummer

A/N: i’ve never written for mr. miller before, so i’m super nervous for how this’ll be received by everyone…but i enjoyed conjuring this up, and i hope you guys find it not-all bad! any feedback is welcome. i looove getting asks and anons. <3

WORD COUNT: 4.8k

PAIRING: no outbreak, single dad!joel x afab!reader (age gap relationship, joel is in his late forties, reader is mid-twenties.) strictly no use of y/n.

SUMMARY: your neighborly duties begin to stretch farther than simply offering a greeting whenever you and joel cross paths. after he recently becomes a single parent, you take it upon yourself to assist mr. miller in this new, completely terrifying endeavour.

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI, 18+ WORK BELOW THE CUT. angst. tiny bit of fucking on the first date (that isn’t anything reminiscent of a date LOL), fingering, finger sucking, joel being a dirty old man, unprotected piv sex. it’s kinda cute kinda cunty. i’ll leave you guys to decide what you think.

MASTERLIST

He’s the very last person that you’d be asking for help today, and he knows that. Joel knows that you’d rather claw your own eyes out, or rip your flesh away from bone and heave it in the fucking dumpster at the end of the street, than knock at his door and request his assistance.

He’s the cranky guy that lives across the way. The guy that, really, you know very little about aside from the fact that he has an attitude problem, a daughter, and his partner doesn’t seem to show her face all that often anymore.

You’d heard—from your busybody neighbor, Clare in No.13–that Joel’s wife had left for a younger, more attractive man from Tennessee. And though you hate to pry, and aren’t very nosy, you can’t help thinking about it the more you see Joel leave the house without the woman that was once fastened to his hip.

Maybe that’s why he’s been so miserable lately.

Ugh. You hate to call on him. But you’re desperate. It’s hot—like, the flaming crevices of hell are fighting to burst open the sidewalk outside of your house hot—and you’re dying. You’re sweating from places that you didn’t even know could sweat, and it’s disgusting.

You step onto his front porch—donning a knee-length sundress and a pair of chunky sandals—and wipe moisture away from your forehead as it beads against your skin, using the back of your arm to do so.

Joel’s house is significantly more drab than your own. It boasts the same stoney exterior as yours, and ivy flows over the eavestrough above the front door, only it's a little unkempt. And while your humble abode has so much curb appeal, the entire HOA board is actually envious, Joel’s man cave…doesn’t. It has a porch swing, a trough planter full of random succulents, a couple of Texas flags, and a door mat that simply reads “Fuck off.” Which is against the rules, you often remind him.

But Joel doesn’t care. About anything. And that’s why you can’t find it in yourself to even try to get along with him. Not because of the doormat—you don’t care about that—but because he’s always so mean. To your neighbors, to the mailman, to anyone that sets foot on his property.

To you.

It isn’t all the time, but you catch it every so often. The way Joel looks you up and down when you’re chatting with Mrs. Kavanagh over the fence on a Sunday afternoon about your week. How he always makes snide comments about the way you drive like a mad woman, or when you offer a friendly ‘hey’ to him each morning when you cross one another’s paths before work.

You don’t recall a time where you pissed Joel off to the point of blatant ignorance, but you did. And though Tommy believes that the reason for his brother’s more rash behavior is the fact that he might have a crush on you, you feel otherwise. Because Joel is so rude—so crass, on occasion—and nothing about that screams “I want to fuck you.”

Or maybe it does and you’re just oblivious. But regardless, Joel is renowned—street-wide—for being a miserable old grouch.

You can’t figure him out. And you’re not entirely sure that you want to, either.

However, he’s the only man on this street handy enough to fix your A/C unit.

So you press the buzzer—minding you don’t tread on a pair of worn-out work boots that are lazily placed beside the front door—and wait for your miserable neighbor to grumble and groan, when he catches sight of you through the glass.

You smile when you see some of his daughter’s toys scattered across the wood beneath the swing. You don’t even know her name, that’s how little knowledge you have of the man that’s lived across the street from you for the past year and a half.

Joel swings open the door, a cigarette pinched between his lips, and a rag over his shoulder. His sweat-slick torso glistens beneath the Austin sun, pecks slightly muddied with oil and whatever other substances that he’s working with, while his shirt is wrapped around his waist.

He exhales smoke around the stick, swiftly taking it into his left hand. His right comes up—with the rag—to rub at his face.

“What?” He rasps out.

It kills you to admit that you think that Joel is attractive—in an unconventional, dirty old-man kinda way—but, fuck. He’s rugged, and rough, and his body looks so inviting. You hate yourself for staring at him like this.

But you’re only human. Right? And the way he speaks to you, most certainly cancels out any physical attraction that you may have. Right? Right?

“Good Morning to you too, Miller.” Bitchy, you retort. “I just came over to ask if you’re willing to help me fix my A/C unit, but I see that you’re busy being a cunt—“

He laughs, flicking cigarette ash to the ground. Joel leans against his doorframe, watching you, watching him.

“Your language is vile, little lady.”

You hate when he calls you that. It’s so patronizing. It’s also one of the only times that Joel addresses you with actual words and not just a glare, or a groan.

“I don’t care.” Trying your hand at being just as blunt as him, you say. “I just need cool air in my house because the three fans, several wet towels, and kiddie pool in my backyard just aren’t cutting it anymore, and I think I’ll die if I have to put up with the heat any longer—“

He holds a hand up, begging you to shut your mouth.

“Fine.” He capitulates and you just blink at him, not being able to believe that he’s agreeing to help you with minimal begging and not even needing a bribe.

Because the last time you trudged over to his house in the downpour—soaked all the way through to your bra—and asked if he could do anything about the water leaking through your bedroom window, Joel billed you for your time.

And when Clare needed her lawn mowed because her husband was out of town and she’d dislocated her shoulder, Joel sent an invoice through the door for his forty-seven minutes work.

But you try to forget all of that. Because he’s helping you from the ‘goodness’ of his own heart.

“Thanks.” You reply, watching him shirk the cotton from his shoulder. “I know you don’t really want to help, but I’m grateful—“

He waves you off when he shrugs the tank over his head, the material immediately sticking to his damp chest. Your eyes linger over his form for a few seconds while you fiddle with the keys between your fingers, not being able to tell if Joel is being charitable, or just trying to get you to stop complaining about the fucking weather.

But you don’t mind. Because when he works his magic, you’ll be able to able to relax in your own living space, and sleep peacefully without worrying about waking in a ravine of your own sweat.

“I don’t have cash, but I’ve got beer in the fridge—“

“I don’t want your booze.” He says while closing the front door. Joel traipses past you on the steps, padding toward the open garage.

You watch him grab a box of tools, wondering how that one man acquired every single skill beneath the sun—well, all but the art of being able to properly communicate with his fucking neighbors—and offer a hand because the thing looks heavy. He waves you off—again—and you nod.

“Well, then what do you want?”

“Nothin’.” He says honestly. “Gotta start showin’ all you people that I’m not just some haggard old man, and can actually help every once in a while.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly, you feel bad. Awful, actually.

Had he recently become privy to the fact that everybody knew of his business? Because—try as you might to avoid the buzz—it was difficult, living on such a tight street. And the trials and tribulations of each individual living on Bluebell Drive are always public knowledge, at some point.

It only took five days for the neighbors to find out when your last relationship fizzled out, and only seven for them to know how and why it ended.

“We don’t all think you’re haggard.” You say, trying to lighten the mood. You see Joel’s back muscles contract as he pulls the garage door closed, and then turns back to face you with a look that resembles an emotion that you aren’t familiar with.

“Just old?”

He starts to chuckle after a few seconds, and so do you—once you realize that he’s joking. You’re a bit more comfortable, now. Your attempt to diffuse the sudden thorny tension has worked, and Joel is starting to see that you’re not that bad.

