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chelseypprimrose · 11 months

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Handy With His Hands / handyman!negan x housewife!reader / 18+ / pre-apocalypse

Warnings ⚠️ : unprotected sex, adultery, oral (f receiving), rough sex elements

Summary: being a housewife is quite dull, especially when your husband is a corporate jackass- until a sexy handyman comes to fix your shower.

A/N: I got this little saucy story in my head while reading some handyman!joel miller stories and I just thought: Negan + handyman? so hot! my stories are always something out of a cheesy porno scenario but idec , i know i’m never going to have these fantasies happen to me in the real world so i believe it’s self care to let my dulu stories write out on paper 🤭 please enjoy 🤍

not proof read yet 🫣

“can you please just get someone to come and look at that thing? i’m sick of having to take cold showers!” you exclaimed, your voice travelling from the kitchen to the living room where your husband was on a phone call. “i’m on the phone, honey.” he replied back, hidden annoyance in his tone, recognisable to you but if anyone else was to hear, they’d think it to be cheerful. you cursed him out in your head, counting down the hours until he was going to be gone on his long business trip. finally, you’d be able to take a break from your expected housewife duties, one of your favourite things to do when your husband was away, catch a few rays in your back garden, take a dip naked in the swimming pool. you had to find thrills where you could as your life was a revolving door of the same boring routine, day in and day out. you craved for something, some sort of adventure to come into your life and completely turn it on its head, you were still waiting on that day unfortunately.

you’d been married to your husband for around three years now, even if it felt like forty. it had been a fairytale at the beginning, he’d get you flowers every week, freshly picked, take you out for dinner at least four times a month, he’d seemed like the perfect man to get married to, until you were locked in, bounded by the commitment and paperwork. he’d neglected those responsibilities, it was rare for him to even take you out for a date night anymore, it was usually just forcing you to go to dinner meetings so he could show you off to potential clients, having to spend your evening being hit on and leered over by slimy old men, your body used to close business deals. always buying you some diamond necklace or earrings after the fact, to keep you happy. you spent most of your time at home when not being used as a dress up doll for your husband, cooking, cleaning, keeping the house in perfect condition - not that he ever noticed.

“alright, i’ve got someone coming round to look at the shower, i’ve got to leave for my flight dear. i love you. i’ll give you a call when i land.” he says, his suitcase rolling on four wheels beside him, his head coming down for a peck on your lips, absolutely no spark or electricity through the kiss, not like it used to be. you mumbled a love you back, as you watched him walk out of the front door, a sigh of relief when the door shut behind him. you took your apron off, placing it on the hook next to the cabinets in the kitchen. walking upstairs into your shared bedroom, you quickly changed out of your clothes, putting on a new two piece bikini you’d treated yourself to a couple weeks ago, topping it off with a pair of sunglasses to keep the sun out of your eyes. grabbing a towel on your way out, you slid the patio door open, folding out the towel and placing it on the sun lounger, sitting down on it and lounging out. connecting your phone to the bluetooth speaker outside, you decided to put on your relaxing mix, hoping it would help you get a small nap in before the repairman was here.

it was really hard to get one on such short notice, how your husband had been able to get one the same day baffled you, probably pulled some strings with one of his business buddies you thought. while you had good money in the bank, you despised how your husband would treat other people that weren’t in the same tax bracket as you both were. you were the more generous person in the relationship, giving to various charities when you could, even though it annoyed your husband to no end when you did. in a selfish way, you revealed in it, any subtle way you could piss him off without making it obvious that was your intention, you’d jump at the chance. giving money to those who needed it AND being able to make him angry - win win scenario.

you’d been sat in the back yard for around a hour, lightly snoring as you went in and out of a light sleep, you hadn’t heard the doorbell go the multiple times it had, being awoken when the wooden side gate hit the fence with a loud crash. “holy shit!” you shouted, pulling your sunglasses off your eyes to look towards the gate, seeing a man standing there with a large toolbox in his hand. “hey, didn’t mean to scare you doll. no one answered the doorbell and i saw the gate was unlocked so.” you got yourself up from the sun lounger, taking a couple steps towards the man so you could get a better look at him. damn he was fine, a tight white t-shirt with black cargo pants, covered in what looked like dust, white paint, other substances you could only assume he’d gotten from his line of work. a tattoo peeking out from underneath his sleeve, one on his forearm as well, steel-toe capped boots making slight clink noises as he moved on the concrete path underneath him, you thought he was too attractive to be a handyman, a ‘magic mike’ dancer sure, you give over everything in your bank account to see that little fantasy come to life. his hair slicked back and beard trimmed neatly, your eyes couldn’t help naturally scanning over his muscular, dominating frame.

“hi! you must be the handyman my husband ordered?” you asked, eyebrow raising as you put your hand out for a handshake. “well, i work for the same company, i’m Negan.” he introduced himself as he grasped your hand, meeting yours. his hand felt slightly calloused, a side effect from his job you gathered, you couldn’t deny how sexy they made you feel, being used to the smoothness of your husbands, it was a unlikely turn on. “oh right! i’m y/n. thank you for coming on such short notice, i’m absolutely sick of having cold showers, don’t know how much more i can take of it.” you joked, a small smile sat on your face. “i’ll show you where it is so you can get cracking, i bet there’s more things you’d rather be doing, so hopefully it won’t take too long.” you motioned for him to follow you, walking through the patio door.

Negan followed you into the house, unbeknownst to you, his eyes glued to your small bikini bottoms, showing off your ass in what could only be described as gorgeous. he knew it was wrong, looking at the bosses wife in such a way but he couldn’t help himself, becoming a recent single man again, he hadn’t had the time to get back into the dating scene which in turn meant he wasn’t getting any action and it was driving him nuts. he was only a man, when he’d got the call from your husband, he wasn’t expecting his wife to be home alone, dressed in a bikini, looking good enough to devour.

you got to the en suite bathroom, opening the door, showing him where the controls were. “here it is, i have no clue what’s wrong with it, it just won’t let any hot water through.” you stated, you’d never been good with stuff like this, your husband had always had people on call to fix problems around the house. “i’ll be fine doll, i’ve dealt with this problem loads of times before.” he waved it off with a laugh. “would you like anything to drink? to eat?” you questioned, putting on your best innocent smile. “i wouldn’t mind a coffee, doll but don’t make one on my account.” he beamed back at you, turning away to grab something from his toolbox, you took a look at his tight cargos as he bent down, they shaped the muscularity of his thighs perfectly, his ass looking perfect in them. “i’m sure i can rustle something up for you, how do you take it?” you asked, a slight smirk on your face from how you’d worded the question to him. “no milk, two sugars please. i like it sweet.” he bantered back, leaving you to saunter off to the kitchen.

you returned back to him, slightly boiling coffee in hand, placing it on the large counter where the sink and mirror were placed. “so, how long have you worked with my husband? i don’t think i’ve heard about you before?” you quizzed, knowing the names of your husbands many business partners and staff, you’d have remembered a unique name like Negan, you were sure. “ah not long, used to be a gym teacher before this job, needed a change and i’ve always been good with my hands.” you laughed, the image of Negan bossing around a load of pre teens making you smile. “i wouldn’t have pegged you as a gym teacher, to be honest with you!” he laughed right back at you, turning his head to look towards you. “yeah, a lot of people have told me that, i loved working with the little shits all day, gave them a run for their money, i can tell you that much.” he grimaced, realising what he’d done. “sorry doll, don’t mean to swear, pretty unprofessional of me.” you giggled again, shaking your head at him. “i don’t mind, stop worrying! it’s nice to be in the company of a man who doesn’t change himself to suit other people.” Negan took notice of that, wondering if you were talking about your husband. “well, that’s fucking me all over doll. so, what do you do?” you sighed, knowing how what you said next would come across. “housewife, i stay at home, look after the house and get taken to business dinners when i’m needed.” he noticed your drop in tone, he could sense that you weren’t really happy with that but he didn’t want to speak out of turn. “well your doing a bang up job, this place is immaculate.” you blushed, your husband had never complimented your hard work, always just expecting the house to be sorted, never thinking to thank you for your efforts. “thanks, it’s nice to hear that. i’ll let you get on, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

it was about a hour later when Negan had finally finished the shower, it now letting out hot water again. “you are a angel, finally i can have a nice shower!” you exclaimed, hands clapping enthusiastically, Negan laughing at your actions. “absolutely no problem doll.” he smiled at you, trying to escape his thoughts of you taking said shower, the bubbles dripping down your body as you washed them away, how good you’d look naked. “so, stop me if you have somewhere to be but i just got finished making dinner, i forgot i was alone so there is more than enough if you wanted to stay for some?” you asked sheepishly, expecting him to decline, a young single man probably had better things to do on a friday night than sit in with a boring housewife for dinner. “i’d love that doll. let me just take my tools back to my truck.” you freaked out internally, you were excited to spend some more time with this devilishly charming man, he was a breath of fresh air compared to the people you had to hang around with when you were with your husband. always other couples that were all business talk, how many sales they’d made that year and how much they were getting for their bonuses, it became exhausting over time.

you plated up the chicken florentine, along with some vegetables and sauce, bring the plate from the counter to the dining room table, the dimmed lights almost highlighting your body, you’d changed into a pretty sundress while he’d gone out to the truck, deciding a bikini wasn’t proper dinner attire, not bothering with underwear, if your plan was to go your way. placing the plates on the table, you grabbed a bottle of wine from the vast array of choice from the wine cooler and glasses for you both. you took a seat just as Negan walked back through the door, his eyes rising up as he smelt the food from the table. “fuck me doll, that smells good!” he clapped his hands together as he sat down beside you, starting to eat. “i hope you like it, i didn’t know if you ate meat but…” you trailed off. “no i do, i’m not one of those vegan pussies, don’t worry.” you laughed, his vulgar language causing a stir from within you. you poured out a glass of wine for you each before tucking in yourself. “i’ve got to say, i’ve never had such hospitality from anyone before, i’m always called to clients houses but the most i’m offered is a drink and then they leave me alone to work, this is a nice change.” you smiled, hoping you hadn’t been too much in his hair, you just couldn’t stop yourself, you wanted to know more about the intriguing man. “well, i aim to please. hospitality gets drilled into you as a housewife, it’s sort of all i’m good for.” you said, taking a sip of your wine, feeling like you were softly venting a little due to feeling comfortable in Negan’s company. “i’m sure your good at other things doll, better than the shitheads i normally encounter in this job.”

“well i understand that, i’ve met my husband’s clientele and they aren’t my type of people. always boasting about themselves, not caring about others, i hate it really.” you confessed, knowing you were opening up to much to a man you didn’t really know but you felt at ease, like you could speak freely, unlike when you were in your husbands company. you and Negan had finished eating, you finished the last of your wine, taking your plates to the dishwasher, bending down to place them inside, not remembering you had no panties on, fully on show for Negan and he’d definitely noticed. he’d almost done a double take, seeing your pretty pussy on display, a grin widening on his face as he understood the message. he got up, walking towards you as you raised up again, going to put the cooking utensils in the dishwasher when his large hands wrapped around your waist, you turned to look at him.

“you know doll, i think i should thank you for such a lovely evening. don’t you?” you looked up at him through your eyelashes, your chest heaving up and down with deep breaths as your heart began to beat irregularly at the closeness of such a gorgeous man. “i don’t know… what did you have in mind?” you questioned, your arms coming to meet at the top of his neck, wrapping around to pull him closer as your faces were inches away from each other. “i think it would be fair payment to screw your pretty little brains out, right over this countertop.” you moaned out at his statement, his hand coming to tug at your hair softly, before yanking harder, testing the waters. “i think, you should put your money where your mouth is, Negan.”

he growled, backing you up to the countertop that was behind your back, slightly pushing you against it. he captured your lips in a heated kiss, his hand still pulling at your hair as you whimpered into the kiss, silently begging for his hard touch. no one had ever been so rough with you, husband included. “i know how much you’ve wanted this, don’t think i didn’t notice how you aren’t wearing any panties, you were planning for this, weren’t you doll?” he whispered against your lips, his other hand now going underneath your skirt, dancing on your thighs before he got to your wet heat. “i don’t just offer dinner to anyone that comes to the house, you know.” you whimpered out, feeling his finger tips on your clit, moving small circles on top of it. “i’m hungry for dessert now doll, open those pretty thighs for me sweetheart.” he lifted you up onto the counter, your legs sat on his shoulders as you lifted your dress up enough for your whole pussy on display for Negan. his tongue met your hot skin, licking a stripe up your core, starting slow. your hand came down to meet his hair, gripping tightly around the strands that had fallen loose from his slicked back style. you moaned out, not used to the feeling of having such a skilled man between your legs, savouring every movement you felt him make. so methodical and well thought.

he sucked on your clit harshly, you squeezing his head slightly as your thighs contorted together, trying desperately to grind yourself closer to his tongue, chasing the blissfully sinful feeling that was racing through your body. “fuck-fuck! Negan, i’m not- going to last much longer if you keep doing that! fuck!” you panted and whined at the impending arrival of your orgasm, he chuckled at your confession, pulling away from you to back up. “i want to feel you doll, i want to feel you clench around my dick, turn around for me.” he purred, letting your stumbling legs fall back onto the ground as you turned to face the counter, your nipples standing erected through the thin material of the dress, contrasting against the cold marble.

he dropped his cargo pants, letting them fall down to his ankles, his impressively large piece now hanging out, you felt the bulbous tip playing around on your entrance, running up and down your folds at Negan’s movements. he finally entered you, holding a tight grip on your hips, nails slightly digging into your soft flesh, letting your pussy stretch out to accommodate his girth. he pulls out, and slides back in with little to no hesitation, finding a happy pace between rough and soft. you moan out, one hand coming to wrap around your throat as he moved his pace to more rough. “fuck doll, you fit me so well- taking me so good baby.” you whined out again. “please, please! harder! i need you, Negan- fuck!” he grinned at your begging, leaving your lips like a pretty song. he obliged, upping the ante to absolutely rock you.

“RING! RING!”

you gasped, pulling your head up from the counter to see the light illuminating from the landline phone situated near the window, your husbands name on the caller id.

“fuck, fuck! stop i need to answer him!” you tried to manoeuvre your body to grab the phone that was finger tips away from you, pushing your body closer before negan reached out over you to grab it.

“better answer it before he gets suspicious dollface.” he clicked the green button, passing it down to you, your face bright red with nervousness.

“hey-hey honey.” you breathed out, finding it hard not to make pleasurable sounds while Negan was still fucking you rough, you could barely talk with his hand still grasped around your throat. he showed no mercy.

“i just got to my hotel, did Negan manage to fix the shower?” your husband asked, you allowed a small grin to peak out on your face, thanking god your husband couldn’t see you right now. “yeah, he did a really good job, such a nice guy!” you drabbled on, hoping he wouldn’t ask many more questions, fearing you couldn’t stay quiet for much longer. “that’s great, so i’m going to try and get some sleep before the big meeting tomorrow. just wanted to let you know i got here okay. i love you.” he said, you almost dropped the phone from how rough your stomach was hitting the side of the counter, Negan relishing in the predicament you’d found yourself in. “ok-okay honey. i love you t-too.” you gasped as Negan proceeded to smack your ass hard, the sting catching you off guard, making it harder to find your words for your husband. “are you okay? you don’t sound too well?” you rolled your eyes into the back of your head, wishing he’d just fuck off so you didn’t have the anxiety of having to string sentences together. “yeah i’m fine, think i’m just a bit ill. i’ll l-let you get some sleep. love you. bye.” you quickly got out, pressing the red end call button, slinging the phone off the counter, the object hitting the ground with a smack. “you are such a bastard.” you slightly laughed with another moan. “didn’t want him worrying about his dear wife now did we doll? thank you for the five star review though, i appreciate it.”

the wet sounds still echoed around the room, you could feel yourself getting ever so closer to what you knew would be a world shattering climax. “fuck, i’m so so close, please! fuck!” Negan held you firmer in place, his hips snapping against your behind, his dick filling you up to the brim. “let go doll, come all over my dick.” that was all the permission you needed, you let yourself climax, sobbing in pleasure, waves of pleasure rippling through you, nearly too intense for your body to handle it. you cried out his name, your fingernails digging into your own palms as you circled your hips, riding out your orgasm.

Negan wasn’t too far behind, he couldn’t help but spill inside you, quickly pulling out to finish the rest on your now red glistening ass, from the countless spankings he’d given you. you both almost collapsed, breathless, unable to get your heart rates back to normal for the time being. Negan held you to his chest, your back meeting his torso in a warm embrace, chests heaving. you felt the sticky ropes of his seed on your dress, making it stick to your ass as you licked your lips to regain some moisture back as they’d gone dry from all your moaning and whining. his hands ran up and down your body, coming to play with your breasts over the material.

“fuck doll, do you have any more repairs for me to do? because i would gladly fix every goddamn thing in this house for this again.” you laughed, turning around to look at him, face beat red from the strenuous actions you’d both participated in. you reached behind him and pulled open one of the cabinets behind his head, the wood snapping with the force, taking it off its hinges so it hung off.

“whoops. you might need to take a look at that.”

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poppy-in-the-woods · 3 months

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Sneak Peek

Plot: Inspired by this post. Set during the lockdown, Noah's been ignoring you, and you're gonna make him pay.

Pairing: Noah x Female Reader

Word Count: 1534

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Tags: smut, teasing, sexting, oral (male receiving), double penetration, anal sex, somewhat public sex/exhibitionism.

Author's note: Some of you said you wanted a story about that idea, and before I knew what was happening, my fingers were furiously typing, and this is the result. Hope you enjoy it!

2020, the year the world came to a halt. You and your boyfriend, Noah, were trapped inside your shared apartment, and it was beginning to get kind of boring. There’s only so much stuff you can do inside before it gets repetitive. Even sex had started to get kind of predictable and uninteresting.

Lately, he had taken to streaming on Twitch, so that night, while he was streaming, you were on the living room, browsing the web on your laptop, desperately searching for a way to spice up your bedroom life. Then you found an article that seemed helpful and elaborated a plan.

Step one: buying some new risqué lingerie.

Step two: acquiring a new toy.

Step three: wait until they arrive and put on a show for him while he’s streaming.

Step four: success?

You managed to keep the packages a secret from him after they arrived, even when you had to thoroughly clean and disinfect the items, and wait a week after that so you could use them.

That evening he wasn’t looking at you. He hadn’t been looking at you for a while now, but you were going to make sure he’d look.

Noah had been streaming for half and hour now when he got the first text from you. Glancing at the screen he saw what you had written:

Babe [19:40]: I’m horny, come here.

He trailed off what he was saying while typing a response.

You [19:41]: I can’t, I’m streaming.

You didn’t stop at that, though, and he had to pause while going back and forth with you for a couple more messages.

Babe [19:43]: ☹ Pretty please? ☹

You [19:43]: I can’t right now.

Babe [19:45]: Your loss then.

He didn’t receive another message for ten minutes. The next one was a picture of your cleavage in a sexy red bra he was sure he hadn’t seen before. He smiled and pressed his lips together, but didn’t respond. He continued the stream as if nothing happened, though the picture was still on the back of his mind, like a splinter.

“No reply, bitch? Then it’s game on”, you said to yourself.

You snapped a few pictures in quick succession: a full body shot that showed your new lingerie set, one without the bra and completely nude.

You sent them, but he didn’t respond, and he didn’t even open the last message. Time to bring out the big guns.

Noah shifted uncomfortably on his chair. The increasingly sexy pictures you were sending were starting to make concentrating on the conversation pretty difficult. He didn’t open the last message, imagining what you would send next. He understood himself well enough to know that if he opened it, he wouldn’t be able to restrain himself, and he couldn’t leave his friends hanging now that the Mario Kart game was on, could he? No, sir, he was a man of his word and he was committed to finish.

But when his phone started buzzing insistently, he lost on purpose to look at it.

The nude picture wasn’t the worst (or was it the best?) you had for him in store.

Babe [20:23]: Wanna see my new boyfriend? Since you don’t pay any attention to me anymore, I had to get him.

The next message was a picture of a pretty realistic dildo, with a water bottle next to it, just for scale. Noah was a big guy, but that thing seemed bigger.

Babe [20:25]: How shall I name him? Noah II?

Next picture was the dildo, nested between your breasts, your tongue darting out to lick the tip.

He covered his mouth, stifling the unholy sound that was threatening to come out of his lips, shifting again on his chair. You surely had caught his attention, and he was starting to get hard. A new subscription popped in, distracting him. He lifted his eyes from the phone to look at it. The robotic voice read it before he could stop it:

UnsatisfiedGirlfriend06: Look at your phone, you coward.

And then, right after, a donation of ten dollars:

UnsatisfiedGirlfriend06: I dare you to ignore that. I double dare you. Bitch.

He looked at his phone. A new message had arrived. It was a video this time. No sound, just a close-up of your glistening pussy being penetrated by the dildo, going in and out, in and out, your fingers caressing your clit. Noah’s cock twitched in his pants, fully hard now. A new message popped in:

Babe [20:33]: Think you would be able to fill another hole? Or should I get another replacement for you?

He furiously typed a reply. If you wanted to play, he was going to play.

Your phone dinged.

Prettyface [20:35]: Replacement? Ha! You wish. Come here right now, and don’t forget to bring your new friend with you.

You looked at your laptop, with Twitch open on his streaming. It was still going on.

You [20:36]: But you’re still on streaming.

Prettyface [20:37]: Who’s the coward now?

You bit your lip hesitantly, looking at your laptop again. The camera showed that the door was not inside the frame, you just had to be sneaky and nobody would know you were there.

Noah didn’t turn around when he felt the door opening, but he backed his chair up a bit, opening some space under the desk. You crawled up to him, getting in that space. He pretended to drop his phone.

“Just a second, guys”, he said. Bending over, he put his face mere inches to yours. “You’ve been a very naughty girl”, he whispered. “To make up for it, you’re gonna suck me off while riding your new toy. And don’t you dare touch yourself or make a sound. Understood?” You eagerly nodded. “Good.”

He straightened himself, phone in hand, and left in on the desk. He lowered the seat and shifted once more, facilitating you pulling his pants and underwear down. His cock was already leaking some pre-cum, angry that it had been teased for so long.

You positioned yourself, guiding the toy back in your cunt, and once it was fully inside you, you took your boyfriend’s cock in your mouth, watching intently at how he reacted. Noah pressed his lips together, muffling a moan.

You kept sucking him, bouncing on the toy, using a hand to stimulate the rest of his shaft, and the other on his thigh to steady yourself. Thank god for microphones that filtered the unwanted noise, because even you were being quiet, there were still some sounds you couldn’t avoid producing, like the wet sound of your mouth over him, or the faint slaps every time you snapped your hips.

He abruptly closed the stream when he was about to cum. One of his hands flew to your head, keeping you in place while he came down your throat with a loud moan he was unable to suppress.

“Happy now?” he asked, still panting.

“Not yet. This was only a sneak peek”, you said, smiling. “I also bought a harness”, you informed him.

“What?” he said, confused.

“For Noah II. You always say you wished you had another cock to fuck my ass at the same time. Now you have it”, you explained.

He reopened the stream, acting like his Internet connection failed. He apologized to his friends, but said he was tired and was going to leave it there for the day.

He took your hand, helping you up and led you to the bedroom, where he proceeded to fuck you nice and hard doggy style, just like you wanted. Having him filling you up like that, in two holes at the same time, was a weird, albeit exciting, new feeling. Not so long after, your orgasm hit you harder than a demolition ball, leaving you exhausted. Noah still thrust a bit more, until he reached the climax too. You collapsed on the bed as soon as he was out of you.

“Okay, Noah II can stay”, he said, his breathing still shallow, his chest still rising rapidly, while lying next to you. “But don’t you ever dare to pull a stunt like that on me again.”

“Don’t ignore me for days at a time, and I won’t feel the need to”, you pointed out.

“Yeah, you’re right. This is pretty much my fault. I am sorry, babe, but I see you now”, he promised you.

“You better see me after what we just did”, you joked. You could almost still feel him inside you, like the ghost of a sensation.

“What about we shower, we clean everything, put on new sheets and go to bed early?” he suggested. “I want us to cuddle for a bit before sleeping.”

“Deal.”

“By the way, you looked so beautiful while I was fucking you, but next time I want to see your face, ok? The dildo goes in your ass, that way I can be on top” he whispered into your ear, once you were under the sheets again and his arm was around your rib cage, hand possessively grabbing one of your boobs.

“Missionary+!” you joked. “Fine by me, you know I love to see your pretty face while you come.”

“Same, babe, same.”

#poppy writes #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian smut #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian fanfic #bad omens fic #noah sebastian

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lovings4turn · 3 months

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୧ ‧₊˚ ☕️ ⋅ ☆ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭…

— in desperate need of caffeine, logan stumbles into the first cafe he comes across. little does he know, this will be the start of something great.

+ the first part of my whole latte love series , aka my child , so i hope you all enjoy <3 this is set in the uk , but reader isn't specified to be any particular nationality !

+ dividers from benkeibear !!

there were many sacrifices logan sargeant was willing to make in his life.

flying halfway across the world aged only eleven to pursue his dream of racing, for one. on a smaller scale, always allowing his brother dalton to ride shotgun on family trips, despite the fact that the backseat caused his legs to cramp up after a few hours.

but, no matter how late he was running, logan had promised himself he would never, ever deprive his body of a hot, caffeinated beverage before a meeting.

on this particular morning, though, logan was running especially late. normally, the jarring sound of the iphone alarm would snap him from his deep sleep within seconds, the noise sparking an instant feeling of dread within him even when it wasn't coming from his phone.

he’d learned that alex had a habit of setting alarms for various things throughout the day, before promptly forgetting what he’d set it for, leaving logan to go through the five stages of grief at least four times a weekend.

but it seemed today the universe had been a little bored, and so decided to find entertainment in burdening a poor, unsuspecting american race car driver with one minor inconvenience after another.

firstly, his alarm hadn't woken him up. correction: it had woken him up, just thirty minutes after it was supposed to.

secondly, his pride in managing to get dressed with an impressive five minutes to spare was quickly dissipated when he couldn't find his keys or wallet. the hunt had set him back another ten minutes (because why on earth would he think to check the cutlery drawer until he had run out of other possible options?).

and, for good measure, he'd tripped over his own welcome mat in his mad dash out of his apartment. so, yeah, it had been a morning, to put it lightly.

logan cursed to himself as he all but jogged down the busy street, eyes desperately scanning every building he passed in search of a cafe. he was too frantic to read any shop signs, but when he witnessed two girls walking out of a doorway clutching two paper cups, he knew he'd struck gold.

fucking finally.

logan offered the pair a tight lipped smile as he slipped past them and into the cafe, letting a sigh of relief escape his lips as the familiar smell of strong, freshly brewed coffee hit him.

this was more than worth being late for, he decided. he'd pick up a few extra coffees, as an apology, a courtesy of some kind. who could be mad with a cup of coffee in their hand? though logan figured he was allowed to be a little lax in his timings anyways, since he was no longer in his rookie year at williams. the team would forgive him quick enough.

trainer-clad feet led him towards the back of the fairly short queue leading up to the counter, and logan took the opportunity to slip his phone out from his coat pocket and shoot a quick text to alex. he hoped his teammate wouldn’t mind bearing the responsibility of updating the rest of the team on his whereabouts.

‘sorry, overslept. omw now though, bringing coffee as an apology and effort to keep my head’.

three laughing emojis quickly flared up onto logan’s lockscreen, and he took that as a positive sign.

it was only when logan placed his phone back into his pocket that he realised just how close he was to the front of the line, and immediately began rehearsing his order. sure, he ordered the same thing practically every single time he got coffee, but with the day he was having, he’d probably find a way to absolutely butcher the simple order.

all he needed was his oat milk latte, a black coffee for james, and some sort of sugary, overly sweet concoction for alex. he doubted this place sold the pumpkin spiced lattes that he loved to tease alex about ordering, so he’d just have to find the next best thing.

only, when he finally stepped up to the counter and opened his mouth to order, his mind went blank.

standing only a few feet in front of him was the most gorgeous person logan had ever seen, and considering he’d travelled the world and met countless different women and men over the years, that was an impressive achievement.

you, luckily, hadn’t noticed the internal reboot logan was experiencing, and focused instead on offering him a warm smile and greeting.

“morning! what can i get for you today?” you asked, finger poised and ready to input his order into the till in front of you.

logan barely managed to stop himself from physically shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, before pasting a crooked grin of his own onto his lips.

“good morning,” he returned, voice a little quiet before he cleared his throat and spoke up again. “can i just get a large black americano, large oat milk latte, and uh,” logan paused, eyes quickly scanning the board in front of him as he weighed up all of the different syrups available.

vanilla, caramel, hazelnut, and oh, thank god, cinnamon. that was close enough to pumpkin spice, right?

“and a large cinnamon latte, please. oh, to take out.” he finished, finally returning his eyes to you as you skillfully rang through his order.

“ah, great choice,” you commented, your smile still never having left your lips.

from the moment he’d opened his mouth, you’d quickly registered the accent, though opted not to comment on it despite how pleasing it was to your ears. of course there were no shortage of americans stepping into the cafe everyday, but there was something about his in particular that caused your ears to perk up a little more. maybe it was down to the person it was attached to, instead.

“and is that everything for you today?” you continued, snapping back into following what you’d aptly dubbed your ‘service speech’, a routine that ensured you didn't stumble over your words to every customer you served.

“that’s all, yeah.” logan responded with another small smile.

“perfect. that’ll be nine eighty there.”

"great, thank you."

logan quickly pulled out his phone to pay, though as his eyes caught the small jar sat on the counter, ‘tips’ scrawled onto a label in nice handwriting, he wished he was paying by cash. a flash of hope ran through him as he dug his hand into his jean pocket, and he had never been more relieved to feel some spare change brush against his fingertips.

barely even bothering to count how much was there – it looked to be about three pounds, but he could have been wrong - logan dropped it into the jar, offering you a sheepish smile. he felt a little foolish, paying by card and fumbling around for some cash, but the look on your face was more than worth it.

“thank you,” you repeated with a soft laugh. “should be ready for you in two minutes.”

logan couldn’t bring himself to speak again, so simply nodded and moved to walk to the point he would collect his drinks from. before that, though, he would grant himself one, small privilege.

his eyes quickly found your name badge, and he scanned it as subtly as he could before he walked away, the name replaying over and over in his mind like a broken record. but, no. broken records were annoying, an inconvenience, something to fix or throw out. your name was anything but.

not even five minutes after he’d placed his order were his drinks placed onto the counter, each labelled appropriately to save for any confusion. a cupholder had also been provided, which logan was eternally grateful for. he didn’t think the three drinks would survive the short journey otherwise. as a treat to himself, he took a small sip from his latte and almost swore. logan didn’t believe in magic, but he was sure that this coffee was somehow laced with it. never had a simple oat latte tasted so good to him.

and, he thought, a little embarrassingly, never had someone looked so good making one, either.

“see you later!” you called from behind the till, lifting your hand in a gesture that could be perceived as a wave, but also an attempt to smooth your hair a little.

logan nodded and gave you a smile. you would definitely see him later. he had just found his new favourite coffee shop, and he wasn’t going to give it up any time soon.

☕️ . . . there it is , the first instalment !! i loved writing this so much - and actually did so with a cinnamon iced latte of my own , as alex and i are actually one and the same ! hope you all enjoyed , and thank you for reading <3

#.° ༘🗝️⋆₊ becca’s drabbles #₊ ⊹ barista!reader #logan sargeant #logan sargeant x reader #logan sargeant x you #logan sargeant blurb #logan sargeant drabble #formula one x reader #formula one x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you

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ruershrimo · 4 months

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take me back (take me with you) | f. megumi x fem! reader | chapter 1: nostalgia

ao3 link for additional author's notes | playlist | next | m.list

chapter synopsis:

'“You’re my best friends forever,” you whisper to them. It’s the truth and it’s a promise. The train halts with that chuffing sound all trains produce, and your mother holds the luggage as well as your other hand as you wave to them goodbye.'--- ' It’s very late and I still have so much I want to talk about with you, but I’m really sleepy now. My eyes are barely open and my face is about to fall on the paper, I think. Just know that I'm thinking of the two of you all the time. XX

Love, [Name]

(P.S.: I still have your hair tie. Do you know if I’ll ever be able to give it back?)'

word count: ~5k; tws: none for now

2-4-2015

Dear Fushiguro Tsumiki,

How are you today? I’m so sorry that we haven’t talked in so long.

Forgive me for asking so many questions in this letter— I know too little about writing them; my mother is the one who asked me to write this saying that it would help me keep in touch with my friends or write better (either of the two, I can’t quite remember).

Between an urban area or a rural area, which would you prefer? I’ve had to go all around the place because of my mother and I’m still all the way in Tanegashima now. If you were to go from Tokyo to where I am, you’d have to either go for a drive lasting more than 20 hours or book a three hour flight.

I’ve only stayed in the city once— that was when we were still in the same school, and we could all fit in my aunt’s apartment since my father was outstationed for the whole year. But I digress. Personally I prefer the city. It all feels so modern, and so much less empty than how it’s like here on this little island. I mean, we have the space centre, so I can always visit that, but after the third or fourth time you’d probably get a little bored of it too.

I wish I could go to Tokyo again one day, though. I’d definitely take the time to visit you, too. I read on a pamphlet once of how pretty everything gets in Tokyo during winter time, especially during Christmas. We don’t really celebrate Christmas here but the pamphlet reminded me of that one December when we spent it at my aunt’s, we ate lots of KFC and had a little party while my aunt sang songs and drank enough alcohol to prove she had a liver of steel a million times over.

It’s nice to reminisce on these things, and it’s nice to reminisce on when we were still there too. I know I never told you this enough, but I was so happy when you walked up to me on the playground that day and asked if you wanted to be friends. I really, really liked your hair and wanted to ask you the same. I was just too shy to do it, and thought that if I would I’d end up messing things up and mortifying myself. I miss that and you and I miss 2010 and I miss Tokyo, and walking back from school with you and Megumi (you were like my cool older sister), and I really, really miss doing each other’s hair. It was the most joyful I’d ever been in my then 8 years of life and every day was a new fragment of happiness to keep in my heart like a picture in a locket.

Now I really want to go there again, and maybe go to the Shinjuku-Gyoen, or see the lights at night. I wish I could stay for a whole year and see how the trees can change from being highlighted cherry blossom pinks, to lush greens with summer dew on them, to golden ginkgo leaves. I’d keep them with me, too. I hope you can take me there one day and we can see everything together again. My apologies if I’m asking too much of you.

Also, how is Megumi? I miss him too. Is he the way he was, still? Is everything okay between you and him, still? Unlike elementary school, the boys in junior high are all taller than the girls, so since we’re the same age do you think he’d be taller than me too? Is he taller than you, or are you still one of the tallest girls in junior high like how you were in elementary school?

It’s very late and I still have so much I want to talk about with you, but I’m really sleepy now. My eyes are barely open and my face is about to fall on the paper, I think. Just know that I’m thinking of the two of you all the time. XX

Love, [Name]

(P.S.: I still have your hair tie. Do you know if I’ll ever be able to give it back?)

28-2-2011

The train to the airport is arriving in a minute, and you’re sure your mother won’t let you just wait for the next one, so you’re stuck clutching your little luggage bag as you look at Tsumiki and Megumi, that inseparable pair, and their snowy-haired “benefactor” (whatever that means. You think he’s more like their father sometimes, though).

Even if you knew it was inevitable and that this day would eventually come, especially with your leaving Tokyo being pulled even earlier than you thought it would, a part of you pretended that you’d still get to stay with them for a little while longer. In Tokyo you’d solidified your place and built your roots— you had friends, were doing alright in school and had even begun to be less anxious about everything. Now you’d be uprooted again, you thought as your fists trembled, Now you’d be back to square one.

2011 had started as a busy year— your father had begun preparations to move somewhere else where you and your mother could follow him and the three of you would be together again. It was busy for Tsumiki, too, who had more school matters to tend to due to her being one of the best, most well-rounded students in her year (you didn’t know much of the details).

…it had also begun with you seeing a dog when you were alone with Megumi once. It had these unique markings on its head, with alabaster fur and jaundice-hued eyes. And Megumi then had a panicked look in his eye, asked how and why you could see them as well as whether you’d seen them before, which you suppose caused him to be busier after that, too. Tsumiki and Megumi’s benefactor visited you and your mother the night after, asking to speak with your mother and your mother alone. He paused before you, almost shocked, you supposed, but you couldn’t see through his pitch black sunglasses (he was one weird guy, seriously— pitch black sunglasses? Really?). To which she frowned, as the man uttered that you could be a “window”, but that you could still be able to use “cursed energy”, or something. You’d heard of neither of those, and weren’t able to eavesdrop or discern anything else they’d said.

Then nobody else mentioned the dog anymore.

If you questioned any of them, you’d only be told that the dog was a stray, and that those markings must have been a particularly special birthmark. Yet you knew it was all a lie, but after multiple tries you gave up on wondering.

When you’d first learned you’d be moving yet again, you cried and screamed for your mother to let you stay, and for what felt like hours. After relaying this to Tsumiki, she just put her hand on yours before hugging you— always wise, always kind, always smiling, you can’t say this enough about her. Megumi patted your back before she pulled him in as well, and for once he didn’t shove her hand away. You couldn’t even bother to be confused at that— you just continued to weep as Tsumiki comforted you, whispering, “I can’t promise I’ll always be able to talk to you, but I’ll try my best to keep in touch when I can. And even if we don’t, we’ll always be friends, okay? So we’ll meet again someday, don’t forget that, okay, [Name]?”

A day after that Megumi told you to stay safe. Nearly ordered you to swear you’d stay safe and protected, always. He said that the world was dangerous since it was full of dangerous creatures and people who could kill you at any moment, but as long as you were on an island like the one you were moving to, you’d be fine. You furrowed your brow at that as he held your hand and felt him squeeze it— subconsciously, most likely.

“Well,” Tsumiki starts, a tinge of sadness in her tone, her eyes slightly swollen. Megumi’s expression is unreadable but his fists are balling the fabric of his shirt and his leg is shaking. It makes you want to sob and cling to both of them and you know if you did they wouldn’t ever let go, “I guess this is goodbye, [Name]…”

Before you realise it, tears start pooling in your eyes and soon they’re trickling down your face uncontrollably, just like the day when you’d first met her. “We’ll still be friends, right?” You won’t leave me, right?

“Mhm!” Tsumiki smiles— she was always smiling, always, even when she was about to cry along with you. Her lip was trembling and for a second you swore you could detect that in the ever-stoic Megumi, too. “It’s okay, you don’t have to worry. We’ll be friends forever, so we’ll surely see each other soon enough,” Tsumiki assures you, close to sniffling, “We made a promise to always be friends, right? So you’ll see the two of us again in just a few years’ time no matter what.”

“Okay,” you sniff, “I’ll see the two of you when we’re all grown up, and… and I’ll be taller, too! I promise I’ll visit Tokyo next time!”

“...that’s good,” Megumi says, his leg still shaking discreetly, joining you and Tsumiki’s conversations in a way he’d rarely done.

Tsumiki nods, “Yeah. That sounds really, really good, [Name]. Wait—! Let me give you something. You can call it a gift!”

She takes it off, and her hair unfurls like flowers from bouquets after they’re untied, placing the red-ribbon hair tie securely in your palm.

“Your hair tie?” you ask, “No, it’s okay—!”

“Please, just… just keep it, okay? It’s a gift from Megumi and I to you, [Name]!”

Then you’re in her embrace again as you clutch the hair tie, while after a little hesitation Megumi joins in and you swear you can see their benefactor smiling— not just the smile he had when you first saw him, this one in particular seemed proud, fatherly, the same way your father did when you told him about how you were able to read through a whole book with beginners’ kanji in it.

“You’re my best friends forever,” you whisper to them. It’s the truth and it’s a promise.

The train halts with that chuffing sound all trains produce, and your mother holds the luggage as well as your other hand as you wave to them goodbye.

15-3-2011

The phone continues to vibrate in your hands as you anxiously tap your foot on the ground. You’re sure it’s going to end up sore. Frantically, you press it almost forcefully to your ear when it stops ringing. “Tsumiki, Megumi!”

“[Name]!”

“Are you alright? I saw the footage of the earthquake on the news, are you safe? Were you and Megumi evacuated, are you all safe? Please tell me whether you’re safe—!”

“Megumi, it’s [Name]!— Don’t worry, we’re safe now.”

Relieved, you sigh, “That’s good, that’s good,” you say, “It must’ve been really scary…”

“Mhm— everything started shaking as if we were on some boat in the middle of the sea and the waves started getting wilder, and it was like the ground was rumbling.”

You shiver. “That sounds so scary…— I’m glad you’re safe, though. I don’t know why stuff like that has to happen so quickly sometimes, and so suddenly, too. And it takes so many people along with it. I thought I could’ve lost the two of you.”

“Well, we made a promise,” she tells you, “So don’t worry. —Oh! Megumi wants to talk to you. Here, Megumi.”

“Are you alright?” he inquires, “Have you seen anything scary in the countryside?”

“Huh? Oh, no, I haven’t seen anything. Why?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to know.” Now that sounds like a bold-faced lie.

“Uh-huh, okay.”

-20-5-2011-

“Hello? Is this Tsumiki? I need to ask if she’s alright—”

“Oh, little [Name]?” a man says over the phone— the benefactor, you remember, “So sorry, she’s pretty busy right now… call next time, okay?”