“I don’t think you look old.” Honestly, you tell him. You begin to walk onto the street, holding tightly the hem of your dress as a gust of wind threatens to blow it up to your waist. “How old are you, Joel? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Not at all.” He follows you onto the path, watching the white linen lift as another gust flits over—showing just the slightest bit of pink lace against pert skin—and smiles. “I’m forty-nine. Never really cared about gettin’ older, but it’s harder with a little one.”

“How old is your little girl?”

“She’s about to turn one.” Joel says—almost gushing with pride. He pads along the pavement and toward the pathway, watching his footing because there’s so many plants and flowers that scatter the sidewalk outside of your house, and he knows that he won’t hear the end of it if he crushes one of them this morning. “She’s a handful, but she’s worth it.”

The way he speaks about his baby is enough to make you see that there is a heart beneath such a tough exterior. There’s something so vulnerable—so candid—about the way he speaks about her. It’s refreshing.

“Does she spend much time with anyone else?”

“My brother.” He tells you. “Yeah, Tommy and his girlfriend have taken her out this mornin’ actually. To some petting zoo, I think.”

“That’s so sweet.” Truthfully, you say. You’ve never seen Joel so at peace, and you wonder why you ever hated him in the first place.

He’s a tough nut to crack—that’s always been a given—but perhaps he’s not as hard-faced and complicated as you once thought that he might’ve been.

“It is.” He replies. Joel follows you through the front of your very well-to-do home—wondering why he can’t seem to keep such a tidy place—and admires how much pride you take in your living space.

Everything—from the crown molding, to the baseboards—is in a more than pristine condition, and your floor is so clean Joel swears he could eat his dinner off of it.

“I bet it’s hard to keep up with chores when you’ve got a little one.” You say almost reading his mind. “I find it hard sometimes, and it’s just me living here.”

It sounds almost sad. He catches the way you not-so-fondly declare your living situation, as if you owe him any sort of explanation or insight into your life. You don’t.

“It ain’t that bad. Tommy helps out a lot.” Joel tells you and you lead him up the stairs—but not before asking him if he’d mind taking off his dusty work boots. “Just neither of us are very good at cookin’. I mean, I can do the basic shit, but Tommy is fuckin’ awful. Sienna—Tommy’s girl—is an amazing cook, but she works long hours, and she’s got a kid of her own to worry about, so—“

“So you guys are just stuck living on pasta and fries?”

Joel snickers, though he does nod. He likes that you can be direct sometimes.

“I can teach you how to cook. I mean—“ you show him to your bedroom quickly. “You’re doing me a favor by fixing my aircon, the least I can do is show you how to make a pie, or some kind of casserole that you can stick in the freezer and use in emergencies.”

“Thanks.” He’s taken aback. Not for the fact that you’re showing him your boudoir—despite that being where your faulty machine is located—but because you’re offering pleasantries where they’re not usually seen. Joel isn’t one to complain, though.

He is, however, the type of man to somehow offend somebody on a whim, and so he shuts his mouth when you open the top of the unit.

“It’s kinda old—ignore that, it came with the house.”

He nods, taking out one of his torches from the tool bag.

“So…” you watch over his shoulder—irritating him a bit—as he putters and fiddles with the internal mechanisms. “Can I get you anything?”

Some fuckin’ space.

“No thanks.”

Tight-lipped, you smile.

Joel’s fingers work the fan to ensure that it’s still able to spin, and you marvel at his uncharacteristic gentleness. With fingers as calloused as his own, you’d be sensible in thinking that he has a tendency to be heavy handed. But apparently not.

And that just adds to the fact—as blatant as anything—that you really don’t know the man that you share a zip code with.

“It needs refrigerant.”

“Oh—“

“It’s a quick fix. I can run to the hardware store and pick some up—but you’re gonna have to wait ‘cus Tommy’s taken my truck.”

“We can take my car?” You offer, leaving him to mull it over for a few seconds. “But I’ve just gotten it valeted—“

“I’ll wait for my brother to get back. Should only be another few hours.”

You blink at him. Your stare is blank, completely fucking empty. How does he expect you to sit—to simmer and literally marinate—in your own sweat?

But before you can whine and make Joel’s day ten times worse, he proposes an idea.

“You can uphold your end of the bargain, in the meantime.” Smug, he says. “My A/C works—and I got fans in my kitchen. If you come ‘n help me out with making some cookies and a pot roast, then I can go get you what you need when Tommy gets back.”

You don’t even need to consider the offer before you’re running downstairs and grabbing vegetables and spices, and whatever else you’ll need that you know Joel won’t have in his pantry.

He gets you to take a few beers across the street, too. And you do because you’re kind, and want Joel to feel comfortable when doing something that he’s not all too familiar with.

You give him time to clean up when you get back to his house, and find all the appropriate utensils to start cooking. Joel spends at least fifteen minutes in the shower, and you take time to indulge yourself with the icy flurry in his kitchen.

It’s a feeling almost orgasmic in nature. The bitterness against your skin—cold and lurid, almost—and breeze that catches the hem of your dress, hiking it to the middle of your thigh, is wonderful. You find yourself leaning into it like an embrace, letting the skin of your chest catch the cool.

And in your moment of pure superfluity, you somehow drown out the background noise of footsteps approaching the linoleum floor of the kitchen.

Joel clears his throat. “Nice?”

You spin around—the neckline of your dress slightly garbled—and bleed crimson into your cheeks. “Yes. It’s lovely.” You stutter, completely embarrassed. “Sorry—“

“Don’t be. You’ve been meltin’ all day, sugar. You need this.”

Sugar. Your heart skips a beat at the pet name.

Joel walks to the refrigerator—like he hasn’t just rocked your entire fucking world after doing a brilliant job of convincing you that he hates you over the last god-knows however many months—and puts his hands on his hips.

“Can we use Chuck Roast?”

You nod, not being able to formulate a verbal response.

You’re still trying to cross the sugar bridge.

“Fantastic.” He says. Joel reaches down into the cupboard beside the range and takes out a roasting tray that you’re sure has never been used before. “This?”

“Yes.” Finally, you manage. And though the cool against your flesh is lovely, you can still feel heat stippling across the apples of your cheeks.

You wonder if he heeds it.

Joel turns back to you with a shit-eating grin. He does.

“I can’t wait to make this. Sarah’ll love it.”

You lift a brow.

“My little girl. That’s her name.”

“Oh.” Your eyes soften. “That’s beautiful, Joel. She’s a cute kid.”

He nods, padding over to stand beside you at the counter. “She is. And she loves her food, so this’ll go down a damn treat…And if you’re lucky, then you can stay ‘n eat with us.”

“Joel, I couldn’t—“

He raises a hand as you pull oil, salt and some more herbs from your bag. “I insist. We don’t really know one another, and I can’t help feelin’ like we’ve got off on the wrong foot. It’s the least I can do, especially ‘cus of how nice you’ve always been to my brother.”

It’s true. Tommy has always been somebody that you’ve regarded highly, because he’s such a delight. He might’ve accidentally stumbled into your life—and your back—at the supermarket last year, but he’s been a lovely permanent fixture in your life. And you can’t seem to think of having it any other way.

He’s a good friend. And even better confidant, with a brother whose chocolatey hues are scrutinizing your form—top to bottom—while you oil your pan, and throw in a handful of onions and carrots.

Joel’s head grows fuzzy, the more he watches and listens to you. He can’t seem to wrangle any rational thoughts, now. Because you’re actually down-to-earth—when it’s just the two of you—and he wonders why it’s taken this long for him to invite you into his home.

The angsty nature of your relationship has always put a downer on things. Whenever he’d catch sight of you talking to his brother, Joel’s green-eyed monster would consume him and any sense of reason would become distorted. And he always knew that he was the sole reason for the bitter tension—because you’re never this way with anybody else—but can never bring himself to admit just why he feels this way.

Tommy’s inconceivable idea about him having a crush on you—that, really, isn’t so odd now—might be ringing true.

You explain to Joel each step that must be taken in order to achieve the perfect pot roast. From browning the vegetables, to adding the beef and stock and all of the herbs that contribute to the meaty flavor, Joel listens intently to your every word.

He’s completely lost in you, now. The way you speak. How you explain things with metaphors, and examples that Joel will understand. How you use the back of your arm to wipe away perspiration as you stand over the broiling pot, never taking your eyes off of the meal that you’re helping your neighbor to prepare.

Joel is infatuated.

“Now we let it sit for a few hours.” You say while walking over to the sink to wash your hands clean of any food. “Did you still want to make some cookies?”

“Maybe later. I’m kinda fed up of being in this kitchen now.” He lets out a laugh and puts down the big spoon that you’d given to him to stir the pot. Because that’s his job, now. “You want a drink?”

“What’ve you got?”

“Wine, beer, lemonade, orange juice.” He recites from memory. “Not sure what else is in the refrigerator.”

You glance at the clock. It’s barely pushing one in the afternoon, but you’re gasping for a cool glass of white. Or red. Or whatever the fuck Joel has cold.

“Wine, please.”

He pulls out a bottle of Merlot—not something you’d associate with Joel—and you reach for two glasses from the open cabinet above the stove.

“I didn’t put you down as a wine drinker, Miller.”

“Well, I guess that I’m full of surprises.” He says teasingly, sliding over your almost-completely-full beverage.

You hum when you pull the glass up to your lips, indulging in the heavy-handed pour from the man who can’t take his fucking eyes off of you as you stand at his kitchen island, helping him make dinner.

Joel is transfixed by the way that your chest—shiny and glistening—raises as you take each breath. How the strap on your dress falls to the middle of your arm when you lift the stem of the glass, or lower it back to the island.

He’s kicking himself. But he’s enjoying the sight too much to look away.

“See something you like?” You ask and lick your lips, almost pandering to the internal quandary that he has suddenly found himself entwined with. And you’re never usually this forward, so the ventricles of your heart begin to seize as the organ batters against the cage of your ribs, pulsating vividly beneath your sundress.

Joel is surprised by the tone of your voice, almost pinching himself to ensure that this isn’t some kind of convoluted alternate reality.

But he soon realizes that this—you in his home—is not a figment of his imagination, but something very real.

“I guess.” Joel says, and rounds the island until he’s standing beside you. He looks you up and down, setting his glass against the wood grain. “What about you?”

You nod, letting your gaze flit between Joel’s face and the protruding bulge in the taught denim decorating the lower half of his body. He feels his heat begin to temper, getting strangled by his jeans the more he eyes you.

Joel urges you to sit on the counter—his hands affix to the meat of your ass as you lift yourself up—and your legs instinctively wrap around his waist in a bid to pull him impossibly close to your body.

“Is this a good idea?”

“Probably not.” Joel all but growls before he’s fastening his lips to your own, and you’re moaning into his mouth while he’s starting to unbuckle the belt on his pants.

It’s needy. God. It’s so fucking needy that you’re at risk of unraveling right here, but you manage to contain your arousal, and allow yourself to add more intensity to the embrace.

Joel’s tongue is blanketed by the taste of wine, cigarettes, and a hint of the broth that the two of you made before he was trying to get into your panties, and you’re basking in it. You’re basking in the way that his nose pushes into your own as he adds more force—more desire—to the kiss, and how much he craves you after so many months spent despising your presence.

“Joel—“ You whimper out when he comes up for air, putting your hands against his as he palms his cock through the material of his underwear. “Joel, this isn’t right—“

“‘Course it is, baby.” He croons in your ear, seeing the goosebumps stipple down your neck and across your shoulders. Your head falls backwards. “See how much you like it? This is just fine.”

You take a deep breath when his prick—still endowed in his Calvin’s—dances along your clothed heat. “But—But what if Tommy gets back.”

“Then we’ll have to make it quick.” Joel states, letting his member spring free of the confines of his boxers, and your eyes widen. It’s bigger than you thought—not that you had thought much of it until this moment—and the girth is commendable. You’re not sure whether you’ll be able to take him in one fluid motion, but you don’t doubt that Joel will try.

He lifts the hem of your dress until it’s sitting just above your panty line, and rubs his thumb over your clit that suddenly feels trapped beneath pink lace. Joel massages the bud for a few measly seconds before remembering that this was meant to be a quickie, and pushes your underwear to the side.

“Wow.” His jaw drops. He lets his forefinger run up and down your seam, gathering the pooling wetness on the tip of it. Joel brings it to his lips and sucks it clean, before he’s going back in with another.

Joel’s fingers pump slowly—seductively—in and out of your pussy, knuckle fucking deep until he’s pushing at the spongiest part of your cunt. He feels resistance, and you begin to tighten around him, but he continues.

He paws at his cock in time with the hilt deep finger-fucking he’s giving you, moaning your name. You claw your nails against the counter, hardly able to hold yourself up while you begin to leak liquid arousal around Joel’s calloused fingertips that’re working you to your finish.

“If you—Joel—don’t fuck me, I’ll cum all over your hand—“

“Is that a threat?” He digs, hastening his pace. He curls and contracts his fingers within the chasms of your core, unravelling you very quickly. You whine and write beneath his hold, striving to keep onto your dignity for a little bit longer than this. “‘Cus, darlin’, I can live with that—“

You cut him off with a moan as he pulls his fingers out and—like the dirty old man that he is—makes you suck them clean. He shoves them down the back of your throat until you’re gagging with tears in your eyes, lining his cock up at your slit while he’s choking you like a fucking masochistic psychopath.

But it’s hot.

Joel is so hot, and you can’t believe that you’re fucking him—in his kitchen—when, really, you should be spending your afternoon trying to get your A/C unit fixed. Because that’s the only reason you left your house, today.

He pushes into you—filling your cunt nicely—and you can’t help hastening your movements at the first ounce of touch. Because you’re growing impatient now. He worked you to an—almost—premature release, and now he has to let you have it.

Joel grips firmly onto the flesh of your thighs, pushing and pulling you into him as his cock spears you open—rutting into you like a mad man that hasn’t felt the warmth of a pussy since the dawn of time. But it’s been three months since Joel Miller got to dive into a woman—fingers first—and he’s determined to get every last ounce of pleasure out of you.

“How does it feel, pretty girl? How does my cock feel, pounding into you?” He asks, knowing that you won’t be able to formulate a verbal response. Joel writhes above you when your walls start to clamp down around him, giving him the answer that he craves.

He hums his approval—hammering into your cunt—letting his knees hit against the island as he doesn’t miss a beat. Joel pulls down the neckline of your dress and exposes the supple flesh of your breasts, immediately taking your right nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He massages pebbled skin, eliciting a string of broken moans from the deepest fissures of your chest.

“So beautiful.” He praises, urging you to moan louder. Joel’s cock stutters at the sound. He can feel his release looming and, though he hates the thought of finishing after not even a whole five minutes of driving into you, he knows that prolonging is no longer an option.

“Joel—I’m—gonna—“

“I know, darlin’.” He reassures, still relentlessly fucking into you. Still hitting you hilt-deep, and fighting against the fluttering walls around him. “You just let it go when you’re ready.”

And just from that—the way that his velvety tone oozes consolation—you find yourself unwillingly unraveling beneath your sexy older neighbor, giving your entire self to him on a random Saturday afternoon.

“That’s it, baby girl. Cum for me.” Joel coaxes you through your orgasm, praising your movements and the way you shamelessly coat his cock with your sweetness that he can’t help but taste. He moans around his finger, letting his movements hinder slightly as he works toward his own release.

But watching you—how the sensitivity is consuming you and making even the slightest touch the most overstimulating thing in the entire fucking world—is enough to drive him to the edge.

“Give it to me, Joel. Fill me up right here.” You brandish the man whose prick is threatening to spill inside of your cunt.