-21-5-2011-

“Hello? This is the Fushiguro house contact, right?”

“Sorry, Tsumiki’s busy at the moment. Me too, actually.”

“Megumi!” you smile, bringing the phone closer to your cheek in excitement, “How is everything?”

“Good, to say the least,” he replies, “We’re just a bit busy. Sorry, but I’ve to hang up soon.”

“Oh, oh-okay! Bye bye, Megumi!”

“Bye.”

-13-7-2011-

“Hi, [Name] speaking. I called twice last month and a few days ago. Are you still busy?”

“A little— well, Tsumiki is,” the voice on the other side says. You know it’s not Tsumiki, not yet at least. “She’s really sorry, [Name].”

“No, no, it’s okay! I don’t want to bother any of you either, so thank you for telling me!”

“Well, if you want I can try to get Tsumiki right now,” the voice offers.

“Really? Thank you so much!”

The pause that ensues after is followed by the fifteen happiest minutes of your life since February this year.

“[Name]? Is that you?”

“Yeah! Hi, Tsumiki!”

She gasps slightly in the way that children do when in awe or when someone finds out they’ll be eating their favourites for lunch. “Hello!”

“How are you?” you ask.

“I’m good! Really busy, though, so I’m really sorry if I can’t call you as often… but everything’s been alright. You?”

“Mm,” you hum, nodding your head even if she can’t see it, “I’m good, too!”

-18-8-2011-

You don’t know when you started heading to the phone and keying in the number, doing everything but ringing it. You’re busy, too— you’ve less time now to ring them up, and the last time you did, Tsumiki still apologised but sounded a little distant, just that one bit too busy to be able to tend to you. One step farther away from you. And Megumi was seldom ever the one by the phone. Still, you could understand why. You supposed they always had something going on that you never understood or never asked about. That would explain the incident with the unusually marked dog. No, they weren’t sketchy, but there was definitely something they must have known about the world that you didn’t.

Now you don’t know if you can even muster the courage to talk to you or write to you. The distance between you has widened exponentially and you hesitate just a bit more every time you hold the phone and press its buttons.

Then the phone rings, and after you hesitate once more, you put it down.

9-2-2016

If there’s one thing you remember from about half of your life ago, it’s that your first crush was probably Fushiguro Megumi.

You’re honestly surprised it wasn’t actually his sister. That over Tsumiki and her abundant compassion and beautiful soul, you’d feel your heart leaping and overflowing with warmth because of him instead. Constantly angry, never for once not irascible, always serious and aloof. You’re sure that if you’d met him now instead of back then you’d find him some asshole who you just wouldn’t be able to understand— why’d he always have to seem so angry?

Yet it was a struggle, trying to understand him. It really was. Maybe you didn’t really have to understand anyone, much less Megumi. He never ceased being so serious and easily angered but you could tell from his eyes that he must have not intended to hurt anyone; half of the time you understood him: like when you could see that glint in your eyes that replaced what would have been a ghost of a smile on his lips, the other half of the time you didn’t: like whenever he shoved Tsumiki’s hand off his shoulder, and Tsumiki just continued to smile. Now, that really confused you. You’d thought about that for days before coming to the conclusion that you’d probably never find an answer.

Conversely, Tsumiki was kind and patient. If you’d met her now you’d have fallen in love with her immediately and she probably wouldn’t even notice in that terribly goodhearted, unknowingly innocent way of hers.

In retrospect it should have been more obvious: he scowled at you and if it were anyone else who did so to you back then you would have merely cried and closed in on yourself, yet you never did when it came to him. You just continued to stick to him like those kind of glue residuals left behind after you take a sticker off a table or a price tag from the back cover of a book. You were probably annoying like that. And to some degree you suppose he’d given you his own form of special treatment by letting you do so anyway.

If you’d known what you were feeling back then you probably wouldn’t have admitted anything, anyway. Probably you would’ve kept it all within you, quiet and unnoticed, trying to drown yourself into life’s backdrop like an insect engulfed in resin.

But you’re older now, more mature and slightly more outspoken; you’re going to try to be confident and meet someone, this one person alone who you can only meet now without his sister there just because you used to have a crush on him and—

You don’t think you’d be able to admit anything either. Yet to yourself he’s the first. He always will be, and you’re not sure whether that sounds pathetic, miserable or disgustingly, hopelessly delusional, considering you don’t even want to pursue anything yourself.

It’s going to be Valentine's Day soon and you’re quite sure that most of your school friends are making Valentine’s chocolates for their boyfriends or their crushes. In all truthfulness, you might as well not feel blue about it— you’re 14, that’s still pretty young, you don’t have to rush things like relationships or confessions through and you’ve been told to focus on your studies instead— but the thought that you’re going to be alone is still kind of depressing.

10-4-2015

Dear [Name],

Don’t apologise— it’s partially my fault. I ended up being really busy that year due to something we had to deal with.

But anyway, it’s been so long! I miss you every day as well!

Megumi and I’ve been great, and I hope you’ve been too. It’s been a long four years since we last talked (it’s already 2015, how time flies!), but you still sound the same. It’s like you’ve got better handwriting now, though!

Aside from the fact that I’ve been swarmed with stuff to do (I joined the student council, yay!), junior high has been okay, to say the least— and hey, I’m still pretty tall, you know? Plus, a lot of the teachers say I’m surprisingly tall for my age, heheh. Things are going the same as always. I’ve got accustomed to the loads of homework we have now too. But it’s like Megumi’s been having a problem lately— he’s getting into fights, beating people up, things like that. I wouldn’t call him a delinquent, though: moreso someone who beats the delinquents up instead. I know what he wants to do and why he does it, but I don’t want him to fight other people and get himself or others hurt.

I’ve tried to tell him this before, to be honest. I’ve tried it many times but each time I must sound more annoying to him than the last— I don’t want to force him to do anything, though, and I understand that part of why he does this is because of his own ideals. I just want him to not raise his hand against others. So I have to resort to this.

Sorry for spilling it all on paper like this… I just wanted someone to talk about this to, and I thought you would listen to me, I suppose. Sometimes it’s hard— sometimes I really do feel like his parent instead of his sister and it makes me feel so lonely, really.

Oh dear, what do I do to make him hear me, seriously…

Anyway, I totally get what you mean— I’ve stayed in Tokyo all my life, but I’m sure that if I was uprooted and had to live somewhere else I’d have lots of trouble. Tokyo to me is my home, and my whole life is here. Moving somewhere else would probably shatter it completely, I think.

And please visit when you can! Maybe if your mother allows it, we can come to us instead, one day! And it’s not like we can’t visit you either. Our door’s always open. Once this school year ends, perhaps we could stay with you for a night or two! (If you would have us, of course).

Besides that, I don’t really have much to say. I did have a good day today, though. I went out with some of my friends from school after our classes ended and we ate some donuts. They were so tasty!!! Honestly, whenever you have the time, I really recommend going there with some of your friends after school!!

Regardless, I think this is all I have to say in this letter. I promise I’ll try my utmost best to always set aside time to write to you!!! Get some good rest whenever you can, okay? Miss you always!

Sincerely,

Tsumiki

(P.S.: Do you have an email or a phone number of your own yet? If so, please shoot me an email or give me a call! I can reply more there since I have those now and can use those instead of always relying on our house contact. You can keep the hair tie, too, by the way! It can be like a memoir (*^▽^*). And it’s for you, after all!)

13-3-2015

You remember seeing a little dog one time back in your hometown when you were around six or seven years old.

It was a tiny little thing, with the fluffiest black fur you’d ever stroked, and though every second it was barking louder than your mother could ever handle, it was adorable and seldom threatened to bite anyone. And it liked you— it never barked at you and let you shower it with pets despite how much it had frightened you initially.

He was irritable but calm, someone who frowned and scolded but never raised his hand against anyone— not even that “benefactor” of his who you’d never heard him talk about without mentioning how much he’d like to punch him someday. You genuinely don’t think he’s ever done so, either. He doesn’t seem like the type: from what you remember, if he were to think he’d hurt someone he knew or evidently cared about— as much as he’d like to deny this, however— he would blame everything on himself, you think. He’d feel the guilt rake through his body and lacerate his skin, piercing through his ribs. Yet he’d keep living, and he wouldn’t tell anyone about it; he’d be so quietly miserable.

That’s what he was like: quietly miserable. There’s a certain sorrow in the way he does things; you could tell this from the start despite how young and inept at articulating yourself you were at that age. But you’d always known and sensed that there was a sadness running through him, coursing through his veins, one that you could feel like heat from the warm blood beneath one’s skin.

Today you wonder if he’s the same, if he still seems like the saddest person you’ve ever met, if he still seems like he would have been the saddest and most doleful had he not always tried to act as if otherwise, living defiantly against it. If he hadn’t always been able to keep living while suffering quietly like a child with nothing but muffled sobs in the desolate corner of an empty classroom.

But at eight you thought maybe you could liken Megumi to a puppy. Or something like that. He certainly reminded you of that all-bark-no-bite puppy from the past. You wondered how it was now, whether it was still being fed and taken care of.

Tsumiki was vastly different, though— the kindest girl you ever knew, with neat, soft hair and the type of handwriting all the girls in her class wanted to have. She was always smiling, always kind— you thought she was immensely wise for a girl around your age; you always wanted to be as amazing of a person as she was: always hardworking, always clever, always kind and forgiving, no matter what.

…you don’t even know why you’re thinking about some kids you met once who you’ll probably never see again. Just two kids who you never kept in touch with. Or at least never tried to. You had their contact— you tried talking to Tsumiki a few times, but for some reason she could only ever reply once or twice (she apologised profusely for not being available any time she picked up as well), and as time passed the way the distance between the two of you grew, by the summer of 2011 you’d begun holding a telephone close to your ear without keying any number in it, as if clinging onto it would provide you with any sort of closure.

You miss them, though: smiley Tsumiki and frowny Megumi.

Leaning back into the mattress, you trace your fingers over the hair tie on your wrist, fingers rubbing against each thread of fabric in its red ribbon.

Could you even talk to them or face them anymore after ceasing contact with them for years, though? Heck, you don’t even know whether they’re alive or not. Would they be angry at you? Disappointed? Feeling as if they’d been wronged or left behind?

Still, you miss them. You really do.

Your mother’s calls bring you downstairs, and you eat until your stomach is full before washing your plate. The only other step in your routine now is to head up and retreat to your room again.

“Come down, [Name], could you?” your mother says, interrupting your trip back up, “I just want to talk to you for a second.”

Now, that… that was a bit strange. Your mother rarely ever asked you to talk to her. You spent enough time with each other as is, doing almost everything else besides being in school or at work in the same house, even if it never meant asking about each others’ day. It just was never part of the conversations you had with each other. You’d ask where she wanted you to throw things or how you could cook something, but she’d never go out of her own way to learn about your own day since you were about nine or ten, and it wasn’t like you ever did either. Perhaps she was trying to make the effort to?

“What is it?”

“You like writing, honey?”

“I mean, I guess so?” you reply hesitantly, “As long as it’s not for school or my grades don’t rely that heavily on a task, writing can be pretty fun.”

“Good, good,” she remarks, nodding her head, “Actually, I recently found something you may be interested in online. You still have your friend and her brother’s house contact, right?” she questioned. Instantly you know which friend she’s referring to and say yes— how could you not, after all? “Ever heard of pen pals, darling?”

Which brings you to where you are now: your mother leaning by the door frame of your room as you’re hunched over the table writing the letter. Surprisingly, she really seemed to care about this, even preparing the prettiest paper you’d ever seen, with pastel pink patterns printed on the paper’s edges, and though you struggled with what to say it first the words have begun spilling out of you despite how late it’s started to get.

You wonder whether she’ll reply. She probably will, though, but a fragile part of yourself surmises that she may not, and although you’d like to talk to her again you fear that because of the time that’s passed things may just not be the same anymore. You wonder if the years have made the three of you infinitely different than your eight and nine year old selves.

But that was growth, right? So you had to grow and learn how to talk to her, learn how to face her without thinking that she’d be angered or frustrated, or anything like that. And even if she did, even if it would hurt you, you’d be able to live. The world would keep spinning and all that would be lost were two friends who you lived without for about four years, ceteris paribus. Who could claim that the seventy or so years after those four would be any different?

That’s why you took the pen and paper and started to write, telling yourself you’d face it and finish the letter no matter what. Even if it was short. Even if it wouldn’t be enough to express four years’ worth of unspoken words, from funny things that had happened in school, or what you thought of whatever was on the news, or how your parents had gotten you a new phone.

As your eyelids gradually grow heavier, you watch how you fill two whole pages in the handwriting you have— you wish it could have been at least a tad bit more similar to Tsumiki’s, who never needed any boxes or lines to write completely straight and uniform for each character as if copying excerpts from finely printed books to the letter.

Soon, you’re reaching the end of the letter, determined to keep the handwriting legible even if you feel like plopping your head on the table and falling asleep— to some degree you still need it to look presentable, after all.

“(P.S.: I still have your hair tie. Do you know if I’ll ever be able to give it back?)”

taglist:

@bakananya, @sindulgent666, @shartnart1, @lolmais, @mechalily, @pweewee, @notsaelty, @nattisbored

(please send an ask/state in the notes if you’d like to join! if I can't tag your username properly, I've written it in italics. so sorry for any trouble!)

#it's finally up :)#yayy #take me back (take me with you)#jjk megumi #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #fushiguro megumi x reader #megumi fluff #megumi angst #jjk x fem!reader #fem!reader #fushiguro tsumiki #fushiguro megumi #megumi #ruer writes

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cherryredcheol · 6 days

Text

me!

tldr: i promise that you'll never find another like me a/n: i unironically love this song. and lover is in my top 3 taylor albums. don't fight with me about it. tw: mentions of drinking/drunkenness (not shown)

i know you never get just what you see but i will never bore you, baby

laying in bed, seungkwan thought it was almost eerie how quiet the apartment was, but he was grateful for it. last night it was packed to the brim, bursting at the seams with friends there to celebrate your birthday. songs were sung, music was blasted, and the laughs were abundant. now all seungkwan could hear was the steady sound of your breathing next to him, the distant hum of traffic outside, and the pounding in his head. the sun was bleeding through the curtains, too bright and too warm. his skin felt sticky and sweaty. which was probably due to the hangover he would be nursing for the rest of the day.

seungkwan had no idea what time it was. the two of you could’ve been asleep in that bed for a few hours or a few days. he was sure you’d feel even worse than him when you finally woke up. you had gone hard last night and would be reaping what you had sown today as a consequence. he had a fleeting thought about climbing out of bed to get some medicine from the cabinet in the en suite but just as he was about to actually do it, you shifted on the mattress curling closer to him, as if seeking his comfort. he couldn’t leave you in that state, could he? he didn’t think so.

you had surprised him last night. not usually a heavy drinker, you hadn’t been that drunk in a long time. he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen you like that, if at all. he probably should’ve kept a closer eye on you and helped you pace yourself. but when you turned to him, already slightly tipsy after two shots thrown back in quick succession, lips wet with liquor, and eyes sparkling with unadulterated birthday joy, he couldn’t tell you no when you asked him to do the third one together. but three shots suddenly turned into two bottles of soju each and by then all bets were off. seungkwan has always had a hard time telling you no, and apparently, that still stands even when you’re both wasted.

“i can feel you staring at me.” seungkwan was startled from his thoughts by the sound of your raspy morning voice, made worse by the lingering sting of alcohol.

he laughed and pressed a soft kiss to your temple, hoping to ease some of the pain he’s sure you’re feeling, “i’m trying to decide if i should risk crawling out of bed for water and medicine or if our love for one another is enough to cure this.”

this time you laughed, wincing slightly from the jostling of your head you pointed out, “our love is strong but it’s not magic.”

“i don’t know, feels pretty magical to me.” eyes on you, he watched a blush creep across your cheek that wasn’t squished into the pillow, the exact reaction he hoped his cheesy comment would have.

eyes still trained on your closed ones, he wasn’t surprised when your soft voice reached his ears after a few moments of stillness, asking the question he was already expecting, “can we just lay in bed today? i know it’ll be boring but-”

seungkwan cut you off, “i’m never bored with you, cutie.”

you ran after me and called my name i never wanna see you walk away

soonyoung probably didn’t mean anything by the offhanded comment about seungkwan’s repeated choreography mistake but he took it personally. today had been so long already and it wasn’t over yet. he was desperate to leave the practice room. craving fresh air and some quality time with you. sweet you, who was sitting on the floor, back pressed to the wall, head tilted down, enthralled by whatever was on the screen cradled in your hands. well, you were captivated until voices started getting loud.

you look up from your phone to see the flurry of seungkwan’s hands moving animatedly, decibel climbing with every word. just at the peak of the crescendo he heaves a sigh, turns on his heel, and promptly exits.

the tension left behind is thick and uncomfortable but you’re on your feet following him out the door before it could even slam in its frame.

you could see him down the hallway, the distance between you two growing with each of his purposeful steps. “seungkwan-” you called out to him gently, not trying to make anything worse, but wanting him to know you were behind him.

he turned at the sound of your voice, the frustration on his features softening into fondness as he watched you catch up to him.

as soon as you’re close enough he reaches out to you, fingers intertwining, and suddenly he felt exhausted from all the effort he had put forth today. here in the hallway with you was the first moment since he left you in bed this morning where he felt like he could relax.

looking at him and seeing no signs of the earlier outburst you decide to test the waters, “are you alright? need to talk?”

seungkwan closes his eyes, squeezes your hand, and releases a slow breath. with a small nod of his head, he reopens his eyes, meeting your own, “i had you meet me here so we could go out to dinner tonight and it would’ve all been great because we were supposed to get done with practice an hour ago except i keep messing up and it’s keeping everyone here late and you’ve been sitting on the floor and i just-” he closes his eyes again, tilting his head back and releasing a hard breath through his nose.

you barely hear him when he says, “i’m so tired.”

this time you squeeze his hand briefly before releasing it. choosing instead to wrap your arms around his middle, offering wordless support as he wraps his own arms around you and pulls you closer. you two stay like that for a moment and when seungkwan has finally collected himself he whispers again, “do i have to go in there and apologize or can we just leave and pretend this never happened?”

sensing his teasing tone, you giggle, “oh kwan, you definitely owe them an apology. storming out of the room is pretty childish, not cute.”

he pulled back, looking incredulous, “what do you mean ‘not cute’? it was cute enough to work on you! you came running right after me!”

you laughed again, “yeah that’s because i never want to see you walk away.”

i promise that nobody’s gonna love you like me

seungkwan eased the car to a stop at the red light, looking over at you in the passenger seat. your head was turned, looking out the window admiring the bright colors of early summer that have bloomed across seoul.

glancing at the light to make sure it was still red, he broke the comfortable silence, “any idea where i’m taking you?”

you turned, meeting his teasing gaze with your own, “obviously not. that’s the whole point of a surprise, isn’t it?”

he held your eyes for a minute, the moment only broken by the sound of a polite beep! alerting him to the change in signal. he focused his attention back on the task of driving, a feat in and of itself that was near herculean when he could feel your eyes lingering on his profile.

another few moments of quiet passed when he spoke again, “would you like to know where i’m taking you?”

you couldn’t help but continue to tease him, “it kind of seems like you want to tell me. not the other way around.”

he scoffed, “i do want to tell you! i planned this whole thing for you. i know you’re going to love it.”

you smiled, “you better tell me then. i’m dying to know.”

throughout this whole exchange, you had been too busy watching seungkwan’s expressive face and didn’t even notice the car had stopped. only when you felt seungkwan shift the gear into park did you look around.

“you brought me to a…parking lot in a random seoul neighborhood. cool.”

seungkwan shifted in his seat to turn and look at you, “this is not just any parking lot in a random seoul neighborhood, cutie. this is the parking lot for museum kimchikan!”

your eyes widened in disbelief and a smile stretched across your face, “you brought me to the kimchi museum? holy shit, i love you!”

you were giggling and unbuckling your seatbelt in a flash, hurrying to get out of the car and into the museum you had seen on instagram a few weeks ago. it had come up on your feed as something unique to do and you had promptly sent the post to seungkwan, telling him how cool it would be to go and learn the history of such a staple food. he hadn’t seemed that interested and you’d kind of forgot about it so when he planned this surprise date for you two, you had not been expecting this at all.

crossing the parking lot, fingers clasped together, you pulled seungkwan to a stop, “thanks for planning this for me. it means a lot that you remembered.”

he blushed, giving away how touched he was by your words despite his simple answer, “of course i remembered, i love you.”

#seventeen imagines #seventeen #seventeen fluff #seventeen scenarios #svt #svt x reader #seungkwan #seungkwan imagine #boo seungkwan #seungkwan imagines #seungkwan fluff #seungkwan scenarios #seungkwan x reader

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skribbyposts · 3 months

Text

Corset-Trained

HEY YALL!!! comes back after like 2 weeks and drops this. hgnhg small waist Sanji gives me brain worms (they do the same to Zoro trust) so have this fic about it!!1111!!!!! It's also up on my Ao3 if you wanna view it there!! okay buckle in children ~~~~~~~~~~~

Sanji loves dressing nice.