He ruts into you for a few moments more, before his spend is exploding into you like the most erotic of fireworks, and threads of cum paint your walls, thighs, and clit as he pulls out and rubs his head along your warmth one last time.

Joel collapses into your chest, sticky and dripping lust.

“That was amazing.” You say through bated breaths, panting like a fucking dog.

“Bet you didn’t think an old guy could fuck that good, huh?”

Your head shakes and a small smile tugs at the corners of your lips.

“Think we’ll have to make a thing of this, don’t you?”

Without hesitation, you’re nodding at him. Your arms lazily drape over Joel’s shoulders, and he pecks kisses along your neck and chest. “Absolutely. I’ll never be able to fuck a man my own age, now…”

For the first time since forcing his way onto this street, Joel Miller feels like he didn’t make a mistake moving back to Austin.

#hits different `♡´#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fic #joel tlou #tlou fanfiction #tlou smut #joel miller smut #tlou x reader #tlou x you #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x afab!reader

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woso-dreamzzz · 4 months

Text

Daisychains II

Marta Torrejón x Caroline Graham Hansen x Child!Reader

Summary: It's gardening day

Caro had never really noticed the amount of plants at Marta's house. Well, she knew there were a lot but she had never really noticed just how many there were until she started visiting more regularly.

Usually, Marta would come to hers for dates but with you warming up to her, Caro came to Marta's every week.

She shifts the bouquet to her other hand as she rings the doorbell. There's a shuffle inside for a moment before she notices you peeking out through the curtains and disappearing again.

Marta opens the door and you peer out from behind her legs.

"Hi, Caro," You say, your voice soft and gentle.

You're wearing a pair of overalls and your welly boots. You seem quite overdressed for what is a very hot day in Barcelona but Caro doesn't question it as she hands you the flowers she picked out especially for you.

She brings you flowers every time she visits now and you're always happy to receive them. You do a very impressive job of keeping them all alive for weeks at a time and, honestly, Caro's a bit in awe of how you do it.

"She was very excited to see you today," Marta says as she watches you put the flowers in a vase you'd already prepared.

"Really?"

"Of course, I think you're her favourite person now."

The tips of Caro's ears turn pink as she bashfully looks down. She feels shy all of a sudden. The feeling only deepens as she feels a small hand take hers and looks to the side to see you smiling at her.

You look a little shy too, your hand dwarfed in Caro's.

"Mami," You say to Marta," Can I show Caro my garden?"

Marta laughs, pushing some strands of hair out of your face. "Well, it is gardening day, isn't it? Why don't you show Caro all your plants and I'll fill up your watering can?"

"My frog one?"

"Yes, your frog one."

"Okay." You tug lightly on Caro's hand and guide her out of the back door.

Caro's never been in the garden before but she's not surprised that it's very clearly yours. You've got plant boxes against the fences and a little swing she knows is the same one that Marta sat in to announce your arrival on social media.

It's got little cushions and looks meticulously cared for even though you're now six and it's been there for at least a few years before you were born.

You've got flowers against one of the fences and you pull Caro over to them.

"These are my flowers," You say.

The long box is separated into smaller boxes, each with their own flower in them.

"These are my roses," You say," And these are my tulips. This one's for my orchards. They're still little though so they're still growing."

"They look very nice."

"Mami is helping me," You say, pulling her across the garden to your other plant box," This is for my vegetables. We're growing broccoli and peas because they're healthy!"

It's the most talkative Caro's ever seen you.

You show her every inch of the garden and Caro doesn't even care that the sun is horrifically hot and she could quite possibly get sunburn.

Marta comes out soon after with a frog watering can and helps you water all your plants.

"It's gardening day," Marta explains as she and Caro retreat to the garden swing while you pad around with much smaller plant pots," Every Saturday when we don't have a match."

"She's good," Caro says.

"My parents got her a gardening set when she was three. She's been hooked for years now. All of her books are about plants. She doesn't like storybooks anymore. Just ones about gardening."

Caro sips on her lemonade as she watches you pour soil into an empty pot, watering it liberally before scattering a few seeds in and covering them. You set the pot on the garden table, right in the sun before hurrying off to grab a different pot.

"Clearly they've paid off. I think you might run out of space soon."

Marta groans jokingly. "She asked me for allotment space for her next birthday. What six year old knows that word? Allotment."

Caro joins in with her laughter, setting her drink down as Marta calls for you.

"Conejita! Come have a snack please!"

You huff a little bit, patting the petals of the flower you were pruning before hurrying over.

Marta had brought out carrot sticks earlier and you easily wiggle your way between her and Caro to eat them.

"Conejita grew these all by herself," Marta says as you munch," Didn't you?"

"Mami helped," You say to Caro, nodding earnestly," Do you like them?"

Honestly, Caro doesn't really like carrots at all but she still takes the one you offer her. She nods. "I really like them."

You beam.

"It was mine and Mami's special project," You explain," We had a lot of fun!"

Marta laughs, pulling you into her lap and sticking a floppy straw hat on your head to protect you from the sun. She bounces her knee a few times and you giggle.

"We did have a lot of fun, Conejita. I love growing things with my girl."

"I love growing things with you too, Mami!" You lean into her as you eat your carrot snacks. You suddenly have a thought and sit upright again. "Can I have a special project with you too, Caro?"

"I..." Caro's ears turn red again. "I'd like that."

"Mami, did you hear? I can grow something with Caro!"

"I did hear. It'll have to be next week though so you can have time to decide what you want to grow."

You wiggle around until Marta sets you on your feet and you grab Caro's hand, pulling her inside.

"We can grow flowers!" You decide," I have a book so we can choose! Come on, come on, Caro!"

Caro allowed herself to be led back inside and sat down on the sofa. There are flowers from last week set out on the coffee table and you drag over a big flower encyclopaedia from the shelf.

It looks very heavy but you stubbornly refuse to let Marta help you carry it. She smiles fondly at you as you place it in Caro's lap and begin to look through the pages.

"Conejita," She says as you and Caro debate what flower you're going to grow together," Should I put these away?" She's holding last week's flowers and you quickly shake your head.

"No! Wait, please, Mami!" You take them from her and glance at Caro. "I know they're not daisies," You say," But can you teach me how to make a flower crown with these too?"

You're very lucky because most of Caro's free time has now been taken up learning how to braid flowers together for exactly this moment.

She places the book to the side and hefts you up onto her lap.

"I'd love to."

#woso x reader #marta torrejon x reader #marta torrejon #caroline graham hansen x reader #caroline graham hansen #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso

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krazyyyyyy · 4 months

Text

Forever Longing Solivan Brugmansia /Reader

Synopsis: A small glimpse into Sol's elementary life, where he abruptly meets the single most important person in his life...You

Warnings: Mentions of violence

Words: 2553

Notes: Don't know how many more of these I'll write, but I'm hoping to get around three more done if not a few more.

Hope you enjoy this short story <3

Children’s happy laughter echoed loudly throughout the playground, as they began to spill out of the school building; marking the beginning of their cherished recess time. Kids ran freely playing around with friends, swinging giddily on the swing sets, and continuously going up and down the slide.

Well, all the kids but one…

A young, small, and quiet Solivan stood far away from the other kids, staring at the ground at his feet, avoiding any eye contact with anybody within the area. He knew he didn’t fit in with the others, given his introverted nature, he was considered an outcast amongst his classmates. People tended to overlook him, barely acknowledging his presence even when they were standing right next to him.

He was used to it, though…. He had his drawing supplies and stuffed animals, the only things that really made him feel anything close to happiness. The stuffed animals would never judge him, and, they’d always be around to listen to him when he needed it, an idiosyncratic concept to him growing up in a loveless household.

A soft tap on his shoulder causes him to lift his amber gaze from the ground and into the familiar brown orbs of his teacher, Mrs. Baker. A woman with a skinny frame and curly auburn hair that just slightly exceeded her shoulders. It took everything within him not to scoff at her arrival. She was keen on pushing him towards being more sociable with the other kids, a goal that would always fail in his favor. So why couldn’t she just leave him alone?