Ever since he was old enough to fit in them, he’d never step foot outside without at least a dress shirt on. The constant dressing up was more of an insecurity problem than anything, when he was younger.

Coming back from Momoiro, Sanji’s learned a lot more about himself than he anticipated - now he just wears suits ‘cause they look really good on him. Sanji has a nice figure. He knows he does. He keeps lean because of the way he fights, and the three-pieces he wears do wonders for showing off his legs.

When he feels like it, he’ll even put on a corset underneath his button-down sometimes. he’s noticed that it’s gotten easier to put them on in the mornings the longer he wears them, and he doesn’t necessarily mind his waist getting smaller with time.

Looks like someone else noticed too.

~o0o~

For some context, It starts when his crew finally reunites.

Reuniting in Sabaody surrounded by the crewmates he’s missed for so long feels so rejuvenating. Everybody’s laughing, gossiping, and he feels home again, for the first time in two years.

Everyone’s almost here, besides the marimo - lost in transit, Sanji guesses. Luffy’s already complaining about his empty stomach, whining for Sanji to make him something

Sanji prepares to kick the idiot in the head, when suddenly the ground shakes.

He looks over to the commotion, and finds two halves of a ship crashing into the shoreline. Unfortunately he has a lucky guess as to what - or rather, who - caused this.

“Shit,” Sanji mutters. Why is it always something with that algae-headed fool?

As it turns out, Sanji was right. upon returning to Sabaody (without his eye, might he add), Zoro had somehow arrived first and proceeded to get himself lost on a completely different ship. Instead of getting off and looking for his crew like a normal person, he cleaved the entire thing in two to ‘get to shore faster’.

“It’s been two years, and you’re still as much of an idiot as the last time i saw you, marimo.” Sanji huffs, pulling said marimo by his ear towards the Sunny.

On the contrary, Zoro has not said a word since Sanji picked him up from the ruins of the ship he destroyed. It’s a little concerning, considering all the pair really do is bicker when they’re together.

Sanji turns around briefly to examine the man he’s dragging behind him. “are you even paying attention to me, or has all the algae on your head clogged up your ears?”

Zoro stumbles over his words before he splutters something something about Sanji’s collar being wrinkly, which the other man knows is a lie (because he steamed his button down this morning…)

Even so, Sanji narrows his eyes at the green-haired idiot before feeling around the collar of his shirt just in case. “No it’s not, you idiot!” He hisses, and flicks Zoro on the side of the head, and they fall into their usual banter as they head back to the rest of the crew.

Every time he looks back at Zoro to deliver a scathing remark, though, he swears something’s…off about the other. He leaves it be for the time being, hoping it’ll resolve itself.

~o0o~

It does not resolve itself, unfortunately for Sanji.

Everyone boards the Sunny joyfully, the ship exploding in laughter as they make their hasty escape from Sabaody. They settle back onto the ship in a matter of hours, and it’s like they never left.

A few days later, Sanji finishes up stocking up the galley’s storage room earlier than he expected, so he makes smoothies for the crew as a sort of welcome-back gift. He leaves his jacket in the galley because it’s pretty sunny where they are right now.

As he bustles around the ship and hands the drinks out to the crew, he feels a set of eyes boring into his back from the edge of the ship. It seems the marimo’s developed a staring problem - ironic, seeing(HA!) that the man is missing an eye.

When he comes around to deliver Zoro’s plain matcha, Zoro’s eyes are closed and he acts like he wasn’t staring a hole directly between Sanji’s shoulder blades the whole time the blond was on deck. Sanji pauses to study the other man for a moment, wondering if Zoro knows his fluttering eyelashes betray the fact that he’s awake.

“Hey. Hey, you lazy fuck!” Sanji kicks at Zoro’s shoulder, careful not to jostle the drink he has in his hand.

“ What? ” Zoro snaps, his eye snapping open.

Sanji crouches down to place the drink next to him, and levels Zoro with a suspicious glare; like trying to say ‘ you’re not slick ’, but telepathically.

Zoro seems to realize what’s gong on, and instead of answering he takes an obnoxiously long (and fucking loud) sip as he stares the blonde down with a blank face.

Blue stares into gray (were Zoro’s lashes always that long?) as Sanji tries to puzzle out what exactly is going on with the marimo. The longer he stares, the more he notices Zoro’s eyes creeping downwards, and the blush materializing on Zoro’s (and subsequently, his own) face, and Sanji looks away because what the fuck ? Is he? Doing that for?!

Sanji straightens up with a huff, trying to cover his embarrassment as he scuttles back to the galley.

When he looks outside the window after a few minutes of calming himself down, he sees the swordsman looking down at his hands, doing…something. He’s cupping both hands into a C-shape and putting them closer and farther apart like he’s gauging something.

What a fucking weirdo , Sanji thinks, and tries to preoccupy himself with something else in the galley.

~o0o~

It all comes to a head one night a week after.

Sanji’s washing dishes after dinner, the rest of the crew presumably settled down and tucked into bed. He’s frantically scrubbing ketchup crust off one of his favorite plates when he hears the door crack open.

“Luffy, you’re not-” Sanji turns around, expecting to defend the fridge with his life - and it’s not Luffy.

Instead, It’s Zoro, who hasn’t come into the galley to steal booze in like… a while. There goes Sanji’s hopes that he might’ve broken that habit.

“Oh,” Sanji says, while the other man stands awkwardly in the doorway. “You’re more welcome in here than he is, I guess.” He nods to the chair, gesturing for Zoro to sit as he turns back around to continue washing dishes.

Zoro sits, evident by the scraping of the chair. “Don’t go looking through my cabinets, marimo,” Sanji quips, “I’ll get you a bottle as soon as I’m done.”

Zoro grunts an affirmative from behind him, and Sanji finishes washing up the last few cups and shit before wiping his hands off and heading towards the wine cabinet.

Sanji feels Zoro’s eyes on him as he bends down to reach for a bottle of rum, and here’s where things start to spiral.

Sanji decides this is the perfect time to have a talk . So, he sets down two glasses on the table where Zoro is sitting, and fills each to the brim before slamming the bottle down derisively.

“Okay,” Sanji starts. “I know you’re a man of few words, or whatever, but you really gotta start talking. Now.”

Zoro snorts into his drink, setting it down before speaking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, like the smug shit he is.

“Yes you do.”

“Nope. I don’t.”

“You’re fucking insufferable, you know that?” Sanji gripes, taking a long sip from his glass. “Let me lay it out for you. You either tell me what’s going on, or, stop staring at me before i take out your other eye, asshole.”

Zoro stares resolutely at the table, picking up his glass of rum and mumbling something into the rim without making eye contact with the man across from him.

“What’s that, marimo?”

“I just wanted to see something,” the green-haired man says, a little louder this time.

“Well, if it was that simple, you could’ve just asked.” Sanji shrugs. “Stop being weird about it.”

Sanji hears something faintly like 'no, I couldn’t have' from the marimo before he sighs in resignation and gets up. “Cook, stand up.”

Sanji is confused. “What? Why?”

One of Zoro’s hands move to pinch the bridge of his nose. “This is me asking! Just…do it.”

Oh, so that’s where this is going. “Marimo, even without my shoes on, I’m still taller than you.”

“Okay, whatever, come closer.” Zoro says, still managing to look anywhere but Sanji’s eyes.

Sanji expects a hand at his forehead to, you know, measure height. Instead, Zoro does that weird C- shape he’s been doing with his hands all week, and Sanji feels a warmth around his midsection through the light blue dress shirt he has on.

Zoro’s staring with half-lidded eyes at something and Sanji follows his gaze lower, as they both look at the tan hands resting around his waist.

Zoro’s thumbs touch - no, they overlap - where they rest above Sanji’s navel, and oh, oh .

The two stand there, stock still, in complete silence, and Sanji can't help the fast beating of his heart as his mind conjures up the image of those firm, calloused hands touching there without the stiff cotton in between -

The silence in the galley is broken by the drip of liquid, and Sanji belatedly realizes it’s coming from him as a splat of red falls onto Zoro’s hands.

“ Hoooo-ly shit, ” Zoro whispers, and, yeah, holy shit is right, because this has unlocked something in Sanji that he was very unprepared for.

Sanji snaps out of whatever fucking trance he was in and frantically tries to save his shirt, moving to get a paper towel from the counter (and mourning the loss of Zoro’s palms touching his waist). “Fuck, fuck! ” Sanji dabs at the stain on the front of his shirt, but to no avail. He settles for wiping his face clean instead.

When Sanji turns around to face him, The marimo is staring at him with wide eyes and the deepest flush Sanji thinks he’s ever had. “Okay, okay.” This is fine , Sanji thinks, and takes the opportunity to stride up to the table they were sitting at and down not only his rum, but Zoro’s as well.

He coughs as the liquid goes down his throat, and he kind of regrets doing that, but he needs the courage (and the chance he won’t remember this tomorrow).

“Cook-”

Sanji holds up a hand. “Don’t - don’t say anything.” Zoro falls silent.

He takes a deep breath in, collecting himself before he speaks.“Is that a thing? For you?.”

“Well, I mean-”

“Answer the goddamn question.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Zoro admits, his tone more confused than anything now.

“So,” Sanji calmly says, “Would you be open-”

“Are you propositioning me-”

Yes. “I swear to god , Zoro.”

He seems to get the message, swallowing thickly before nodding once. Great.

“Good,” Sanji sighs, unbuttoning the two topmost buttons on his dress shirt. “Then, you mind doing that again?” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

errmmmmm i hate beta reading so there might be a buncha mistakes in here please lmk if you spot one!! anyway these two are my little meow meows i cant stop writing about them.

#ronoroa zoro #vinsmoke sanji #zosan #one piece #zosan brainrot #i cant stop thinking about them #zosan gives me brain worms #small waist sanji....#WHY do you have a small waist.#FOR OTHER MEN (Zoro) TO GRAB>?????!??!?!#big hands #big hands zoro go brrrrr

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chubbycelebs · 1 year

Text

Harry’s Chubby Boyfriend Louis

Harry was quickly becoming a household name. Now with three sold out albums and constantly touring the world, the man was at the top of his game. Harry hadn’t taken a break since the end of the 2020 lockdowns. Constantly on your, doing press, releasing music and videos all the time. However in the occasional free time he had, he has rekindled an old friendship with Louis Tomlinson.

The two boys had a past back in the band but decided to move past that and become close once again. The two met at a new year’s party back in 2021. When midnight struck the two shared a kiss and many other things later that night. Over the course of 2022 Harry was still a very busy man but he now had his boyfriend Louis to be busy with as well. The two enjoyed everything about each other and could hardly leave each others sights.

With the half way point of 2023 now coming up, Harry decided to wrap up his tour and music and take a long, well deserved break from it all and spend time with his boyfriend. Whilst Harry has been busy with tour though, Louis has been quite the opposite. He hasn’t been busy with anything. He's been sat around waiting for his boyfriend to return from his shows. All this sitting around lead to Louis becoming very bored so to fill that time he would cook and eat. He would try new recipes and different cooking techniques to see which was the best. He had to admit he had gotten very good at cooking now with all the free time. However the down side was he didn’t have anyone to feed his amazing meals to as Harry was always busy. So Louis would spend evenings stuffing his face with the food he’d spend hours cooking. All this eating of amazing foods had left a dent on Louis waist.

On one of Harry’s very few afternoons off, him and Louis decided to go mini golfing. It was nice day and it was something they both had wanted to do for a while. When Louis was having his go, Harry stepped back and watched his boyfriend. Harry hadn’t really paid much attention to Louis body recently but he finally noticed something was different.

Harry could now see that Louis had gotten a chubby belly. A nice round plump belly that picked outwards quite a bit. His thighs and ass had also gotten much bigger Harry had noticed. But he didn’t mind it. In fact Harry liked how the extra weight sat on Louis. The roundness of his belly resembled that of his round arse which he very much enjoyed. Louis turned back at Harry and shouted “HOLE IN ONE!” snapped Harry out of his belly trance. “I won Harry I won” Louis taunted jabbing Harry in the chest.

“Alright alright whatever. Let’s go get some food then winner” Hardy replied giving Louis ass a firm victory slap. It was, indeed, much softer and much bigger than it used to be. Harry felt a twitch in his trousers at the thought of his fatter ass. Harry and Louis sat down at a fast food restaurant just down the road hoping to enjoy a meal before Harry’s show that evening. The owner of the place ran up to their table. “Oh Harry Styles it’s an honour to have you come here. You can have anything you want anything it’s on us.” Harry sat and thought for a while. He doesn’t usually eat big before a concert however the thought of his boyfriends jelly belly shot to his mind. “I’ll take two of everything then please for me and my boyfriend here”. Louis looked at him shocked with how much food he just ordered. “I thought you didn’t usually eat much before a concert?” Louis said confused.

“I guess i’m just feeling hungry today babes. All that golf built up an appetite”

Harry grinned as trays after trays came to his table filled with food. Both of the boys dug straight into the food. After about 15 minutes Harry looked up at Louis. “Louis, I wanna stop touring soon and spend the next year just with you”

Louis looked up from his food, mouth covered in sauce and started smiling. “Really Harry? I would love that so much” Louis was so happy he leaned over the table and kissed Harry.

“I can’t wait to spend so much more time with you.” Harry said taking his final bite of his burger. “Also I think my eyes were bigger than my belly. I’m stuffed. Do you mind finishing the rest off for me Lou?” Harry said patting his abs.

Louis didn’t even reply he just kept eating and eating. No longer than 15 minutes later both trays were cleared. Louis lent back and stretched upwards groaning at how full he was. Harry looked as he saw Louis shirt ride up past his belly button. Harry felt the same twitch in his trousers and he knew in that moment he loved Louis bigger jiggly body

With Harry now ending his tour and putting a pause on his music, he had all the time in the world for his big boyfriend now. On their first night together Louis decided to cook Harry one of his best dishes: a massive roast dinner followed with a triple chocolate cake. Louis was so excited to be able to cook for his boyfriend finally and no longer having to eat several portions of food in one night.

Louis had noticed his own weight gain and at first he was ashamed of it. Dating one of the hottest men in the world and he was some chubby no one however that day at mini golf Louis couldn’t help but notice Harry staring at his full belly. He wasn’t sure if anything until Harry made Louis stuff his belly with tones of food at the fast food place. As Louis was eating he noticed how excited Harry was at his expanding belly. Seeing how excited Harry got with his plump body, Louis decided to keep the belly but maybe slow down a bit with the eating.

Louis dished up the roast and made sure to pile high Harry’s plate as to make sure he gets to enjoy every aspect of his cooking. He put down both Harry’s and his plate and sat down across from Harry. “I hope you enjoy. I’ve put a lot of time into this!”

The two boys then sat in silence as they both tucked into their meal. Louis had become quite a quick eater so was done before Harry. Louis looked over at the table, arms crossed over his belly and saw Harry shovelling fork fuller of food into his mouth, groaning with pleasure at how amazing it tasted. When he finished his plate he looked over at Louis. “Babe that was absolutely amazing. Best meal i’ve ever had. But are there any left overs? it’s soo good I just need more!” Louis was shocked by this. He’s never seen his boyfriend eat so much in his life. Harry’s second plate was almost as big as his first. Louis was shocked but also enjoyed seeing Harry love his food. It was so much better having someone enjoy your food then just stuffing your self with your own food.

When Harry had polished off his second plate , he lent back and patted his bloated belly. “Oh god that was amazing babes so good but i’m stuffed now. Might go lie down for a bit” Harry said trying to get up from his chair.

“Oh but babe what about dessert? I’ve spend ages on this cake i couldn’t wanting it going to waste now” Harry looked over at the triple chocolate cake. It was oozing with chocolate and looked amazing but his belly was so full. But what harm could it be if he had a slice? He hasn’t got anywhere to be over the next few days he’ll be fine.

Harry and Louis polished off their slices both now full, Harry more full now than he’d ever been in his life. He collapsed onto his bed and immediately passed out. Louis decided to take a shower before bed and as he entered into the bedroom noticed his bloated boyfriend passed out on the bed. Louis went over and patted Harry on his exposed belly to wake him up. Harry reluctantly got up and changed and then passed out straight away again. Louis got into bed next to him and couldn’t help but get turned on at the sight of his bloated boyfriend. He looked so full and round and that was all Louis doing. He had made his boyfriend like this and that got him excited.

Over the next few months Louis kept on cooking amazing meals and Harry kept eating them without a fuss. Louis noticed how Harry could eat more and more every week putting away more food than he’d ever seen him do before. To accommodate this Louis made bigger portions of food to keep up with his boyfriends growing appetite. Along with Louis cooking, Harry also kept trying to feed Louis at every moment he could. When they were having sex Harry would ask if he could feed Louis left over cakes and pies. As Louis would ride Harry, he would stuff Louis face with cakes and pastries and pies bloating his already round soft belly. Safe to say they had the best sex whenever he did this. After about a six month break from performing, Harry arranged a one night special performance in New York. He was excited to get back on stage and it was such an exciting night. Harry loved being on stage again and seeing all the fans scream for him and enjoy all his music. Harry was very happy with his performance until the next day where he saw photos of it.

All the photos of last nights show showcased Harry with a belly. But he hasn’t eaten anything before so it was a bloated gut. Harry ran to the bathroom and ripped his shirt off and was shocked to see where his abs once were was now a soft gut. Harry played with it out of shock. Squishing and patting his belly even rubbing it seeing if it would vanish but nothing. His once strong pecs jiggle when he played with it and when he turned around he noticed how his ass had gotten flabby too. Harry was in shock. He was one of the hottest men on the planet and now he was just some chubby lard arse. Louis walked into the bathroom to see Harry hunched over the sink looking saddened. “Are you okay babes?” He asked approaching his boyfriend.

“No! Look at me!” Harry said standing up right shaking his belly. “I’m some fat loser now.” He gave his belly a hit which left it jiggling for much longer than he would like to admit. Louis looked at his boyfriend as he collapsed onto the toilet, his belly turning into rolls. Louis decided the best way to make him feel better was show him someone he thinks is hot and fat. Louis took off his top and trousers and stood in front of Harry. Harry looked up and saw Louis, his belly much bigger than it was back when they played golf. His legs thicker and his neck started to join with his chins. “Why are you naked?”

“Am i hot?” Louis asked

“What do you mean? Of course you are babes. The sexist man i know!”

“Even with all this?” Louis then grabbed his belly and shook it. Grabbed his thighs and started slapping them showing just how big he’d gotten.

“Yes Louis. I like all of that. You look handsome and big” Harry said standing up from the toilet.

“Well then. You look handsome and big and sexy with your belly and tits and big ass” Louis said grabbing his boyfriends belly.

Harry looked down Louis body and saw how turned on he was. This made Harry relax more and he even got hard not long after. Harry stepped forward and pressed his and Louis belly together. “I like you fat Lou. I like you big.”

“I like you big Harry too. But i want you bigger. I want you to catch me up”

“I’ll do it Lou. I’ll eat whatever you want me to and more. I’ll be as big as you want”

Louis then pulled Harry to the bedroom and started passionately making out. Just as Harry was starting to put his cock in Louis, Louis stopped him. “I’ll be back” he said running off. He came back with a huge cake. “You can only fuck me once you’ve eaten every last bit of this cake” Harry agreed and the two had the piggiest and best sex ever.

Harry continued to do the odd tour here and there still wearing his same clothes he’d always worn just now with his big belly added. He enjoyed every second being stage parading around with his big gut hanging out.

Some fans disapproved of the fatter Harry and some actually stopped being his fans whilst others loved it and went crazy for when he jumped around on stage seeing his belly jiggle and moobs shake. But non of that mattered. He was truly happy being stuffed and fed by his sexy big boyfriend Louis. He enjoyed it so much that announced that he was retiring from music.

Now fatter then ever Harry couldn’t wait to grow even bigger with his boyfriend. The two had a large fattening life ahead of them and they couldn’t wait to grow into it

Decided to write another story inspired by a request. I really loved making this one. Editing all the photos together to go to the story was so much fun so i hope you guys enjoy this one as much as i did!

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arachine · 2 years

Text

— 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

+ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: college! steve harrington x bimbo! reader

+ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: mature

+ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: in which steve attempts to study for a really big test, and reader distracts him…

+ 𝐜𝐰: explicit sexual content, explicit language, thigh riding, dry humping…it’s really tame

+ 𝐰𝐜: 4.3k

+ 𝐝𝐭: @cesot

+ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: wow, i am so fucking creative naming this distraction, how incredibly unique of me (not). anyway, this was a request which can be found here!

The big analog clock centered on the wall has been the only source of sound these past few hours. It ticks, and ticks, and ticks—a sheer reminder that time continues to flow, yet your boyfriend remains unmoving. You’ve been laying here for what feels like an eternity, but really it’s just been five hours, and you know that much because you’ve watched through bored eyes as the big hand on the clock made five revolutions.

He’d promised you earlier when you arrived at his dorm that he’d be quick, that he’d only be studying for an hour or two—which were bold-faced lies! Because one hour turned into two, and two turned into three, which then turned into you counting the specks of freckles on the back of his neck, until ultimately, you’d forgotten what exactly it was you had planned today.

As the big hand nears its 6th revolution, you sport a small frown, turning over into a starfish position to release an agitated sigh. If you laid down any longer you’d fall asleep, and you didn’t come here to sleep and be ignored, you came here in hopes of catching a movie later with your boyfriend, you think.

“Stevie,” the pet name comes out in a drawn sigh, “you almost done yet?” The brunet responds with a brisk ‘yeah, yeah, just a little longer’ followed by a ‘going through the last topic now’.

“You said you’d be ‘a little longer’ like three hours ago,” you sit up, swinging your feet off of the bed to walk to where he sits at his desk. It’s cluttered in textbooks, leaves of loose paper, pencils, eraser markings, and empty coffee cups—all a testament to how incredulously long he’s been sitting here studying.

The state of it wasn’t nearly this bad earlier, but you assume at some point in time in which you were finding ways to entertain yourself, he’d slipped out of the room to make more cups of coffee. When you stretch out a gentle hand towards his face, he almost flinches, but gives in and relaxes his cheek into the palm of your hand.

His eyes are tired, drooping. The rings of brown that normally glisten like droplets of honey, are now dull, and the skin under his eyes have given way for new bags to settle. Thumbing his cheek briefly, you dip down to his height, wrapping two arms around his neck. The tip of your chin rests firmly against his shoulder, and it digs into skin when you open your mouth to speak.

“Baby, let’s give it a break, hm?” you leave a feather-light kiss on his cheek, then another on the edge of his jaw, pulling the hem of his shirt down to leave a kiss on the junction between his neck and shoulder.

“Can—can’t,” he breathes, “gotta be prepared for tomorrow, and right now you’re distracting me.” You nip at his neck when he utters the last bit, eliciting an exaggerated ow from the boy.

“Well,” you round his chair until your knees brush against his, “you should’ve thought about that before promising your girlfriend to a movie.” Now the entirety of your weight finds solace upon his lap, and the old wooden floorboards creek and crackle in response.

“Oh…” Is all he says. “You’re right, I guess…I guess I lost track of time.”

“Mhm, you left me all by myself with nothing to do,” a pout graces the lower half of your face, “gonna make it up to me?”

You synchronize your words with an avian flutter of your lashes, giving him your biggest of doe-eyes, the eyes that you know he can’t resist—the ones that always, without fail, get him into trouble. God, you were such a little vixen. He considered himself a strong man—in the way that he was impenetrable to temptation (a lie)—but when it came to you?

For you, he’d follow you all the way to the ninth circle of hell. All you had to do was bat those pretty little lashes, and he’d roll over for you like a mutt. Steve Harrington, former IT boy of Hawkins High, was a goner.

“Yeah, I will—I promise,” there goes that promising again, “but my test’s tomorrow, don’t you want me to pass?” He rests his calloused hands on the fat of your hips, thumbing the skin above your skirt in deliberately slow circles.

In his mind, he’s comforting you, trying to get you up and off his lap so that he can resume studying passive transports and how facilitated diffusion works—or whatever bullshit he was learning that had absolutely nothing to do with his major.

But in your mind…in your mind, all you could think about was kissing him silly; kissing the tiredness out of his eyes and returning them back to the big, brown opals that always made your heart skip a beat whenever he looked at you.

“You said I was a distraction,” your voice trails, “so, why don’t I do my part as a distraction and make you feel better…just for a little bit!”

Steve glances down at his desk, then glances back to you and your frowning face, then back to the desk, until he finally gives in with a breathy sigh. Yeah, he could take a tiny break; he could do without looking at the hundreds of flashcards scattered all over his desk, and the cups of coffee, and the—

You grab his face and kiss him. The first kiss is quick. Sweet. And the remnants of your cherry flavored lip gloss coat the plump of his lips. As soon as he darts out his tongue to taste it, the flavor seems to melt and disappear, like it’d never been there. So, this time it’s him who kisses you again, and again, and…again…and again.

Each and every one all of his own volition, equal parts urgent and wanting. He was kissing you like a mad man, as if he’d gone minutes, hours, days without oxygen and you were his only supply. For a few seconds, all you can hear is the intake of breaths, quick and shallow, leaving the other’s mouth in frenzied desperation.

You can hear the heavy, rhythmic thumping of hearts beating asynchronously, though, one is louder than the other—yours. It beats erratically for the boy in front of you, and you can feel and hear the pang of it in your ears, stomach—core. It beats the loudest there, the place you need him most.

Your hands glide down the curve of his neck, across the points of his shoulders, down his chest, and stop just above his belt. He can feel you playing with the notch, dragging your deft fingers along the metal, and glazing just over the tent in his jeans. He should stop this, he knows he should—but he can’t, or rather, he’s paralyzed.

His body, mouth, and hands are moving all on their own accord, rendered useless, like he’s teetering the line between puppet and master. Move, stay, touch, kiss–taste. Those are the words being repeated to him in a loop right now; they’re whispered to him sweetly like commands, and he listens. He listens because his mind is telling him to, and you just look so pretty right now, how could he not be entranced?

Enough teasing, you decided. The tail of his belt is pulled from the loop of his pants, but before you can unbuckle it, a strong hand takes hold of your wrist. That’s when Steve hears another voice, a voice that sounded a lot like Dustin’s, telling him to stop and keep it in his pants or he’d be a failure. God, even amidst a situation like this, the brat’s attitude prevails. A true cockblock.

“Ok,” a kiss, “we should,” another, “s-stop,” he pulls away unceremoniously. When he opens his eyes, he’s met with a confused, agitated you—a very out of breath you, but nonetheless, a very confused, very agitated, slightly angry, you.

“But why?” It comes out drawn. Hushed. Steve can hear the breathiness, the wanting. He can hear it because he was the very reason for it, having stolen all the air from your lungs.

“Because if we don’t stop, I’m gonna make a mess of my pants,” his eyes gesture to his crotch, ushering yours to follow suit. He was hard, the outline of him prominent against the dark blue of his denim jeans. You could help him, fix it so that it wouldn’t hurt, if only he’d…

“C’mon, knock it out,” the brunet defensively pushes your face away until it’s out of reach. His entire hand engulfs the expanse of your face, and you mumble a groan against it, smearing away the last of your cherry flavored lip gloss.

“You done?” He queries. No response. “I said, are you done?” This time you nod your head against his palm, the forming of a pout not far behind.

“Will you try to kiss me again?” You shake your head once, twice, following up with a muffled ‘nuh-uh’. With a sigh, he retracts his hand, squinting with skeptical eyes as you sit up and straighten your back.

“Ok, ok, we can…we should…yeah. You have to study,” you breathe, trying to convince yourself that you could be patient and wait for him to be done. But then you look at his lips. His spit kissed, gloss coated lips, that were swollen because of you.

And his hair…god, it’d been styled to perfection prior, and now it was a tousled mess, a mess that you wanted to keep on messing, but you had to hold your composure—had to reaffirm yourself that you could wait and help your boyfriend study for an important test.

“Yes, you have to study,” your hands reach for his shoulders, fingers squeezing the fat of them as you look seriously in his eyes.

“I have to study, t-that’s—that’s right,” he repeats, straightening his posture. There’s a brief pause. Just eyes staring back into each other, and blank faces. Steve glances to his lap, and then back to you, and then he glances again, emitting a cough from his throat.

“Are you…uh, gonna get up? It’s kind of uncomfortable.”

“No, I’m good right here, thank you for asking though,” you smile, turning in his lap to sit sideways. Steve laughs, god bless your heart.

“Yup, yeah, great. I’m glad you’re comfortable.” If you weren’t going to move from his lap, then you’d at the very least have to be still. Very, very, very still.

“‘M gonna help you, Stevie!” He raises a brow. In the span of 30 seconds, you’ve gone from trying to get into his pants, to attempting to be productive. Steve was no genius, but if he wasn’t getting the concept, there was no way you’d understand it, let alone help him study. But now you’re grabbing for the flashcards, with a toothy grin plastered across your face, and fuck…he’s so enamored with you.

A subtle smile graces the curve of his lips, and he decides to indulge you. The first thing you do is outstretch a hand to the haphazard pile of flashcards strewn on his desk. You hover your hand over the cards, mumbling an ‘eeny, meeny, miny, moe’ as you whimsically maneuver your pointer finger, until finally, it lands on its target. Mischievously, you quickly grab the chosen card and press it to your chest, sitting up a little straighter so that you can read it aloud.

You clear your throat, “What transport mechanism requires the use of ATP?” It takes a massive amount of self-restraint to not laugh in your face. The answer is endocytosis, of course, and he knows this because you’ve got the side with the answer facing him. He doesn’t know whether or not he should tell you, or pretend to ponder over the answer—but for now, he’ll save you the embarrassment and opt for the latter.

“Hold on a second,” he taps his chin to show that he’s thinking over the answer, “is it…endocytosis?”

“Good job, Stevie!” Unconsciously, you lean in to kiss him but he prematurely stops you with a stern finger.

“Uh, uh, uh,” the boy tuts. Your shoulders and back fall into a sad curve, a look of frustration settling on your face. Just how much longer was he going to torment you?

“Right, yeah, okay…next question!” Just as you’re about to pick up another card, Steve grabs both of your wrists.

“Actually, I think I should study on my own, by myself—just for now! And then I promise to let you test me when I’m ready,” he puts his hands together in a praying position, “just sit still for a few minutes.”

It’s laughable, really, how you’ve spent the entirety of your day confined in a mere dorm room. Seven hours earlier, it was sunny, clear skied, and warm. But now, as the night sets in, and the moon creeps out, you find yourself growing jealous. Jealous of the people who spent their days outside—jealous of the girlfriends who’re probably snuggled up against their boyfriends at the movies!

Occasionally, you can hear the opening and closings of neighboring doors, the padding of feet trekking across the carpeted hallway, and the fleeting conversations of passing residents. You wonder if they can sense your agony, if they can feel it emanating through the thick, cemented wall.

Your eyes glance over to the clock, taking note of the big hand’s microscopic movements. It’s gone around for another two whole revolutions. Two hours of sitting. Two hours of waiting. Two hours of tortuous, painful silence—albeit the occasional flipping of pages, heavy sighs, and ticking.

The pressure on your lower back from sitting in a slouch builds gradually, until it gets to be too much and you have to change your position. You do it once, but it’s still uncomfortable. Then you shift again…and again, until your weight rests upon a single thigh. For now you’re comfortable, content.

But then Steve makes the mistake of bouncing his knee. He does it intermittently, unconsciously, and he thinks nothing of it. You can tell because his eyes scan the contents of the book with unfettering concentration, his lips only ever moving to repeat something back to himself.

Experimentally, you rock against his thigh. No reaction, other than the rise and fall of his denim clad leg. The brisk movement has your heart pounding wildly within its cage, it feels good. An iota of relief from the dull, aching pain between your thighs that had slowly begun to fester the moment you stepped foot in this room. If you were smart enough, you’d try and make it a little less obvious, and blame it on discomfort—and if you were smart enough, you probably would’ve gone home a lot sooner.

But right now you weren’t thinking with your head (not like you ever really did), you were thinking wholly with your cunt, and right now it was telling you to move. Get off on your boyfriend. Make yourself feel good. So, you do. You move, teeter back and forth, letting your clothed cunt glide against his knee. By now, you’re more than sure that Steve has caught on to your little display of disobedience, and he has.

“What are you doing?” The question falls flat because he knows exactly what you’re doing—because he can feel it—the wetness seeping onto his jeans, and the pulsing of your cunt.

“‘M not doing nothing,” you lie through your teeth, shifting yourself once more so that now your body is turned towards him. Steve gets a glance of the wet spot on his pants before you settle all the way back down, and the sight of it makes his dick twitch. Jesus Christ. Playfully, you resume your movements, pressing yourself down hard against him, letting a breathy sigh spill from your lips like silk.

“See, ‘m not doing anything,” your hands wrap around each other to encircle his neck, lips dangerously close to his, “just sitting down like you told me too.” The warmth of your breath on his neck sends shivers down the column of his spine. Your mouth hovers over it, but never plants itself.

It’s like you’re toying with him now. Making him do the waiting. And he supposes he can’t be vex with you because it kinda is his fault for promising to take you out. But fuck, he couldn’t take the torment. He wanted to be selfish, wanted you to just kiss him, touch him, and sink down on his cock—studying be damned!

His impatience gets the better of him. Throwing his book to the floor, he grabs the base of your neck and forces his lips against yours. It’s urgent, spitty, and completely unrhythmic, but he likes it. He wants more; more to feel, taste, touch.

“I’m sorry, baby” he breathes in between kisses, “Let me make it up to you, yeah? Can I feel you?” You whimper in reply, detaching yourself from his lips to rest your head on his shoulder.

“It’s a l-little too late for sorry, Stevie,” the words come out in a stutter, each one in syncopation with the rolling of your hips.

“Yeah, I know, baby. I know,” his tone is airy, “C’mere.” The brunet grabs you by the waist, maneuvering you into a position where your legs dangle off the sides of the chair. In this position, he can see everything. Your thighs, your panties, the prominent wet spot that contrasts the baby pink fabric, the coquettish expression molding your face…

It feels like there’s a seed stuck in his throat, and if he were to speak, utter anything above a whisper, it’d grow. Fester. Come out as something sinful. If you were privy to any of the thoughts he had within the last 30 seconds, you’d think he was disgusting, he thinks. His hands smooth over the bare skin of your legs, first experimentally, then greedily, roaming frantically until they stop at the flesh between your thighs.

He squeezes the skin there, uses the palm of his hands to spread you open—wider, all for his voyeuristic pleasure. Steve likes the sound you make when he does it, sends another twitch straight south, but this time it hurts. It hurts because he’s so fucking hard, he can practically feel the blood rushing to his cock, like liquid hot magma. God, he was growing restless.

The relief he seeks is right in front of him, sitting prettily in her bow-adorned panties, rutting pathetically atop him. You were so cute, so determined, with your lip tucked between your teeth, and your hands grabbing at his clothed chest. But it wasn’t enough. He needed more friction.

The boy’s hands find solace once again on your thighs, grabbing, pulling at flesh until they finally rest on the fat of your ass. He kneads it once, twice, before pulling you down hard against his crotch.

Yes, this is what I’ve been chasing, the voice in his head thinks. And it is. He gets this way every time; forgets briefly just how good you feel against him—and then the memories come back. Like flashes, waves of pleasure. It’s like witch craft, almost. Or drugs, the effect you have on him. Yes, it was like drugs. And like all addictions he needed his next fix.

Repeating the motion, he drags you back and forth against him. It’s rough, hurried, and the grip he has on your hips is vice. You’re sure it’ll leave a bruise for you to discover tomorrow, but that’s neither here nor there. All you can focus on is the face he’s making, the sounds he’s making.

They’re breathy and quick, and whiny. He’s whining for you, muttering incoherencies under his breath but the few words you can make out are ‘feels so good’ and ‘please’. That, coupled with the pussy drunk look in his eyes, has your stomach knotting up.

“Steve…” the sound of his name sounds melodic coming from you. He wants to hear it again, and again, and again until you can no longer say it.

“What is it, baby? Hm?”

“Think ‘m gonna…’m gon–“ He thrusts up, the point of his zipper catching on your clothed clit. A loud gasp emits from your throat, and he swallows it with a kiss. He takes his time with this one, moves his mouth slowly so that you can catch up, pushes his tongue inside so that he can taste you, every inch of you. This one is dizzying, in every sense of the word.

You try to pull away for air, try to push his chest, but he takes a heavy hand to the back of your head and keeps you still. Keeps you down, pressed against him, so that he can rut up into you with unadulterated ferocity. Eventually, he retracts his hand so that you can quickly catch your breath. A tether of saliva connects the two of you, and it thins the further you pull away.

Right now, in this moment, under the cheap, dim light of his dorm room, Steve thinks you’re the prettiest he’s ever seen you. Yeah, you always look pretty, could never be anything less than that in his eyes…but there’s something different tonight. Makes him wanna burn the scene into the backs of his eyelids, compartmentalize it so that he can replay it in his mind. See you exactly like this.

“You’re so—fuck—beautiful,” Steve confesses. He inches closer to your face, hovers his lips over yours. “Do you know what you do t’me?”

You want to respond, say something, anything, but decide to just grind down harder against him. You’ve never been the brightest, never particularly been good with words, so you let your body speak for you…let his name pour from your lips like a mantra because it’s all you can offer him.

“Steve, Steve, Steve!” Your hands curl around his biceps, the tips of your fingernails digging into flesh, “you feel s’good.”

“Come on, pretty girl, why don’t you show me.” He reaches a nimble hand down to your skirt, pulling the fabric up and out of the way. The wet spot has grown considerably since the last time he took a peek at it, now it covers the entirety of the front, all the way up to the pretty pink bow. Fuck, he wasn’t going to last much longer. Not after this.

“Holy shit, you’re so…I can see your pussy like this,” the brunet swallows thickly. He keeps your skirt up with one hand, and uses the other to rub your swollen nub. It’s sticky, warm to the touch. He starts out with slow, deliberate circles. Tries to get a feel for it and coax reactions from you.

He finds that the faster he rubs it, the more he can feel you clench around nothing, and the more you start to slack against him. The dizzying pace of his hand, paired with the force of his hips (which haven’t stopped thrusting up into you), has you teetering the edge of euphoria. You’re close, and he knows it.

“C’mon, c’mon. Let me see you, gorgeous,” he drops his hand from your clit to pull you down firmly against him.

“Cum,” a thrust, “for,” another, “me,” the boy presses you down for a final time, the grip of his hands on your waist so hard, you see stars. All at once, the gears turning in your head come to a full stop. It’s like a system overload, and any and all control you thought you had over your body is now gone.

Pathetically, you fall weakly into his arms, your body limp, like a puddle of gelatin. A shrill cry escapes your throat, and crescendos into a hushed sob. The sight of your trembling body only encourages Steve further. He uses your limp body like a sex doll, continues to fuck up into you until his balls begin to tighten, and a warm, gooey substance leaks onto his briefs.

“Shitshitshit!” A series of expletives leave his lips, probably a bit louder than he anticipated. He breathes heavily through his nose, silencing the rest of his moans by biting down onto your shoulder. Before he comes down from his orgasm, he pulls you to sit up, and rests his forehead against yours, open-mouthed breaths fanning your face.

You’re barely aware of what’s going on when he attaches his lips to yours, but you kiss back; kiss him slow, and steady, and allow him to breathe life back into you. When you open your eyes, you’re met with another pair. Those beautiful, big, brown opals that you missed.

“Hi,” Steve’s hand comes up to cup your cheek. You nuzzle into it, taking it in your hand to kiss his wrist.

“Hi,” you whisper, laying your head on his shoulder. For a moment, the two of you sit like this, letting the light of the moon coat your bodies. It’s you who breaks the silence first.

“So, looks like you made a mess of your pants anyway.” Steve raises a perplexed brow, but then recalls the time he told you he didn’t want to ‘make a mess of his pants’. In response, he chuckles.

“Yeah, guess we match now,” he lifts your skirt to show you your sodden panties. You feel a wave of heat rise to your cheeks.

“’S all your fault!” A weak fist makes contact with Steve’s chest. Yeah, he was definitely failing tomorrow’s test.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington x black reader #steve harrington x black reader smut #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x you smut #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x y/n smut #steve harrington smut #stranger things x reader smut #stranger things x reader #stranger things smut

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halfbakedideas · 8 days

Text

i can hold my breath, i've been doing it since he left

After Aziraphale leaves, Crowley does a lot of waiting. And drinking.

Notes:

EDIT: changed the title from 'curse the wind, fan the flames, yell 'till your lungs are drained' (Quiet Company by Jack Harris).

CW for alcohol and a character being drunk. Do I still need to warn for 02x06 spoilers or has it been long enough now? This is essentially just word vomit on one speculation I had for Crowley post-season 2 & written during one of my writing classes. Figured I might as well post this otherwise it’ll just rot in my drive forever.

Read on Ao3

—x—x—x—

Crowley sits slumped over at a bar. Beer cans, whiskey glasses, and even a couple of empty wine glasses forming a barrier around him.

The barkeep had started shooting him worried looks when he finishes a second handle’s worth of whiskey after about three beers and two glasses of wine, and was still (mostly) upright.

It takes a lot of alcohol to get someone of angel stock properly sloshed. But when Crowley has spent more of the last eleven months with some form of alcohol in him than sober, that doesn’t really mean anything.