She crouched down to his height and spoke to him in her usual soft and steady voice, “Solivan, Why don’t you play with the others today? It seems they're playing a little game of freeze tag, doesn’t that sound like fun?”

Solivan spared a short glance toward where the kids were running wildly at each other, while some others stayed frozen in place, showing signs of annoyance at being frozen; he retracted his gaze back to the ground shaking his head, mumbling a small “No”

Mrs. Baker smiled understandingly at the timid young boy before her, “I know it might seem scary, but give it a chance, you might like it more than you think.” She attempted one last time to try to convince the boy to open up, even if it was just a little.

The boy remained silent, having lost interest in the conversation completely and hoping that his teacher would simply give up and leave him alone for the rest of the recess period.

Thankfully, it seemed fate was on his side, as he heard his teacher sigh next to him before standing up and walking away to a different part of the playground to supervise a group of rather exuberant children. Leaving him alone at last.

The little raven-haired boy sat on the ground, back pressed against the steel fence that separated the playground from the busy streets that lay not far behind. Settling down, Sol pulled out a small sketchpad from his back pocket; a notebook that was filled page to page in his numerous doodles, which he usually did during class time to pass the time.

Pulling out a pencil, Sol began to doodle, head buried in the notebook; heavily embarked on the mini sketches that required his utmost attention. After a while, he finally cranes his head back to admire his work; his sketch was that of a small horse with a small sketched figure of him seated cheerfully on its back.

He beamed at the drawing, proud of his work. While marveling at the sketch, the notepad is quickly ripped from his grasp. Startled and confused, Sol snaps his head up to look at the culprits. Standing above him, were three kids, obviously much older than he was, possibly four grades above him.

Sol was quick to spring up to his feet to try to get the notebook back, but to no avail, as the blond boy who held the item towered over him. He held the sketchbook high above his head, so even if the little boy tried to jump for it, it would prove pointless in the end

“Give it back!” Sol shouted at the kids as he continued to try to reach for what he considered to be one of his only sources of comfort. All three of the boys laughed at him, “Aww, is the little weirdo gonna cry.” a boy with red hair teased, pointing at him.

“You drew yourself riding a horse? What are you, some kind of girl?” The blond boy jokingly flipped through the pages of the book, briefly observing its contents.

“Stop it!” When Sol tried to reach for his sketchbook once again, the blond boy laughed, before tossing the book over to another boy; then that boy proceeded to also flip through the book and laugh before also tossing it to the next boy. Sol found himself playing in this miserable game of monkey in the middle; a game where he could only watch as his book flew through the air above him, out of reach, with no hopes of ever reaching it.

Eventually, Sol got the courage to defend himself from these bullies, and with all the strength he could muster with his tiny form, he tried to shove the bully who had the sketchbook in his possession. But, the shove proved unhelpful, as the bully didn’t even move an inch.

Sol could barely catch his breath before he was harshly shoved to the ground. A sharp pain pulsed through his body as his back was met with the hard ground; Sol opened his eyes to notice that his sketchbook had fallen next to his body, the bully had more than likely dropped it in outrage at Sol’s sudden rebuke. Sol swiftly snatched the book off the ground and held it close to his chest, shielding it from the bullies.

Sol lay on the ground in a fetal position, with his back facing his bullies, arms still tightly wrapped around his sketchbook. There was a sudden sharp pain on his side as a bully directed a fierce kick toward the young boy; another boy directed a kick, of similar intensity, toward his other side, leaving the little boy only to whimper in pain.

The group of bullies continued to relentlessly kick the defenseless boy, not showing any hint of mercy toward him. Tears ran down Sol’s cheeks as he could only endure the endless kicks that the bullies threw at him. He closed his eyes and hoped the boys would soon grow bored with this and walk away, or maybe a teacher would notice this assault and interfere.

It felt like an eternity that the kicking would continue, he almost thought it would never end…

Until a loud voice rang out and suddenly the kick stopped.

“Hey! Leave him alone!” Sol heard the unknown voice shout at the group of boys. He peeked from his position to glance at where the shouting came from; upon opening his eyes, he was met with his saviors back facing him as they spread their arms out wide to shield him away from the sight of the bullies.

“Get outta the way Pipsqueak! Or you're gonna be next!” He heard one of the bullies shout at the person before him. Sol noticed the stranger's visible shakiness as they stayed rooted in their spot in front of him; they were just as scared of these bullies as he was, yet they still chose to throw themselves in the middle just to protect him. He felt a surge of admiration for the stranger; this had been the first and only time someone stood up for him… his heart couldn’t help but skip a beat.

“No! I-I won't l-let you!” The stranger's words came out shuddered and breathy as if they were holding back tears. Luckily, their voice had been loud enough to possibly draw the attention of others nearby.

The twisted grins on the bullies' faces faded at the realization, and they looked around the area to see if anyone had caught the drift of what was happening.

“Shit!” Was the last thing Sol heard from them, followed by the frantic pattering of feet in the grass as the bullies quickly fled the scene. Leaving behind two frightened kids as a result.

Sol, who was still lying on the ground, breathed heavily, the fear coursing through his veins still running wild. He flinched when a blurry object suddenly came into his vision. As his vision slowly cleared, he noticed that the object was the outstretched hand of his savior; they looked down at him with a concerned expression, tears still lingering in the corner of their eyes.

Hesitantly, Sol took the hand, which helped pull him to his feet. He stumbled a bit but managed to regain his balance with a bit of effort and help from the person next to him.

“Are you okay?” The stranger asked him, their voice a bit hoarse from all the yelling yet still holding a subtle gentleness to it. Sol looked at them for a second, before shyly shifting his gaze off somewhere else and slightly nodding his head.

They smiled, their gaze landing on the item that Sol continued to hold tightly to his chest. “What’s that?” They pointed out the sketchbook, which, unknowingly to them, had caused the whole ruckus that just happened moments ago.

“... It’s my sketchbook,” Sol murmured under his breath, keeping his gaze away from the person in front of him. He never did well talking to people, never mind kids his age, this person wouldn’t be any different.

Their eyes lit up as he spoke, “You draw?! I wanna see it! Can I see pretty, please?!”

Sol was taken aback by their sudden interest in his sketchbook, his eyes were blown wide at them; he had never shown anyone his work before, nor had anyone ever asked to see it… this person was achieving a lot of firsts for him. He supposed he could show them, considering they had just saved him from a harsh beating.

“Umm… Okay.” Sol pulled the sketchbook from where it rested on his chest to hold it out between him and the stranger. He slowly navigated through the pages, properly allowing the person next to him to take in each piece of art. They were a bundle of excitement, commenting excitedly on almost every single little doodle in the book; it brought a small smile to Sol’s face, knowing that someone enjoyed his drawings just as much as he did.

“These are so good! You're so talented! Do you think maybe you can draw me something?” Sol felt his cheeks flush with an odd, unfamiliar warmth. They wanted him to draw something for them. Him? Out of all the people they could have asked? They wanted him to draw for them…

He fidgeted with the pages of the notebook in his hands, keeping his eyes glued to the ground, nervously. “Sure–”

“Wait! Before I forget, my name is Y/N!” They cheerfully cut him off, “What’s yours?” They talked a million words per second, which was a bit overwhelming, but Sol still found himself intrigued by them.

“My name is Solivan…” He spoke quietly, but loud enough for their newfound acquaintance to hear. “Solivan?” They tested his name out, “Well, Solivan from this day forward you are now my friend!” Sol stared at them dumbfounded. He never had a friend before, but didn’t think it would ever be this simple, yet here he was.

He didn’t get a chance to respond to their declaration when they continued to speak, “I’m thinking maybe a butterfly–No wait! A gecko… no…” They continued to list through a variety of animals, as Sol would stand and watch them in awe. He didn’t know what it was, but he felt some sort of connection to his new friend, it wasn’t unwelcome, but it was still strange.

“Oh, I got it! How about a dove? Mom says those are her favorite!”

Sol raises an eyebrow at them.“Like the bird? Are you sure?”

“Yeah!” They cheer.

Sol only nods his head in response, but a smile remains on his face at their jubilation. He sees the opportunity to speak after your moment of triumph and takes it, “I-um… thank you… for helping me. Not many would’ve done the same.”

They shake their head at him with a smile,“ Don’t mention it. You needed help…so I helped!”, the sincerity in their tone set Sol at ease. He wondered if had truly been missing out. If other kids acted just like Y/N, then maybe talking to others wouldn’t be so bad.

A mature voice suddenly rang out through the playground, catching everyone's attention, “Kids, recess is over! Start lining up with your class!”

“Aww man!” The child next to Sol groans, “Just when we were having fun, too!”. If their definition of fun was getting nearly trampled by a couple of older students, then Sol supposes he had the time of his life… Not really, though, but meeting Y/N was a nice surprise.

Children from all around the playground started to depart, moving to their designated class lines. Y/N started to make their way toward their line before they stopped to turn around to look at Sol one more time. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Solivan! Can’t wait to see the drawing!” And with that, the energetic second-grader gave him one last wave before running over to their class.

Sol gave them a little wave in return, watching as their figure got further and further away. It wasn’t long before he himself started making his way toward his own class, to continue the rest of his day. Of course, his attention wasn’t drawn toward that of his classwork, but rather that of the little dove drawing he spent the rest of the day drawing for that special someone he met.

Sol paid no mind as his art teacher rambled on and on about the importance of elements in art; his focus mainly on the small, worn-out sketch pad that lay open on his desk. He lazily drew his fingers along the delicate pencil marks of his old drawing from way back then.

Out of the drawings he had created during his entire childhood, that little dove that he drew for you in the second grade always held a special place in his heart. He remembers how bright your face lit up when he showed it to you the very next day; you insisted that he kept it in his sketchbook, under the circumstance that you get to view it anytime you want–which you would do on the daily.

He shifted his gaze from the paper to where you sat near the front of the classroom, trying your best not to fall asleep during the lecture. His heart ached for you to look at him the way you did when you were kids, now it was like he was a total stranger to you; another student who simply attended the same art class as you.

But with time, you’d eventually grow aware of his existence, you’d have too.

After all, you were his soulmate, just as he was yours.

#solivan brugmansia #tkatb sol #tkatb #tkatb vn #the kid at the back #tkatb x reader #katb vn #im tired

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moonstruckme · 3 months

Note

Hi!! I love your writing and wanted to request something for any of the marauders with a reader who’s scared of dogs but wants to get over it so they go to like a local shelter or smth to meet the dogs and help r get comfortable with them?

Thanks for requesting sweetheart!

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 913 words

The dogs start barking as soon as you enter the room, which isn’t supremely helpful.

You flinch backwards. Your back hits Sirius’ chest, your heel touching the toe of his shoe.

“It’s okay,” he assures you, nevertheless relishing the opportunity to wrap his arms around you. “They’re just excited to see us.”

You don’t move, eyes sweeping over the rows of kennels as if searching for some hidden threat. Some of the dogs are so eager they’re standing on two legs against the doors, paws hooked in the metal fencing. The bare walls make their barking echo loudly. Sirius can see how it’s a bit overwhelming.

“Why do they have to sound exactly the same when they’re excited and angry?” you ask.

Sirius almost laughs. He takes a couple of small steps forward to let the door swing shut behind you, and you go with him reluctantly. “They don’t,” he says, “but you can’t really hear the difference if you’re not used to dogs. That’s the point of this, isn’t it, gorgeous?”

You hum, anxious and unsure.

“Yeah,” he answers for you. He’s attempting to counterbalance your apprehension with an excess of pep. Sirius gives your middle a reassuring squeeze before stepping out from behind you and going to the nearest kennel.

“Look, this is Juno,” he reads off the slip of paper on the gate. Juno is practically beaming at him, her tail wagging restlessly as he crouches in front of her. She stops barking as soon as Sirius sticks his hands into her cage, letting him scratch at the fur around her neck and flop her ears this way and that. “Oh, hello, lovely girl.”

If Sirius was hoping this would inspire some jealousy, it doesn’t seem to be working. Evidently, your claim on the title of Sirius’ lovely girl does not take priority over your wariness of Juno. He pets her for a while longer, trying to showcase how gentle and happy she is, before looking over his shoulder at you.

“Come here,” he encourages.

You actually lean back a bit, so slightly Sirius wonders if it’s unconscious. Your face is tight with nerves.

It’s hard to take your fear seriously when he can’t fathom feeling it himself, but the reality of it is undeniable in your eyes. Seeing you so scared makes Sirius’ chest hurt.

He softens his tone. “Come here, sweetheart, it’s okay.”

You approach like you’re certain Juno is going to snap her teeth at you as soon as you’re near, stopping a good couple of feet away from the kennel.

“Look,” he says, retracting his hands through the metal wiring despite Juno’s protests, “you can start by sticking your hand just nearby, like this, so she can sniff you.”

You remain standing as you do, looking between Sirius and Juno all the while. Your hand is actually shaking, his poor girl. Sirius reaches for what he can, rubbing up and down on your calf in a way he hopes is encouraging.

Though the barking of the other dogs is still echoing noisily around you, Juno seems to know to be quiet. She sniffs your hand through the gate for a moment before looking up at you eagerly.

“Why don’t you sit down here with me?” Sirius prompts.

You retract your hand. One of your fingernails begins picking at the other. “I don’t really want my face in front of her face,” you say.

“Fair enough.” He sticks one hand back through the bar, scratching between Juno’s ears demonstratively. “Wanna try petting her? She’s friendly.”

You really are brave, the way you’re quivering like a leaf and yet you do it anyway. Sirius moves his hand to her neck so you can take over the prime spot. When you start to get close Juno bumps her head up to meet you, and you flinch but don’t pull away, petting down the fur on top of her head hesitantly.

“Try ruffling her fur a little,” he suggests. “You saw how I was petting her, yeah?”

You take his advice with some grains of salt, migrating your touch to behind her ear and scratching only lightly. Only, you seem to have found the magical spot. Juno’s head turns into your hand, and you take in a quiet inhale as nearly her entire body follows, leaning heavily into your touch. Small, whimpering sounds start to come from the back of the dog’s throat.

“What’s wrong?” Your hand stills, horror written across your face. “Am I hurting her?”

“No, no, you’re alright.” Sirius can’t keep from grinning as he watches your fingers begin to move again. Juno looks like she might well flop over. “She’s just happy. She wants to be pet.”

“Weird,” you breathe, but the majority of your nerves seem to have finally gone out of you. You crouch beside Sirius on the floor, sticking your other hand through the gate. “The sounds they make are so confusing.”

“You’ll figure it out,” he promises you. “But look at you, baby—you did it!”

“Mostly,” you hedge, but you’re beaming, both hands buried in Juno’s fur as the dog closes her eyes blissfully. You look to Sirius, bordering on bashful. “Thanks for helping me.”

He wraps a hand around your thigh, pulling himself closer to kiss your cheek. Both of your hands are going to smell like dog after this. “Don’t mention it, sweetness. After we’re done here, we can go to the puppy room if you want. As a treat.”

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smusherina · 6 months

Text

yard work - chapter 4 (regina george x reader)

fandom: Mean Girls (all media)

pairing: Regina George x OFC/Reader

summary: You'd been in the same class as Regina George since kindergarten. You'd lived on the same street even longer. Once upon a time, when life was sandbox disputes and who got the swing first arguments, you'd even been friends. Now, in junior year of high school, you doubted she even remembered you. The same couldn't be said about you. You definitely remembered her.

warning(s): homophobia becomes a central theme. mention of a close dead relative. internalized misogyny.

chapter 1 / chapter 2 / chapter 3 / chapter 5

You were sitting on the grass under the bleachers when Janis 'Imi'ike came up to you.