A glass of red wine rests in his hand, still filled a quarter of the way. He didn’t care enough to know which one when he’d gotten the barkeeper to pour him another glass.

Crowley raises the glass to his lips and takes a swig. A drop of wine traces its way down his chin. He wipes it away with a hand. He nearly knocks an abandoned whiskey glass clean off the table when he sets it down.

“Alright, I think that’s enough for you,” the barkeep speaks up, stepping towards the demon. Her hand is outstretched as if she plans to take the wine glass out of his hands.

“Nuh — not yet, not even drunk yet,” he slurs. He waves a hand in her direction to make her forget about what she had just been about to do and the events of the last two hours too. Whoops.

He drinks some more wine and manages not to spill any of it this time.

By the time the bar closes half an hour later — or is it fifteen minutes? He hats that particular stretch of time: fifteen minutes — Crowley is still upright and on his feet, by the sheer force of a demonic miracle.

‘On his feet’ does not automatically mean ‘able to walk in a straight line’.

The demon makes his way down the street, the path in front of him swimming.

He believes that he is going to make it back to his flat without becoming a serpent-shaped pancake on the pavement, so he would. More or less.

Logically, the smart thing would have been to miracle all of the alcohol out of his bloodstream before he left the bar. But the thought had occurred to him when he first started doing this, and it had been quickly dismissed. He isn’t going to change his mind now, eight months later.

Existence is so much easier to deal with like this; being too drunk to be able to think straight means that he doesn’t have to think. Thinking is overrated anyway.

Surprisingly, this much alcohol in him keeps him from doing something stupid like yelling in the vague direction of the sky. Would he be yelling at Aziraphale or God, he isn’t sure. Or go charging into the elevator to do something phenomenally stupider.

Alcohol certainly makes passing the time easier. Makes it pass quicker. Makes waiting less boring.

That’s what he has been doing for the last eleven months, waiting. Because, after the initial shock and heartbreak wore off, Crowley choose to believe that Aziraphale hasn’t truly abandoned him for Heaven. That he took the Supreme Archangel position because he has a plan, whatever it could be.

He isn’t quite sure what he would do if the opposite turned out to be true.

Die, probably.

So Crowley holds onto that flicker of hope (You’re a demon, demons don’t get to hope. Stop that.) and resigns himself to waiting.

But it is in times like this, the very very early hours of the morning when he is staggering off back to his flat or over to his bed, that hope starts to wane. When the ‘what ifs’ begin to creep in.

What if Aziraphale doesn’t have a plan or isn’t going to come back to Earth (and Crowley) again? What if he stays up there forever? What if the angel has forgotten about him?

He will either find out or spend eternity waiting. Some days he isn’t sure which is worse.

Crowley has just climbed into the Bentley when a flicker of light catches his eye. And there is a see-through version of Aziraphale sitting in the passenger’s seat beside him. Turned towards him slightly with his mouth open as if he’s about to say something.

Not this again.

“Know you’re not really here, so fuck off,” he tells the hallucination.

“Crowley…“ Whatever the hallucination is about to say next gets cut off.

“No. Don’t care. You aren’t real, anyway,”

The Bentley pulls out of the parking space and onto the road. It takes off in the direction of Crowley’s flat faster than an eighty-year-old car should have been able to. Crowley doesn’t see the sad expression that ghosted over the hallucination’s face before it vanishes from the passenger’s seat.

This is something that has started happening whenever the demon thinks too hard about what ifs and Aziraphale, a hallucination of the angel would appear.

When it had first appeared, it scared the wits out of Crowley (not that he would ever admit that to anyone) who had been in the middle of a Golden Girls marathon. He yelled at the hallucination for nearly fifteen whole minutes before he realised he wasn’t yelling at the real Aziraphale. That had made him yell some more, just in the direction of Heaven instead.

The next day plays out much like every day before it had. Crowley wakes to find himself very much, disappointingly sober but with a ridiculous headache. The cure, which he decided upon months ago, was to get up and go drink some more.

It wasn’t like he has much else to do. Hell stopped giving him any assignments after Armageddon’t and stopped communicating with him at all as of eleven months ago.

So all he has left is an indeterminate amount of waiting.

—x—x—x—

End notes:

Is Crowley really hallucinating Aziraphale, or is it something else entirely?

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #crowley #good omens 2 #aziracrow #ineffable divorce #ao3 link #good omens season 2 #gomens #hbi fics

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eleanorfenyxwrites · 10 months

Text

Outta Time

So @littlesmartart and I discovered that we both love Orville Peck, and I decided it might be nice to write Western Cowboy shit that isn't the Brokeback Mountain AU so here's this 😂 Inspired by Orville Peck's song 'Outta Time' from the album Bronco (Jess came up with the plot, I wrote it, and she's drawn art to go along with it for the visual that's directly inspired by the song [and that was all I had in mind for this before she came up with the plot lol]!)

--//--

It was, perhaps, foolishness on Meng Yao’s part to think that Huaisang was telling him nothing but the unvarnished truth when he’d invited him to head out West with him for a luxury vacation, set to last the entirety of their summer break.

“It’ll be like one of those fancy retreats silly rich people go on!” he’d insisted (as if he isn’t mind-bogglingly ridiculous and wealthier than Meng Yao could ever hope of being [considering he’s only just recently been forced to accept he’ll never see a single iota of his father’s support, emotionally or financially]). “Trust me!”

Mistake number 1 had been saying, “Alright A-Sang, I trust you.”

Mistake number 2 : being a man of his word.

Within a month of receiving Huaisang’s invitation, summer arrives with rolling peals of thunder heralding oppressive humidity and swarms of mosquitos. Meng Yao, a man of his word as stated, dutifully packs most of his belongings into a suitcase that weighs far less than the upper limit of the airline’s luggage weight restriction and navigates the pair of them through the airport with minimal stress, mainly thanks to not allowing Huaisang to be in charge of anything at all.

He chats with Huaisang on and off throughout their flight to keep himself distracted from the fact that he’s leaving behind everything he’s ever known to spend three months in the middle of bumfuck nowhere at his only friend’s brother's ranch, which Huaisang had only told him the full truth about yesterday, after it was already far too late to gracefully back out. Meng Yao’s promised luxury vacation destination is apparently in actuality a cattle ranch that Huaisang’s brother apparently runs mostly to keep himself in shape and avoid the stress of city life that had given him a heart attack at the ripe old age of 27 a few years back. (It is, by far, the weirdest ‘so I have this older brother’ story that Meng Yao has ever heard.)

“So this brother of yours –” Meng Yao finally caves and asks about an hour before final descent.

“Uh-huh?”

“He just…up and left New York. For Montana?”

“Yep,” Huaisang pops the ‘p’ and flicks to the next page in his magazine, unbothered, “After his heart attack he said he wanted to see some mountains and get some actual fresh air if he was just going to die soon anyway, it really dramatic and maudlin, which he never is, I was so proud. Only it turns out it was exactly what he needed to not die, so after a while he decided he would just stay out there for good. He bought the house and the land and some horses to give himself something to do besides stare at the sky all day, and then he was still kind of bored so he bought some cattle.”

Naturally. As one does.

“And now he’s…a cattle rancher. From New York City.”

Huaisang laughs and finally looks up from his magazine to smile at Meng Yao like ‘oh you sweet little thing’ in the way Meng Yao kind of hates, but Huaisang does it to everyone so he can’t really take too much offense.

“Yes, Yaoyao, you’ll understand when you meet him! Da-ge’s never really been a city guy, not like us. It suits him much better to be out here, especially since his best friend moved out here to help him out. Xichen-ge treats it like a meditation retreat but with a lot more mucking out stalls. He says even that part’s therapeutic, but I’m just going to take his word on that one, ‘cause ew.”

“Uh-huh.”

Huaisang leaves him to consider just what the hell he’s gotten himself into for the rest of the flight, and then they’re navigating their way (ridiculously easily) through the rinky-dink airport hardly bigger than a parking garage, the sky beyond the terminal windows blue blue blue where it stretches on forever in every direction.

“Da-ge!”

Meng Yao barely manages to snag Huaisang’s duffel when his friend flings it off his shoulder to go sprinting across the 3-carousel baggage claim, the fastest Meng Yao has ever seen him move. It’s a distinct relief that Meng Yao can use juggling their bags as an excuse to approach at a much more respectable pace; he needs the extra time to truly digest what he’s seeing.

Huaisang, as a former-model-turned-fasion-designer who happily calls himself a fruit at every opportunity, is one of the daintiest men Meng Yao has ever met. He’d even go so far as to call him a dandy, if pressed, and fully supports his friend’s decision to call himself every ‘emasculating’ label under the sun with obvious relish. He can’t deny that at least some of his confusion as to his best friend’s mysterious older brother’s chosen lifestyle stemmed from picturing someone like Huaisang, if perhaps a little taller.

He’s not confused anymore.

The man who catches Huaisang midair and swings him in a circle before setting him back on his feet would never be asked to grace the runways of New York — not because he isn’t beautiful enough to make Meng Yao’s fingers twitch for his camera to capture the way the sun cuts across his weather-tanned face, but because no one has ever heard of a fashion model who was roughly 6’7” and perhaps 300 pounds of solid, clearly functional muscle.

Huaisang’s brother towers over everyone else in the building that Meng Yao can see (and he can see most of them, re: rinky-dink airport in the middle of bumfuck Montana), and when he looks over the heads of the few people between Meng Yao and the exit their eyes lock instantly.

“A-Sang, be nicer to your friend,” Meng Yao can hear from here, a bass rumble that Does Things to his chest. “Go get your bag, don’t make your guest carry your shit or he’ll think I never taught you decent manners. Go on.”

Huaisang flutters back over and takes his bag with an unapologetic grin. Meng Yao finishes taking the ten-odd steps necessary for the brother to stick his hand out with a wry little smirk and say, “Hey, I’m Mingjue.”

“Meng Yao,” he replies and slides his hand into Mingjue’s dry, work-calloused palm.

“Welcome to big sky country, A-Yao,” Mingjue replies with a widening smile, a flash of straight white teeth and a dimple hiding under his mustache, and Meng Yao regrets to say that he’s thoroughly fucked.

–//–

The land unfolds around them as they drive down straight roads at an almost leisurely pace through miles and miles of…nothing.

Not nothing, Meng Yao supposes, but long gone are the corridors of towering skyscrapers, the lingering miasma of so many people living together in tight quarters, everyone building up up up to stack ever-more people into the same few square miles. Meng Yao understands, suddenly, why Mingjue had come here and stayed. He doesn’t think he has it in him to eschew all the conveniences of New York City for the open country, but someone like Mingjue seems like the type to appreciate having the space to…expand. To be bigger than life and have the room to do it in. He certainly feels larger than life at the moment as he details for Huaisang all the comings and goings on the ranch since he’d last visited, as he talks about the horses and his cattle and the monsoon rains they’d apparently only just missed that had finally turned everything summer-green.

Meng Yao sits on the bench seat of Mingjue’s beat up old pickup truck and watches the sparse scattering of fluffy white clouds drift over more sky than he’s ever seen in his life and he gets it.

He hasn’t gotten nearly enough of his fill of marveling (subtly) over the view by the time they pull off the road onto a dirt road that Huaisang tells him is actually Mingjue’s driveway, but he contents himself with the knowledge that they’re here for three months, he’ll have plenty of time to appreciate the view later. They rattle over a few metal grates Mingjue explains are cattle guards to keep the animals from escaping the ranch should they manage to break out of their pastures, and Meng Yao isn’t a child so he doesn’t exclaim about how fucking huge the cattle are some distance away from the road where they’re grazing (but he certainly rethinks his half-baked desire to see them up close anytime soon).

“Home sweet home,” Mingjue announces when they reach the end of the lane after another mile or two and opens his door with a creak. Meng Yao leans forward to look up at the house through his lashes and must not be able to control his expression as much as he’d prefer as Huaisang chuckles at him a little, nudging him in the side with his pointy little elbow.

“Told you it was nice,” he chirps and slides across the seat to get out on the driver’s side. “Da-ge be careful!” he trills, his nervous fretting muffled as he scurries around to the bed of the truck. Meng Yao doesn’t pay attention to their bickering or the scuffle of hard-soled boots on dirt, though his attention is snagged at least a bit by the sound of Mingjue laughing at whatever he’s just done to make Huaisang whine at him.

The house is beautiful, is the thing. Somehow he hadn’t thought that it would be, perhaps owing to how many times he’s listened to Huaisang complain about his brother’s lack of taste for anything even remotely fashionable. He should really stop assuming things about Mingjue, he supposes, considering he’s currently scored 0 for 2, and he hates to lose.

He gets out of the car, finally, to better appreciate white-washed wood paneling just beginning to show hints of weathering, blue shutters clearly freshly painted the same shade of the sky overhead with the front door painted to match. There are rocking chairs on the wraparound porch, clearly well-loved if the flattened, sun-faded cushions on them are anything to judge by, positioned to face west. He has a sudden mental image of Mingjue sitting out here in the evenings to watch the sunset over the mountains looming in the distance and has to shake himself all over once (discreetly) to keep from sticking himself in the chair next to him in this little pastoral fantasy. That’s just making it weird.

“You want the grand tour or you wanna settle in?” Mingjue asks; Meng Yao doesn’t jump to find himself standing next to his host he hadn’t heard approaching, but he does feel suddenly…shy in a way he’s definitely not used to. He tilts his head enough to squint up at Mingjue, the sun too bright in his eyes, and finds to his dismay that he’s still just as handsome as he’d been an hour ago.

“I want you to give him the tour!” Huaisang calls from where he’s petting a horse (an actual horse, but are they supposed to be that tall??) that’s come up to the fence at the other end of the front yard, such as it is, to duck down and nose at Huaisang like an old friend.

“I don’t care what you want, you little brat,” Mingjue calls back. “And don’t you dare give that beast whatever candy you’ve got in your pockets, do you know how long it took to train him out of biting people who didn’t give him any after you left?!”

Meng Yao hides a smile behind his hand and finds himself mostly glad that there’s someone else around now to be the recipient of Huaisang’s incessant whining when he’s really putting on a performance. He clears his throat a little and schools his expression back towards pleasant neutrality when Mingjue looks down at him again, clearly unwilling to entertain his brother’s antics a moment longer than necessary.

“I think I’d like to settle in first,” he allows himself to say, and is perhaps mildly startled when Mingjue doesn’t question it, when he simply nods and lets Meng Yao be that tiny bit selfish.

“Come on in then, your room’s upstairs.”

Meng Yao follows Mingjue inside out of the sun and finds himself surrounded by an eclectic mix of antiques and modern minimalism; framed photos and bric-a-brac piled up in out-of-the-way corners of sleek monochrome shelves hemmed in on every side by enormous, dense furniture of the sort that reminds him of a time at least half a century ago, if not longer. The result is antiquated in a charming way with enough touches of modernity that he doesn’t think Mingjue is necessarily out of touch, just pragmatic about his home. If something old will still do, why replace it? It’s a mentality Meng Yao can appreciate, and he finds himself smiling a little again as he trails behind Mingjue up the stairs and down the short hallway to the room in the back corner.

“Here you go,” Mingjue says and slings both Meng Yao’s and Huaisang’s bags off his shoulder, which is precisely when Meng Yao realizes he’d been carrying their luggage in one hand like it weighs nothing. He notices it, allows himself two seconds to admire it, and promptly tucks that little tidbit away for future consideration. Later.

“I’ll be around, just holler if you need anything. I’m sure A-Sang will be in to bother you once he’s finished saying hi to the herd, I’ll let you enjoy the quiet while you’ve got it.”

“Thanks, Mingjue,” Meng Yao says with a smile, and it might be a moment of wishful thinking, or just his imagination, but he swears he sees Mingjue’s gaze drop to his mouth for a beat too long before the man nods and retreats. Meng Yao has no way to know if the flush on the back of Mingjue’s neck is from the sun or, maybe, something else.

–//–

Huaisang does come inside eventually, and though he has his own unpacking to do Meng Yao isn’t surprised at all when his friend comes to his room first to flop onto his bed and promptly make himself at home to start bugging him.

(He wouldn’t want or expect anything different.)

As Meng Yao hangs up shirts and trousers with far more care than they probably need, Huaisang regales him with stories from other trips to the ranch and a quick run-down of the personalities of the horses Mingjue keeps, both his own and some he boards for others who can’t keep their own animals for whatever reason. Meng Yao makes enough leading, noncommittal noises to keep his friend chattering as he settles in, though the chatter becomes decidedly less pleasant as far as background noise goes when Huaisang starts talking about getting Meng Yao to socialize.

Within moments it’s clear he already has a plan on how to do so, because of course he does, and of course it’s some stranger’s houseparty where Meng Yao will know absolutely no one at all.

“Absolutely not, Huaisang,” he says tartly, but of course Huaisang only takes that as an invitation to persuade him.

“This isn’t like parties back home, A-Yao, I promise!” he wheedles. Meng Yao just goes on unpacking his meager belongings into the antique dresser in the corner of his room that holds a window overlooking the equipment-littered space between the back porch and the horse barn, and he very pointedly does not rise to Huaisang’s bait. He’s still not immune to his best friend’s cajoling and they both know it, but he feels the need to deny him a little longer for the sake of his pride, if nothing else.

“Nothing here is like home, Huaisang, your argument is invalid,” he replies blithely and debates the merit of hanging his undershirts in the too-big closet with the rest of his clothes, rather than folding them up into a too-big drawer where they’ll just look sad on their own.

“Okay point taken, but seriously! You’ll have a nice time, it’ll be chill, I swear. Xichen-ge is coming, and he never goes anywhere things will get out of hand!”

A party tempting enough to interest Huaisang is typically guaranteed to be anything but ‘chill’, he doesn’t point out, but…well. Meng Yao had just said it himself — nothing here so far is like what they’ve come from, maybe Huaisang’s different here too. Maybe a party’s really not such a bad idea. And if it is, Mingjue, having already overheard Huaisang mentioning the party on his way past Meng Yao’s room with a load of clean laundry in his arms, has already made it very clear that he’s happy to either loan them his truck for the night or else drive them himself. Considering Meng Yao has no interest in drinking so much he wouldn’t be able to drive (because he, unlike his best friend, is a very functional city gay who can drive, thank you very much) it’s a guaranteed exit strategy, should he feel the need to escape.

Meng Yao ignores Huaisang’s pleading eyes for a few moments longer simply for the fun of it as he slides his undershirts onto clattering plastic hangers, and only smiles once his back is turned as Huaisang shouts his delight when Meng Yao sighs, “Well…I guess I’ve got nowhere better to go.”

–//–

This time, Huaisang did tell him the unvarnished truth.

It’s clear from the moment they pull up in the warm violet twilight that this party is nothing like the ones they frequent back home. It’s in someone’s actual house, for one, which he supposes isn’t too strange when not being hosted in a city made entirely of apartments and highrises, but the house itself is in the middle of a giant patch of…nothing. It’s just a house on a dirt lot full of pickup trucks in various stages of rusting, with lights strung everywhere possible on the wraparound porch (except that it’s not really a porch so much as it is a prefabricated metal roof over part of the patch of dirt and sparse grass ‘yard’). He’s pretty sure he even sees a barn lit up the same way some few hundred feet behind the house, but he can’t get a good look at it from here and decides to put it out of his mind.

“Let me know if you end up needing the truck,” Mingjue says over the sound of twanging guitar coming from someone’s massive speakers as they hop down (well he steps down out of the truck like he’s just crossing a threshold; Meng Yao and Huaisang are too vertically challenged to get down out of the thing without at least a little hop). “I’m gonna head in to grab a beer, you two want anything?”

“We’re good, da-ge!” Huaisang chirps, already eyeing up a cluster of guys all dressed nearly identically in tight jeans and threadbare flannels with the sleeves cut off and the resulting gaping holes fraying artlessly, with the main differentiating factor between them being if they’re wearing cowboy hats or baseball caps. Meng Yao glances between his options — Huaisang’s all-too-familiar thirsting over extremely lackluster men who don’t deserve him and Mingjue’s retreating figure carving a path through the crowd — and decides to take his chances with the latter, though he hangs back a little to give Mingjue space.

The house, when he steps inside, at least smells pretty much like what he’s used to at parties. Too many competing colognes and perfumes, the sticky sweetness of alcohol, and the haze of cigarette smoke are almost comforting like this, even as he promptly gets lost amongst the sprawling, dimly-lit rooms crowded with strangers nursing beers or chatting (read: feeling) each other up in dim corners. He finds a staircase in the middle of the house and uses it to orient himself as he wanders in several clockwise circles until he’s mapped out the living room, the den, the kitchen where he snags a beer from the 6’5” cowboy (he’s assuming he’s a cowboy based on the hat and the whole ‘house party on a farm in Montana’ thing) standing at the keg, the door to the back ‘porch’ that’s about as porch-like as the one out front, and an overcrowded room that seems to serve no purpose but to be a place to play beer pong.