"I'm not selling right now." You said, suspecting she was here to see about buying alcohol or something. You had a contact and made a small bit in commissions around the school selling stuff.

"I'm- what? What're you selling?" Oh, well, guess not then.

"Nothing." You didn't want to incriminate yourself. It was bad enough you were smoking a cigarette right this moment. You took another drag. Usually, you didn't smoke during school but today was turning out to be a shittier day than usual.

"I'm not a nark, I could-" She seemed to shake herself. "Anyway. Why did you come to school with Regina today?"

"You saw that?" You inquired, alarmed but making an attempt to hide it.

"Yes. Now, why?"

"We live on the same street. Her car was having issues." You shrugged, trying to play it off.

"How'd you know her car was having issues?" She did not seem inclined to just let it go. It was beginning to annoy you.

"Because I fix it from time to time. Like I said, we live on the same street. We're not friends or anything." While you didn't like lying, especially not when you yourself were bitter about it, protecting Regina's rep was more important.

"I think that's a lie. We went to the same middle school for a while. You were close back then." She accused, crouching to be at level with you. You were officially annoyed now.

"You used to be close too." You took another drag and, noticing your cig was on its last leg, stamped it on the ground. "And how'd that turn out?"

Janis gritted her teeth. "Not well."

"Exactly." You gave her a tight, snarky smile and stood up. "Bye."

"Wait a minute!" She jogged after you as you made for the school building. "I'm not done!"

"I think you are." You called back, hastening your step. "There's nothing for us to talk about, Janis."

"Dude! You're being a huge dick right now." Janis caught up to you, gesturing as if she were offended. "Why are you so touchy?"

"I'm not touchy, I'm pissed that a stranger is getting all up in my business." You informed her curtly. "Lay off."

She held her hands up in surrender, an infuriating smirk on her face. "What business do you have with Regina?"

You halted and dropped your backpack on the ground. "What is your problem?" You advanced on her, not exactly squaring up but still getting a little too close for comfort.

"Woah, protective, aren't you?" She wasn't intimidated in the least. That only angered you more. "Has she ditched Cady already and found a new pet?"

"If I were you, I'd watch my mouth." You said as menacingly as you could.

"We could help each other out, y'know." She said, playing innocent.

"Why would I help you with anything?"

"Because she hurt both of us." You had to agree with that, however reluctantly. "I want revenge. She needs to go down." Now, that you did not agree with.

"What do you mean?" If they were planning a coup or something, you needed to get the details. You wouldn't be putting up with that shit.

"Cady's gotten an in with the Plastics." You'd never liked that stupid nickname Janis insisted on using. "She's still on the fence about them, but it's only a matter of time before I'm proven right."

"You've infiltrated the popular girl group like 007, great, because Regina wronged you somehow in middle school? Grow up." You rolled your eyes and picked up your backpack.

"She outed me, you douche!" She exclaimed before probably even thinking about it. Realizing what she'd said, she glanced around warily. Nobody was nearby since you were away from the courtyard.

Okay. Well. That made this a lot more complicated. You pinched the bridge of your nose. This was the exact reason you hung around skaters and stoner-wannabes. At least their drama was about graffiti and who had the good kush, not about whatever the fuck this was. You weren't aware you were living in a teen drama.

"Okay." You breathed in deeply. You did not want to be involved, no matter how justified Janis could've been. However, you needed information if you wanted to get in the way. "What've you got?"

A mean grin nearly split her face. Then, in just a second, it melted away. "You won't tell anybody, right? About, uh, that earlier-"

"I sell drugs behind the school, dude." You put it flatly. "You have more flak on me."

"True." She conceded. "So..."

Their plans weren't very well constructed, to be fair. Janis wanted to prove to Cady that Regina was a bitch, her words, and that was sort of just a waiting game. In the meantime, they were collecting information. So far they'd found out about the Burn Book, supposedly a scrapbook that Regina and her friends had filled with mean things about everybody at Northshore. Staff and teachers included. Apparently, Cady hadn't had much time to peruse it, so neither Janis nor you were in it for all she knew.

The concept made you nervous. You could very well be in that book and Cady just hadn't seen it. If everybody was in it, including nobodies like Mary Stigson and Amber D'Alessio, the chance was incredibly high.

You didn't even know what she could've written about you. Over the years you'd shared incredibly vulnerable bits of information with her. She'd shared with you too, but you weren't in any position to weaponize her secrets. You'd been through embarrassing moments that just the two of you knew of, had seen each other cry and rage and experience all sorts of overwhelming emotions, had made it through mortifying tweenhood phases together.

Regina could've written your whole life story, the nastiest highlights at least, without breaking a sweat.

You were like a zombie for the rest of the day. Barely paying attention in class, twirling a pencil in your fingers listlessly as whatever teacher went on and on. You looked up when a sharp, female voice called your name. You apologized to Ms Norbury and pretended to start working.

Calculus class, huh? You looked around, trying to be inconspicuous. You met eyes with Cady Heron. She quickly turned back to her work, writing numbers furiously. So Janis had told her about their new accomplice. Of course, you had every intention to tattle first thing once you talked to Regina again.

You knew she wouldn't want to be seen leaving with you, so you shot her a text that you'd be behind the bleachers waiting. You were her ride, after all. It would've been rude to leave her.

Relaxing somewhere quiet and alone wasn't too bad. You lifted your headphones over your ears and put on a Nirvana CD. Just this morning Regina had called you 'a hobo with a liking for grunge', or something along those lines. You did so love proving her right.

You lit a cigarette in honour of Kurt and closed your eyes. Something about this day, the utterly exhausting events, made you desperate to feel some release. Ever since dropping Regina off, you'd been a fucking mess. Janis having seen the whole thing and then coming to conspire against Queen Bee hadn't helped. You wished things could be spelt out for you.

Did Regina like you? Yes or no. You knew it wasn't that simple, that things weren't simple for her like they were for you. You liked her and so it was easy to let her walk all over you. You liked her so, of course, you sided with her even when Janis and you had a camaraderie. You liked her and so you chose not to think about the horrible thing she'd done to Janis.

Was it only a matter of time before she'd use that secret against you, too? Did it hang above your head even now?

"Hey, loser, stub the cig and let's get outta here. I'm sick of this joint."

"Who taught you to talk like that?" You opened your eyes and looked up at Regina. "Certainly not your father."

"What daddy doesn't know won't hurt him." She offered her hand to pull you up. "C'mon. I have a nail appointment to get to."

You hauled yourself up with her help. Over-balancing a little bit you tipped into her space, and for a moment there you breathed the same air. You took a hasty step back and tuned back into the conversation.

"And- and how're you gonna get there?" You already knew.

"We don't have enough time to go to mine first, so..." She smiled sweetly at you, getting that calculating look in her eye as she grabbed your arm and pulled it close to her chest. Looking up at you through her lashes, long nails stroking down your forearm, a smile so alluring it was evil on her face, she knew she had you. You couldn't say no.

Gulping, you inclined your head. "I'll take you."

"Thanks, babe." And with that, she pressed her purse into your arms to carry and skipped ahead.

Fuck. Fuck. You closed your eyes and fought off a groan. You'd almost forgotten the crush you'd nursed for her back then. It hadn't ever left, you knew that much, but it hadn't smacked you in the face quite like this before. You were familiar with moments that made your heart beat fast, scenarios that played on a loop in your head, and dreams you could never really make sense of. Now, though, hearing her call you babe and the physical reaction it evoked, there was no plausible explanation other than the obvious fact: You had a crush on Regina George.

You knew—knew—that it was hopeless. There was no world in which you and Regina could be a thing. Or maybe there was, but that was a pipe dream you'd do no good in entertaining. Your dad didn't care about who you dated, but you were sure he would be none too pleased. Regina's dad was a whole other case. He was way stricter than your dad, though just as distant.

You'd done this before. It would be fine. Admittedly, back when you'd been actively crushing on Regina you had been twelve and under. Back then you'd still tolerated skirts and girly hairstyles. Back then it'd been socially acceptable to cling to your friend like a koala, kiss her cheeks and hold her hand. If you tried that shit now, especially looking like you did, it would not slide.

(You'd been called slurs around the halls before. While you didn't generate much rumours or hubbub, you knew that you existed in people's peripherals in a certain way. They'd snidely ask if you liked the Ellen Show. Make vile hand gestures at you when you passed by. Garry Fort, resident church boy and social outcast, had even offered to pray for you. You had refused.)

"Jorts! Get a move on!" Regina shouted, a good distance away.

"Yeah yeah," You muttered, but picked up the pace.

"What took you so long?" She asked as she settled into the front seat.

"Lost in thought, I guess." Waxing melancholy about how we could never be together, sweetums. You opted not to say that. "So, where's this appointment?"

"Just drive to town, I'll give instructions."

"Sure thing." You bit your lip and tapped your fingers on the steering wheel. You hadn't had your licence for long but you'd been driving for much longer than that. You were a good driver. Back when you'd been young enough for your dad to feel obligated to spend time with you, he'd taken you to some backroads and taught you. Then, when that stopped, you'd done it illegally. Hey, girls gotta keep busy somehow.

"What's on your mind?" Regina asked, breaking the silence that'd turned uncomfortable.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing." You swallowed. "How was your day?"

"How was my day, seriously?" She turned her body to face you, arms crossed and a displeased look on her face. "What is it?"

You tried to think of something to say. You didn't want to ruin her whole day by revealing she had a spy, of all things. You'd planned on waiting a little bit before telling her. You would've maybe taken her for a ride and then gently broken the news.

So, that was a bust.

"Cady Heron is spying on you. She's retelling everything you're doing together with Gretchen and Karen to Janis and her friend Damien Leigh." You blurted it all out. "I was smoking in my usual spot and she just came up to me. And, uh, recruited me. Apparently, she saw you leave my car this morning."

"What?" Regina screeched, face slack with shock as well as strained with fear, panic, and all sorts of jumbled emotions. "Did anybody else see?"

"I don't know!" Your shoulders lifted all the way up to your ears in a panicked shrug. Her emotions were rubbing off on you and you did not like it. "Did people act weird around you today?"

"No," She paused to think. "No, everything was fine. Karen liked my top."

"You mean my top?" You corrected.

"Whatever." Regina looked out of the window contemplatively. "Are you plotting against me?"

You rolled your eyes, and took your sights off the road for a second to shoot her a look. "If I was, would I be telling you?"

"I dunno, I vividly remember you being sorta stupid."

"Wow, thanks, Reg, that's high praise coming from you. Only sorta."

"Shut up. You're so annoying." She unfolded her arms and leaned back in the seat. "Cady Heron. A spy."

"Janis told me, and I quote: "She needs to go down." Which was pretty dramatic in my opinion." Regina didn't say anything. "I mean, we're in high school."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Regina inspected her nails. Pretty acrylics, sharp and lethal, decorated with gems and swirls. A little grown out, sure, but still in perfect condition.

"I just mean that..." You thought about what you wanted to say. "Y'know, on average women in America die, like, between seventy and eighty years old. We're less than a quarter of that right now. Five years from now, I bet the problems we have now will seem stupid and insignificant. And then five years, or ten, from that, the issues then will look the same way."

"Morbid." She turned to look at you. You couldn't tell what her expression was like, in the middle of changing lanes to pass a car going way under the limit. "Are you always this philosophical?"

"I could be. If you wanted me to be." You wondered if that edged a little too close to flirty.

"No. It's insufferable." You didn't know how to respond to that. "I don't fucking care about the grand scheme of things. My problems aren't stupid or insignificant now, so it's no fucking use thinking, oh, it'll all be fine with time! Well, it won't be, if I don't do something right now." She ranted, waving her hands as she did. "And I will argue that women die much earlier than that."

"It's a statistic, Reg-"

"No, women die at menopause at the latest. They get sad, saggy and undesirable and they die." She said with such conviction that it shook you. "When you stop being beautiful, it's all over."

"Regina, that's..." Wrong. Incorrect. A horrible way to think. "I don't think that's true."

"Women like my mom have nothing to offer. When dad stopped wanting her and started looking elsewhere, when she stopped being asked out at the grocery store and they started asking me, when Kylie poked at her flab and asked what her stretch marks were, she died."

Listening to her talk like that, about her mom nonetheless, was heartbreaking. Still, you couldn't help getting angry. "Your mom is alive and well, Reg. Your dad cheating isn't her fault, it's him being an awful human being. Being asked out at the grocery store isn't like receiving a fucking Nobel prize. Flab and stretch marks are what you did to her body. What Kylie did to her body." You bit your lip when it started wobbling. You bit down harshly to stop it.

You continued even when your voice crackled. "My mom's always gonna be young and beautiful. She's gonna always gonna have smooth, wrinkle-free skin. I won't get to ask about her flab or stretch marks. Not ever." Regina was quiet. You could feel her eyes on you. "You don't get to complain about growing old. Mrs George's been like a mom to me, you know that, so don't fucking insult her in front of me. You can get all the botox and surgeries you want, but I'm not gonna sit here and listen to that shit."

"Sorry." She said, quietly. She'd never been good at apologies.

"It's fine." You wiped at your eyes. "I'm sorry for freaking out."

"No, it's... That was stupid." She mostly muttered, now sunken into the seat.

You shouldn't have raved at her like that. Unpacking all that she said would've been much easier with a clear head. Now you were both stuck in this tension. Tears drying on your cheeks and snot in your nose, you wished things would be easier. You wished Regina had never been taught to think like she did, that she'd see herself like you saw her.

"I think you'll still be pretty when you're forty." You put it out there, going for casual.

"You don't have to lie." She huffed, assuredly rolling her eyes.

"I'm not lying. I don't think a few wrinkles are enough to ruin your face."

"I'm not gonna get wrinkles. By the time I'm old enough to get them, there's gonna be technology to prevent signs of ageing entirely."

You laughed at that. "Are you gonna pioneer that?"

"You think I'd be smart enough?"

"I think you're very intelligent, Regina."

"Hm." You could tell she was pleased, though she was looking away. "Take left here."

"Yes, ma'am."

Notes: I'm writing these abnormally fast. Usually, I'm a total sloth with these things. I guess the instant gratification of notes really is addicting. If I suddenly drop off, I promise I didn't die I just ran out of steam.

I have no idea how long this series will be. I have a general outline and character arcs going in my head, but I'm purposefully not drafting anything. I've noticed that when I plan too much I just feel like I've already written the story and don't wanna put any of the work in. So, with this method, though it has its flaws, I won't get bored of my own ideas!

Also, just to sort of put it out there in writing, they're meant to be flawed characters. OC might be self-aware to a point, but she too has her shortcomings. While Regina's more obviously flawed, neither of them are saints. They're teenagers with shitty home lives, they're gonna be fucked up. That also includes Janis and Cady. They're all dumb teenagers with unresolved issues.

Taglist: @autorasexy, @wedfan2, @unadulterated-moron, @modernsapphicism, @9unknown0, @sage-rose2000, @massive-honkas, @nattys-swiftie, @likefirenrain, @luz-enjoyer

#mean girls #mean girls 2004 #mean girls 2024 #regina george #regina george x reader #regina george x oc #regina george x you #regina george x ofc #mean girls x reader #reader insert #wlw #lesbian regina george #mean girls musical #janis imi'ike #janis ian #fic: yard work

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