He’s just circled his way back to the front door near the stairs once again when he finds his path blocked by someone turned away from him; someone broad and tall and wearing pale blue, which just seems like a mistake when any moment could end in spilled beer and flustered mopping up with a crumpled handful of napkins, perhaps even the removal of said shirt to get it in the upstairs bathroom sink to soak out the stain before it sets —

Alright so it’s been a while and a man has needs, especially when surrounded by ridiculously tall beefcakes on every side. Sue him.

Rather than spilling his shitty beer on this guy to see if he can get him to take his shirt off, Meng Yao clears his throat and taps the guy on his waist once, just the lightest touch of two fingers to body-warmed cotton, and the guy turns smoothly, an apology already on his lips.

“Oh, excuse me,” he says, hardly audible over the music jangling from the beer pong room. Meng Yao tilts his head back a bit — and then a bit more — to meet the guy’s gaze and he’s startled to find he’s also Asian. It takes him roughly three seconds to put two-and-two together when the guy smiles at him like he knows him and ducks down to talk a little closer. Meng Yao makes a conscious decision to stay very still to let him do it.

“Might you be Meng Yao?” he asks and Meng Yao can only nod dumbly. “Mingjue sent me to find you, would you like to come sit with us? Da-ge’s great for commandeering the couch at these things.”

Sitting down sounds great, Meng Yao thinks, especially when the crowd shifts enough for him to catch sight of the ratty old sofa in the living room to find Mingjue currently occupying it alone, manspread more than far enough to make it clear that no one else is sitting on that couch unless he invites them (and he doesn’t look like he’s in a particularly inviting mood).

“Are you sure?” Meng Yao asks, wary, but the man (who must be Mingjue’s best friend, Xichen) just smiles at him again and tips his head in that direction, gesturing vaguely with one of his bottles of beer as if for emphasis.

“Of course! Come on, you’ve had a long day of traveling and I wanted to apologize for not being able to meet you at the house this afternoon. Just sit with us for a while, we’ll introduce you around later if you want us to.”

Meng Yao finds it a pretty tough proposition to say no to so he just nods again and gestures with his own beer (in a stereotypical red Solo cup he’d been amused to receive) for Xichen to lead the way. It isn’t so far that Meng Yao worries about losing him in the crowd, really, but he doesn’t let that stop him from hooking an index finger through the center back belt loop on Xichen’s skin-tight jeans, ‘just in case’. Xichen simply smiles at him over his shoulder as they pass through the nearly-black front hallway and into the scarcely-brighter living room, red Christmas lights around the ceiling and the overhead bulb in the kitchen through the other doorway the only lighting for the entire room.

“Hey, there you are,” Mingjue says as they approach, and though he swings one knee closer to straight in front of himself to manspread a little less he leaves his arm slung casually along the top of the back cushions, reaching up with his free hand to snag the beer Xichen had brought for him and taking a swig of it as Xichen joins him.

On the opposite end of the couch.

Meng Yao hides behind a sip of his own flat beer quickly warming to room temperature as he contemplates the small (small) space between them and, between one disappointing sip and the next, decides he’s feeling reckless enough after a long day of new things and the freedom of traveling so many miles from home that he’s just going to go for it, and fuck the consequences.

Xichen slings his arm over the rest of the back of the couch, fingertips brushing lightly against Mingjue’s elbow where they overlap. Meng Yao sits down right in between them, settles in, and pointedly ignores the way the tired old couch springs squeak in protest of their combined weight and how he seems to pull the other two in like a magnet. It’s like gravity, centers of balance shifting and leaning inwards into his orbit, the pair of them bracketing him on either side, parentheses made of denim and muscle and smiling mouths that he pretends not to notice creeping closer as they keep finding excuses to lean in closer over the course of the next few minutes, not at all subtle. They drift in, in, in to talk to him over the music until they’re both practically kissing him on the cheeks just to be heard as they chat about nothing much at all.

Meng Yao finishes his beer and lets Xichen take the empty cup from him to set aside, and when he leans back in even closer than a moment before, Meng Yao offers him a coy little smile of the sort that’s weakened tougher men than Xichen seems to be and drops his newly-freed hand on his knee, mirroring the caress on Mingjue’s knee with his free hand on the other side.

It would be more than accurate to say that Xichen melts like butter — melts so obviously, in fact, that Mingjue laughs at him, hides it in Meng Yao’s shoulder, and seems to need no further excuse to just set up camp there so he can start nuzzling the tip of his nose into the crook of Meng Yao’s neck until he’s shivering pleasantly and feeling very much like the cat that got the cream.

Huaisang was right — this has never happened to him in New York, but he’s perfectly happy that it’s happening to him now.

–//–

Nie Huaisang isn’t the type to say ‘I told you so’ in so many words, mostly because he doesn’t actually say what he’s really thinking in the first place.

But if he were the type, he’d be saying it right now to anyone who would listen as he sips at a beer some jumped-up bull rider pressed into his hand with enough flustered used-to-be-definitely-absolutely-straight-but-now-he’s-confused flirting that Huaisang had given him an extra kiss or three to apologize for giving him a little sexuality crisis.

Maybe it’s weird for him to be so pleased to see his brother and his brother’s live-in-something tag teaming Huaisang’s own best friend, but, well. Meng Yao works way too hard for very little in return, and Huaisang thinks he deserves nice things. He’s certainly not immune to the ample charms of his brother’s farmer/rancher neighbors at least for a hazy summer, and he’d known that Meng Yao wouldn’t be able to resist either no matter how many fuck-off-I’m-totally-independent vibes he gives off when they’re back home.

Naturally if Meng Yao weren’t interested in sex Huaisang would leave him alone about it, but since he’s not he’d known perfectly well that there would be no resisting not one but two handsome men who could throw him over their shoulders as easily as they do bales of hay or sheep that need shearing. So, to that effect — the scene in front of him. Huaisang watches just long enough to see Xichen turn Meng Yao’s face to his with a gentle finger under his chin to coax him in for a kiss where they’re snuggled up all three together on the couch and then makes his escape to find his own fun for the night.

It’s already looking like it’s going to be quite the summer, and Huaisang basks in the pleasure of a plan well-executed with no one the wiser.

#the untamed fanfic #3zun #Modern AU #Orville Peck Cinematic Universe #officially the name of this universe (because there will definitely be more) lol #3zun but make them cattle ranchers because why not #Nie Mingjue #Meng Yao #Lan Xichen #Nie Huaisang

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lilcatdraws · 1 month

Text

Crack A Smile and Cut Your Mouth

Ledger!Joker Origin Story

Chapter Two - Feels Better In My Head

Warnings: Child abuse, domestic violence, alcoholism

Chapter Summary: Jack hates school and his father. Life sucks and nowhere feels truly safe. He desperately wants a way out...

Author’s Note: I finally got this done! It took me forever. I kept getting stuck towards the middle part. Also, I felt like the last chapter was way too short so this one is a little longer. Anyway I hope you enjoy! <3

Do you guys want a taglist for this series? I'd be happy to add you.

Jack woke up the next morning to the smell of bacon frying. His mother always got up early to cook breakfast. That was his alarm clock.

He yawned and crawled out of bed to get dressed. He kept on the same black t-shirt and pulled on a pair of khaki green cargo pants. He glanced over at his backpack tossed carelessly on the floor next to his nightstand and groaned. He knew he should probably go to school today. He’d already missed so much this year and his mother would pester him about it if he didn’t.

Jack picked up the backpack and stuffed its contents that fell out back in. He grabbed his sketchbook and his Polaroid camera from his dresser and packed them as well. There was no telling when inspiration would strike. He zipped the bag shut and slung it over his shoulder.

Cautiously, Jack walked from his room into the kitchen just in case Scott was still home. Jacqueline noticed him out of the corner of her eye.

“It’s okay. He’s at work.”

Jack relaxed and sat down at the table. It was a sad fact that he felt the most at ease when his father wasn’t home. Jacqueline finished off the bacon and brought it over. Jack snagged a few pieces as she turned to the refrigerator to get something to drink. She returned to the table with a carton of orange juice and sat down next to her son.

“Please go to school today, Jack.” Jacqueline said as she poured him some orange juice.

“I will. But I have to leave early because Mike needs me in the shop today.” Jack told her as he gulped down the juice.

Jacqueline sighed and swept her frizzy blonde curls out of her face. “Okay. At least you’re getting some education today. I just wish you would apply yourself more.”

“I don’t need school, mama. It’s dumb. I’m never gonna use any of it in the real world.”

“It never hurt anybody to be educated,” she kissed his forehead, “Now get going or you’re gonna be late. I love you.”

“Love you too.” Jack replied through a mouthful of bacon as he grabbed his stuff and went out the door.

He climbed into his black pickup truck parked under the carport and started off to school. He mentally prepared himself as he drove. It had been three days since he last went. He was really enjoying the small break but his mom wanted him to go and he didn’t want to disappoint her.

Jack made it to the school and walked in, keeping his head down and avoiding people. He didn’t have any friends. There were a few acquaintances sure, but no one he really hung around or talked to regularly. He was a loner. On days he did attend the whole day, he spent the lunch period by himself and his breaks drawing in his sketchbook.

As depressing as it seemed, it didn’t bother him. He liked being alone.

Jack entered his homeroom and sat down at his desk in the back. He took out a pencil and the notebook he needed and sat them in front of him. This was his first period class, boring as usual. He had no interest in algebra. Too many formulas and confusing rules. So he did what he normally did and doodled in his math notebook instead of taking notes.

His next class, chemistry, was just as hard for him but slightly piqued his interest. Learning about different chemicals and how things worked fascinated him. Especially when they got to talk about radiation and explosions. But today was just bookwork and Jack was bored out of his mind.

Two more hours and I can get out of here…

The last class before lunch was English. Jack hated this subject. It was the most boring out of all his classes, his teacher was awful, and he wasn’t good at reading.

To pass the time, he actually did his work but it was half-assed. He really could care less about schoolwork. Some things he genuinely didn’t understand but he still could’ve put in a little more effort.

Finally, the lunch bell rang and Jack didn’t hesitate darting from the classroom to the parking lot. He made it back to his truck and left the school grounds in the dust, eager to get to work.

He loved his job. Mike was an awesome guy to work for. It didn’t pay much but it was a good first job. Jack helped out in Mike’s repair shop by sweeping, moving equipment, handing him parts, etc.

Jack arrived at the shop and parked out front. He walked around back to the garage where Mike usually was. Mike was a middle aged guy in his late 40s. He was bald, stout, and a little on the shorter side with a graying, bushy brown beard. He had become somewhat of a mentor to Jack over the years.

Today Mike was underneath a small red car fixing something. He noticed Jack and slid out, chuckling. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

“I was but Mom said I could leave early for work.”

“Now why do I feel like that’s a half truth? Eh, it doesn't matter to me. It’s not my education you're screwing with.”

“Pfft. I don’t care about school. It’s so dumb. I probably learn more here than I do there.”

Mike shrugged. “I got some stuff for you to do. There’s a few boxes out front with the new tools in them. Move them back here and put them where they go. Then I need you to sweep around the garage. It’s getting filthy.”

Jack nodded and got right to work. He went back to the front and found the boxes sitting at the door. They were unopened and quite heavy but nothing Jack couldn’t lift. He brought them back to the garage and set them down next to the metal cabinets. After opening them, he put all the tools where they belonged and threw away the boxes. Then he grabbed a broom and started sweeping. Dust, dirt, debris, trash, leaves, etc. littered the concrete floors.

Man, I can’t even remember the last time I swept. This is disgusting. Jack thought as he tossed the dustpan on the floor and swept the pile of filth he created into the pan.

Mike’s radio played in the background and Jack nodded quietly along with the music. For over an hour he swept and swept until the floor was finally clean. He dumped the last pile into the trash and propped the broom against the wall, admiring his work. He knew having the shop clean and organized would help out Mike a lot.

Mike looked up from his work and laughed. “Done already? Well, I guess I could teach you how to put in a new transmission. Come here and I’ll show you.”

After an interesting lesson from Mike and a few more hours of odd jobs around the shop, it was time for Jack to go home. He glanced at his watch as he walked back to his truck. He was about to open the door when a glimmer of light caught his eye.

A brown glass bottle was laying in the ditch near the road. He paused for a moment, lost in thought. Suddenly a childhood memory hit him at full speed and there was no stopping it.

Crash!

Glass was sent everywhere as Jack tumbled to the floor. He clutched the back of his head, blood pooling into his hands. He burst into tears as any eight year old would in this terrifying situation. His mother, hearing the commotion, came running into the kitchen. She ignored her seething husband for once and knelt next to her son, peeling away his hands and accessing the wound.

Jaqueline whipped around to face the man responsible, unusually fearless. “Did you do this to him?!”

“Pshhh. So what if I did? The little brat deserved it.” The drunk slurred.

“He needs a hospital, Scott!”

“You ain’t taking him nowhere! He’ll live.” Scott bellowed.

Jacqueline huffed, picked up Jack, and whisked him away to the bathroom where she could treat the wound to the best of her ability. She took a washcloth and ran it under some warm water. Then she fanned out his curls surrounding the gash and cleaned it up with the washcloth. She wiped his bloody hands clean and picked what glass she could out of his hair and the wound. Jack whimpered in pain.

“Shhh. It’s okay, sunshine. It’s okay. Mama’s got this taken care of.” Jacqueline reassured him gently.

Once she got the wound clean, she bandaged it and carried Jack to his room. She put him to bed and kissed him goodnight. Jack’s memory of that night faded from there.

Jack blinked and brought himself back. He sighed and got in the driver’s seat. Before he went home, he wanted to ride around for a bit. He went straight through town and then took a few backroads. He ended up on the main road again out in the countryside. Nothing was out there except the forest and occasional billboards. His hometown truly was in the middle of nowhere.

A nice photo opportunity came up so Jack pulled over in a field nearby. There was a beautiful view of the sunset with the trees underneath. He fished his Polaroid out his backpack and hopped out of the truck. He lowered the tailgate and sat down, positioning his camera into the perfect place. When he got the shot he wanted, he set the camera down and laid back, gazing at the sky.

He wished he could stay here forever lost in his head instead of going home. He dreaded school and he dreaded his house. The only true safe place was going out alone. The streets were once again his safe haven.

Jack finally got a hold of himself and realized how much had passed. As much as he hated to, he really needed to get home. He put the tailgate up and climbed back in. The drive back home was the same as every other day yet he cringed at each familiar landmark he passed and every curve he rounded. Today he was feeling particularly uneasy about going home.

He turned down his street and pulled into his driveway, parking under the carport. His father wasn’t home yet.

Thank God.

As he walked up to the front porch, Jack noticed a pair of glowing yellow eyes underneath the deck. He smiled, knowing exactly who they belonged to.

“Luna, come on out girl. It’s okay.” He coaxed the creature.

A gray cat shimmied out from under the porch and stretched. She meowed and rubbed up against Jack's legs, purring contently.

The neighborhood Jack lived in had a lot of stray cats. He loved animals and they loved him. He enjoyed all the cats he came across but he had a special bond with Luna. She wasn’t technically his cat since she moved throughout the neighborhood but she always found her way back to his house at some point.

Jack reached into his backpack and produced a plastic bag filled with cat treats. He always kept some on him in case he ran into a stray. He grabbed two treats out and sat them down in front of Luna. She nibbled at them gratefully and meowed her thanks.

Jack pet her a few more times before walking up the stairs and entering the house. Jacqueline was in the kitchen washing dishes. Jack could smell dinner cooking. His mother turned around and her face lit up when she saw him.

“Hi sweetie! How was your day?”

“Eh, it was alright. School was pretty boring.”

“Ha. I figured you’d say that. Here, wash up and help me with the dishes.”

…

After Jack helped with washing the dishes and set up the table, the food was ready. Jacqueline took it out of the oven and placed it on the table. As soon as they sat down, Scott came stumbling through the door. The atmosphere in the house suddenly became tense and Jack could feel the temperature drop a few degrees.

“H-hi honey. Dinner’s ready.” Jacqueline said meekly.

Scott smirked. “Heh, you did something right for a change.”

He sat down across from his wife and fixed his plate. Once again Jack was stuck in the middle. He felt his blood boil at his father's haughty attitude. His mom worked so hard for her no good husband only to be treated like dirt.

“How was your day, son?”

“Fine.” Jack replied shortly. He was repulsed by that horrible man calling him son.

Scott nodded half heartedly and turned to Jacqueline. “I’m glad we didn’t have a repeat of last night, dear.”

Jacqueline just looked down timidly. How could he be so cruel? Jack couldn’t keep his mouth shut any longer.

“Last night would never have happened if you came home on time instead of going out drinking.”

Jacqueline's eyes widened in fear. She glanced at Jack, silently pleading with him to be quiet. It was too late. Scott stood up, knocking his chair over, and loomed over Jack.

“What was that, boy?”

Jack just stared back at him unafraid. Scott slapped him hard across the face and sent him to the floor. It all happened so fast, Jack could barely think. Before he knew it, Scott was kicking him in the side until his surge of rage subsided. Jack gasped as the wind was knocked out of him.

Finally Scott stopped and glared down at him angrily. “Don’t you ever question what I do with my time again! It’s none of your business.”

With that he sat down again and went back to eating, completely ignoring his beaten son lying on the floor. All Jack could do was lay there and cry silently. He couldn’t wait until he could finally get away from this hellhole. It would come at a cost but to him it was worth it.

#ledger joker #jack napier #the dark knight #heath ledger #nolanverse #cross posted on ao3 #lilcat writes

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erdogan-nevra · 2 months

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Left Behind

Date: March 16th and beyond

Locations: London, Porto

Medea was silent in the chair next to her. Or as next to her as she could be as they were in separate pods across the aisle. She doubted the woman wanted to talk but even if she did, it would have been drowned out by the constant thrum of the airplane.

Nevra had never demanded anything from the Rutherfords in the entirety of her employment. They likely would have given her whatever she asked for, within reason, but she had never taken advantage of that. Advantage of their generosity and what giving it to people meant. Most would mistake it for loyalty or comradeship. A chance to tell the people who worked for them that they cared when really it was a chance to show the rest of the world how much fucking money they had.

Fine, let them throw it around. The eleven hour flight would be more bearable in first class.

“Wait, I’m coming. Wait, wait!” The knock had been soft at first but grew the longer she took to disentangle herself from her blanket cocoon on the couch. The hallways of her little cottage was already narrow and when Sabir zigged the same time she did, Nevra found her knees slamming to the carpet. She shook her head and nudged the dog away, talking loudly before she even opened the door.

“I didn’t think you’d come thi-”

Ayaz. Not who she’d expected to see but Nevra smiled nonetheless. Maybe he’d remembered her birthday as well and was bored enough to come wish her so in person. She crossed her arms and put on a small pout.

“I hope my present is hiding somewhere in your coat because I don’t see one and I’ll be honest, if you didn’t get me anything, I might just cry.”

It took her three more beats to understand that he wasn’t there to wish her a happy birthday.

What was that look on his face?

“Ayaz?”

“Nev, let’s go inside.”

She didn’t know why but her heart started racing as he put a hand on her back and shut the door behind them.

We will be landing in Porto Velho in twenty minutes. Please have your arrival card and any items to declare ready and in hand.

She could feel Medea’s side eye and decided to ignore it. Neither were traveling as their namesake and both had only a carry on. A few changes of clothes was all that was needed for this trip.

The plane rolled into port with a soft bump. Nevra was on her feet in seconds.

“Easy there.” Medea’s voice snaked through her consciousness, squeezing uncomfortably, suffocating her with its very presence.

Ayaz had suggested the woman come with her and when Nevra had told him she didn’t need a babysitter, he shrugged. Yet her arrival at Heathrow and the sight of his ex-wife told Nevra enough. They didn’t trust her, not right now. Not with-

Nevra smiled at the customs worker. When they’d gotten off the plane and ended up here was beyond her. Everything blurred together now. “No, nothing to declare. Just here for a business trip.” Her face remained calm and inviting. Learning to play different parts had been one of the main skills she’d learned as an assassin. She’d never imagined she’d be using it in her daily life just to reassure people she wasn’t going to throw herself off a bridge.

Medea was next to her again. The Turk could feel her resisting the urge to take her elbow and guide her to the car that was waiting outside. Both women knew what would happen if she touched Nevra. She’d practically bit her head off at Heathrow to prove it. So unlike her. Then again, none of her actions had been like her the past few days.

What would he think of it all?

“Nevra, did you hear what I said?”

Dead.

The snap of fingers echoed in the air.

The person she’d chosen to love was dead.

The person who had chosen to love her was dead.

He was dead.

Fingers wrapped around her wrists, pressure building each moment she kept silent.

She had always been the one to leave when things came down to it. Her community, her friends, her fiancé. Nevra always made the choice. It never made it any easier but she had always been in control of who entered and left her life. That way she always knew who to blame when those horrible days eventually showed their faces.

Who could she blame for this?

Not herself.

The drug dealer? Absolutely.

The women and men who joined him for god knows how long until he’d been the unfortunate victim of a bad batch? Sure.

Kerem and his anger, his unfuckingreasonable anger toward their situation? If she tried hard enough.

Not herself though.

But Berat…

“Nevra, come back.”

No, she would never, could never blame him. She had chosen him and she wouldn’t blame that person. Even if-

So now she was the one left behind and god did it fucking suck. A harsh laugh escaped her lips. She finally noticed Ayaz and saw the look of concern at her outburst.

Blood splattered her face as the assassin pulled the trigger of the gun resting at the base of the man’s skull. It was messier than normal but he hadn’t come quietly and she was pissed off enough not to care. Medea on the other hand looked less than pleased. Blood also splattered the toes of her shoes. She took one look at Nevra’s blood covered face and audibly exhaled through her nose.

“At least you used a silencer.” She could barely hear the words over the roaring in her head and the sounds of passing cars on the street at the end of the alley.

A burner phone appeared in the older woman’s hand. A quick picture and a moment before confirmation before she tossed it into a barrel, followed by a lit match. A tiny part of Nevra wanted to burn the dead man as well but that wasn’t the job. This job was finished.

She took out her own phone and pressed the name at the top. Three rings before it picked up. Time difference, right. He wouldn’t care though, not really.

“Another one.”

Ayaz sighed on the other line and he kept silent for a moment, no doubt debating how long he should indulge her desire to lose herself.

“There’s a woman in Launceston…”

“You’re sure? No possibility you’re wrong?” Her throat felt like she’d eaten a handful of gravel. She felt her hands begin to shake in Ayaz’s grip. A shake of his head and a slight bow but he never averted her eyes. Never severed that last tether of support she needed.

Nevra looked toward the front door and slowly allowed the realization that Berat would never walk through it again to wash over her. How was she supposed to get through everything without him?

They’d talked for hours and nights on end of how it had been so simple to choose each other. How, once they’d said screw it and thrown caution to the wind, life had been so much happier. Their happiness had been a choice, her choice.

This was not her choice.

This is what it felt like to be left behind.

If he was going to leave her behind, then she was going to leave everyone else behind too.

“Give me a job.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t said in anger or sadness or despair. It wasn’t a want but a need.

It looked like he was going to refuse her so she shook her head. No, don’t stop me.

“Give me a job.”

The second plane was just as comfortable as the first had been. First class again, only this time Medea had done something unexpected. She’d bought out the entire first class. Nevra knew she was standing at the back of the area talking to the hostesses. She didn’t care what she was telling them. No one bothered her though.

As the woman settled in the back, the Turk settled in the front. Maybe her babysitter had gone through what Nevra was going through. Maybe she expected her to use the privacy to break down and cry or throw a tantrum or let all hell loose. Nevra intended on refraining from each one of those things.

If she was going to cry it would be on her own terms. Her grief would be her choice. Everything from here on out would be controlled by her because fuck this feeling. A better person would have taken the opportunity to understand, this was how she’d made other people in her life feel. Before, she would have been that better person.

Now she wasn’t and didn’t care to be.

Berat Yalaz would be the last person who would make a choice for her and the last person to leave her behind.

The thought made her sigh.

#self para #the reason she's not at the awards #berat #ayaz #medea #I cried a bit

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taylor-tut-fics · 3 months

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i uploaded this fic the other day but the formatting was off so rather than fixing it, i panicked and deleted it. so here it is again! another camp camp fic. enjoy and also if you have more requests i Desperately Need Them(TM) or i'll be left alone with my thoughts 😰

It’s one of the hottest days of the year, and they’ve been out of electricity for three days. The campers are cranky. Gwen is cranky. Cracks are even beginning to show in David’s patience. They were meant to watch a movie indoors to combat the heat, but they’ve been forced to find a last minute activity that doesn’t involve running around outside, so they’d settled on painting. So far, it’s been a wildly unpopular choice, pleasing only Dolph. Everyone else is antsy and bored to tears. Ordinarily, he’d go to any lengths to ensure they were having the best time possible, but he’s lost the energy.

It comes on suddenly in the middle of painting. At first, it’s just a headache. A minor inconvenience, really. He probably hasn’t drank enough water today for how hot it is. Understandable. His main focus has been keeping the campers hydrated, after all, so it’s not out of the realm of possibility that he’s neglected himself.

Next, he starts to feel shaky and weak. He’s willing to chalk that up to dehydration, too, so he grabs a water bottle from the cooler and downs half of it, ignoring how it makes his stomach churn.

When he feels achy, he blames yesterday’s hike. Lightheadedness, he blames on the heat. It’s only when he starts shivering with chills that he finally accepts it. Something is wrong. He’s gone from normal to feeling like he’s been hit by the bus (again) in the span of half an hour. This isn’t just a little overexertion. And with the way his head is starting to spin, if he doesn’t go lie down in bed now, he’s going to end up lying down against his will somewhere much less desirable.

“Hey, Gwen,” David calls, dragging his aching body across the mess hall to her. At the mention of her name, she looks up. “Hey. I’m not feeling so well all of a sudden.” She scans him up and down with a grimace. He’s pale and sweaty, with a distinct red flush to his cheeks.

“Yeah, you don’t look so good, either. What’s wrong?”

“Not so sure. I’m just really tired and everything hurts.” The shivering is obviously concerning without even having to mention it. She reaches out to place her hand to his forehead.

“Hm. A little warm maybe, but nothing crazy. Sounds like you’re getting sick.”

“Maybe. I think I want to go lie down for a while. Can you handle the kids?”

She seems a little stunned that he’d ask, and she doesn’t react the way he’d hoped she would. Rather than appreciating that he’s never asked for a day off in the entire time they’ve known each other, even working through colds and injuries, her eyes turn pleading.

“You can’t leave me alone with them,” she begs. “They’re monsters.” David glances around the horrible room and if he were only a tad more cynical, he’d have to agree.

“But Gwen, I—”

“Please, David. I’ll owe you so hard.” He sighs. There’s no way he can ignore a genuine plea for help from his CBFL, so he forces a smile.

“Sure. I’ll stick around.”

“You’re sure?” she asks, hoping that her tone doesn’t portray the fact that she hopes he’ll say yes. It’s courtesy, not concern.

“Positive. I’ll just head to bed a little early tonight.” He massages a temple with his thumb. “Preston is painting a backdrop on the wall. I’ll be right back.”

He dashes off to deal with that while Gwen tries her very best just to ensure no one kills each other. Tensions are high, but she doubts that will be a suitable plea in a murder trial.

Another two hours finds the craft supplies put away, the paintings left to dry outside in the sun, and David feeling more miserable than he thinks he has in his entire life. Rather than helping with lunch, he plops down at his usual table without grabbing anything to eat. The thought of food makes his stomach churn. He’s still shivering despite that the cabin must be 85 degrees or more.

As soon as Gwen notices David sitting at the table, trembling with his eyes shut, something in her softens. She makes her way to him as soon as the campers have her food, foregoing her own tray.

“David,” she calls, nudging him by the shoulder. “You alive?” He nods, but doesn’t force any pep into it. “How are you feeling?”

His only reply is a groan, not even bothering to open his eyes.

“Damn it.” The hand that rests upon his forehead is cool. “You’re burning up. I shouldn’t have asked you to stay.”

“I wanted to,” he reassures, even if it’s a mumbled lie.

“You need to go to bed. I’ll handle them for the night.”

“Are you sure? What about the kids?”

“They’ll be fine. Mostly. Probably.” He doesn’t find the joke funny and she can tell immediately. “We’ll be fine. You can’t possibly take much more of this.”

Despite his reservations, he has to admit that she’s right. He’s already had a few near-faints today, and he’s not looking forward to another. All he needs is an evening to sleep this off and he’ll be fine. He tries to keep that in mind and ignore the guilt that arises as he exits the mess hall and heads back toward the cabin.

He sleeps until Gwen comes to check on him before dinner bearing flu medicine and a thermometer. The opening of the door startles him from sleep. He doesn’t remember drifting off.

“How’re you feeling?” she asks before handing him the thermometer. He makes a noncommittal “so-so” gesture with his hand. Can’t be good. That combined with the reading of 102℉ tell them both that they’re in for a rough next few days.

“It’s so hot in here. Will you be okay?”

“Sure,” he replies. “Honestly, I haven’t even noticed.”

“Still having chills?”

He nods. His temperature is too high already, and he’s still shivering. The worst is yet to come.

“I’ll come check on you in a little while. Stay in bed. Text me if you start dying.” He agrees to do so even knowing that it would take a whole lot to pull her away from the kids when she’s the only one on duty.

She’s dreading this. The idea of telling the campers that she’s running the camp alone for the next day or so is like strapping a steak to her chest and entering a lion’s den. Assured destruction. However, they’re going to notice some time or another, so she might as well get it over with.

“Alright, campers, listen up,” she announces as soon as everyone is sitting down with their lunch, “David went to bed early. He’s not feeling so good. We’re going to have a free play evening, if you all promise to leave me alone. David does like three people’s worth of work around here and now I have to do it all by myself. If we can keep from killing anyone or burning the camp down until he gets back, we can have an ice cream party. Capiche?”

There’s a general murmur while the children weigh the merits of arson versus ice cream, but ultimately decide in favor of the party. Fewer cops, more chocolate.

Max is the only one who thinks that it might not be worth it. His own reward assessment comes up in favor of torturing Gwen. He can always dip into the dregs of the candy supply that wasn’t confiscated, but messing with the counselors? Irreplaceable.

Gwen needs a list to tell her everything David does in a day, one that was given to him by Campbell and which he memorized years ago. She watches him go through it every day, but by now he speeds through it so fast that she barely even registers most of the tasks on it. They make sense, she supposes, but she’s not used to them. Not to mention the fact that she doesn’t care.

After she’s already put away the painting supplies and cleaned up the mess hall, she begins to work on washing dishes from lunch. Periodically, she checks on the children just to ensure they all have roughly the same number of digits this morning. She’s got one earbud in and is listening to a smutty audiobook. Honestly, it’s a little soothing. Normally, these are her least favorite activities because she hates touching wet food, but now, it’s giving her a welcome reprieve from the squealing and hollering outside as the campers play Humans vs. Zombies with water guns. She hasn’t even realized that a few hours have passed when David bursts into the mess hall, his eyes frantic and feverish, while she’s setting up for dinner. Gwen immediately rushes to his side.

“David? I told you to stay in bed.”

“But the fire,” he argues.

“Fire?”

She practically runs out the door with the extinguisher in hand only to find the camp very much as it’s always been. When she walks back inside, he’s pacing, wringing his hands together anxiously. He walks in large, lazy, dizzy circles around the mess hall. He looks up when she returns, a desperate plea clear across his face.

“Did you put it out?”

“David, there’s nothing there. I think you had a fever dream.”

He shakes his head. “Max,” he argues. “Max isn’t here.”

“He’s getting ready for bed with the other campers.” She reaches out and places her palm across his forehead, then frowns. “Woah. You're really burning up. You need to take something and go back to bed.”

“We need to find him.” She argues again that he’s fine, but David is having none of it. “He’s all alone.” His eyes are filled with tears that don’t spill over.

“David, don’t—”

“Please. We have to find him. It’s not safe.”

Though reluctant to leave him alone, it seems as though the only thing that’s going to alleviate his panic enough to get him to take another dose of fever reducers is to show him that everything is okay. “Fine. I’ll go get him if it means you’ll calm down.”

She tells him not to move while she tracks Max down. He’s about to head into his cabin when she stops him.

“I need to borrow you,” she says. Max rolls his eyes,

“No. Anything else?”

“I mean it. David’s freaking out in the mess hall and isn’t going to stop until he sees you.” Max frowns.

“What do you mean, ‘freaking out?’ I thought you said he was sick in bed.”

“Come see for yourself.” Citing the fact that it’ll be fun to see him in a state, he follows. When she opens the door for him, David comes rushing to his side.

“Max,” he breathes, dropping to his knees. His eyes are glassy, either from illness or from tears. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Woah,” he manages, caught off guard by how markedly less fun this is than he’d anticipated. He looks awful. Likely feels awful. And he’s outright distressed. Max has never wanted this no matter how much he says he does. David’s hands are worryingly hot as he lays them on his shoulders, and this close, he can feel heat pouring off of him. “Well, I’m alive, so is this over? Can I leave?”

“What happened? Where are you hurt?”

“I’m not,” he snaps. “You just had a nightmare. Everything’s fine.”

“But I—I saw you.” A tear spills over onto his cheek and he wipes it away swiftly before replacing his hands on Max’s shoulders. He swats him away and wiggles out of his grip.

“Jesus, he’s acting crazy. How sick is he?”

“I need to take his temperature but he’s too worked up. He’s going to make it worse.”

“I’m so sorry, I let you—I didn’t—and you could have been hurt and I—” He trails off in a shuddering breath.

“David,” Max says slowly. “You’ve gotta calm the fuck down. Nothing happened. You’re out of your mind.”

It appears as though he doesn’t even hear him. None of his reassurances are registering judging by the quickening of his breath, but he’s losing steam quickly. His head droops forward but he catches himself. Max inches back toward him. He’s not even trying to maintain an image of nonchalance anymore. This is scaring him.

“David?”

That’s all he has time for before David slumps forward. Max has to push against his shoulders to keep him from hitting the ground face first.

“Holy shit,” Gwen exclaims as she drags him under his arms to get him to lie flat on his back. It seems as though he’d only lost consciousness for a second or two. “David, hey. Look at me.”

“The kids,” he says, his tone thin and watery. He’s still near tears. He’s still breathing in shallow, stuttering breaths that don’t quite reach the bottoms of his lungs. If he keeps this up, he’s going to faint again.

“I think you’re having a panic attack,” she says, her tone soft and gentle. “You need to breathe slowly.”

“I’m fine, I just—” a quick breath, “need to,” another breath, “find them,” a breath and a breath and a breath, loud and frantic and fast.

“Should I go get the other campers? Or, like, an ambulance?”

“He’s a little delirious. He’s not going to come out of it until I get the fever down.” She places his hand on her chest so he can feel her breathing as well as hear it while she tries to soothe him. It helps marginally. He’s no longer hyperventilating, but he certainly doesn’t calm down.

“Thanks for helping, Max. You don’t have to stay.” Instead of immediately turning tail and running, Max shifts from foot to foot.

“Is he, like… okay? Because he seems like he’s not okay.”

“I’m going to see if I can get him to take some flu medicine.” It’s not a definitive answer and that’s by careful design. She doesn’t want to break his fragile trust by promising things are going to be fine and then carting David off to the hospital in an hour if she can’t get his temperature down. Even Gwen knows better than to do that to Max.

“Do you need help?”

The offer is tentative and awkward, but earnest. Max is worried and trying.

“Actually, could you sit with him for a minute and make sure he doesn’t try to run off while I go get some things?”

Max nods.

“Great.Thanks. I’ll be right back.” His attention switches back to David as soon as the door slams behind her. He can’t believe things have gotten so bad so fast. He seemed totally normal when they’d started painting after breakfast. Sure, he looked bad when he’d gone to lie down, pale and sweaty, but it was nothing like this. He’s not sure what this is, but it doesn’t seem safe. Max has been sick before. He’s even seen David sick before. Only once over the years, but he hadn’t detached from reality about it. Whatever this is, it’s not normal.

David tries to push himself to his feet only to be kicked in the shin hard enough to stop him. “Owie!” he exclaims.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“But the campers.”

“How many times do we have to tell you everyone is fine? It was a bad dream. Stop being a freak.” Max has a feeling that if he could stand up right now, that he would run off looking for the others. It’s almost worse to see him so still, given how worked up he is. A single tear streams down David’s cheek and while Max is pretty sure he won’t remember any of this tomorrow, it still makes him feel like shit. “Hey, stop doing that. Gwen’s gonna be back any second with medicine. You’ll feel better after you take it.”

“Everything feels so fuzzy. And hot.” Max shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, unsure of what to do. He’s normally so confident, so decisive. But he’s way out of his league with this, and it’s scaring him.

“It’s gonna be fine. You’re just really sick. Relax.” Just as he’s running out of things to say in response to David’s feverish ramblings, she reappears in the doorway with the first aid kit. Max never thought there would be a day when he was glad to see her.

“How is he?” she asks rhetorically. She can clearly see he’s a wreck. She removes a thermometer from the bag and hands it to him. Apparently he’s at least a little lucid, because he places it in his mouth without complaint. In two minutes, it beeps, and Gwen grimaces at the 104 degree reading. This is bad. It’s so, so bad. She needs an adult to handle this, preferably one with an MD and a lot of patience.

“Take these,” she commands as she sets two small pills in his hand. He does as she says, chasing them with an offered water bottle. “Good. Drink as much as you can.”

“You put out the fire?”

“There’s no fire,” she says reassuringly, her hand stroking his in an attempt to ground him. “Breathe.” David does, for the first time since he’s sprinted out of his tent, breathe deeply and slowly. She offers words of encouragement and never steals her hand away.

“Are you sure he shouldn’t be in the hospital?” Max asks. She sighs.

“Maybe, but this place doesn’t give us health insurance. I want to try to fix it here before I ruin his life with medical bills.”

God, that’s so unfair, Max thinks. Just another reason to hate this stupid place.

“What if he doesn’t get better?”

“David,” she dodges, “do you think you could do me a favor?”

His eyes snap open and he nods desperately. “Anything.”

“I need to get you in a cool shower. It’s not gonna be pleasant, but you’ll feel a lot better after. Do you think you can walk that far?”

This time, his affirmative is hesitant, more like he’s agreeing for her sake than that he’s actually considering the question. Whether that’s true or not, it’s good enough for Gwen. She sends Max off to start the water running and meets him, supporting David and guiding him where he needs to go because while he’s got his feet firmly beneath him, he’s still loopy as fuck. She doesn’t even let him try to shower by himself, instead opting to guide him into the stream and sitting him down on the floor, fully clothed. The only thing she bothers with is taking his phone out of hit pocket.

“You don’t have to stay, Max,” she reminds him. “You should go to bed.” He knows she’s right, but he can’t bring himself to leave, not with the severity of what’s happening here. There’s no way that she can handle this on her own. She’s going to get him killed, and then she’ll be in charge. God help them, then.

She shields David’s eyes with a cupped hand, feeling the heat radiating there. She hopes that this will help. He stays under the stream for what feels like a lifetime, but is really probably about 15 minutes or so.

“What’s going on?” he asks, staring down at his drenched clothes and running a hang through sopping hair. Gwen reaches for a towel and hands it to him, and he’s at least coherent enough to know what to do with it. He rubs the towel over his head to dry his hair. “Why am I in the shower?” He looks down. “In my clothes?”

“What do you remember?”

He thinks for a long moment. “Woah. It’s all a bit hazy. I think I had a bad dream?”

She nods, relieved that he’s finally able to call it that. “You ran out of the cabin raving that the camp was on fire. Your fever spiked and you got a little out of your mind.” He looks devastated, embarrassed.

“I’m so sorry.” It’s then that he notices Max standing a little ways away, watching the scene without being a part of it. “Max? What are you doing up?”

Of course he noticed before he could quietly slip away without being seen.

“You were freaked out that I was dead. Gwen made me prove I’m not.” She smirks.

“That was over an hour ago.”

He kicks his foot against the dirt and David doesn’t make him say he’s worried, admit that he cares. Instead, he groans as he hauls himself to his feet, wavering for a moment before Gwen can steady him.

“I think I’m going to go change into something dry.” His teeth are chattering from the tepid water.

“Nuh-uh. Not until your temperature comes back below 103.” She hands the thermometer over and they wait a long two minutes before it beeps. She takes it before he can even look. “103.2,” she says unhappily. “I can live with that. It’s still really high, though.”

“I’m really fine to just go to bed. I don’t want to keep anyone up.”

“I’m not taking my eyes off you,” she says. She plans on sleeping on the couch so that if he wants to leave the counselor’s cabin, he’ll have to go through her first. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

“Max—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he interjects, “I’ll go to bed, too.”

“Thanks for helping,” Gwen says. “I owe you one.” Before he can open his mouth, she glares. “Within reason.”

“Fine. Goodnight.”

“Max,” David calls. He doesn’t turn around. “Thanks.” He acts like he doesn’t hear it even though they all know he did.

Gwen turns her attention to getting David standing once more. With the fever down, he seems steadier on his feet, but still a little wobbly. She makes a mental note to make him drink a bottle of water before he goes to sleep.

“How are you feeling?”

He forces a smile. “Not great,” he admits, “but better.” She doubts he really remembers those delirious moments, but better is something. The walk back to the cabin is much easier than the walk to the showers. She sits right outside the door as he changes into dry sweatpants and a t-shirt. Funny, she thinks. He’s always slept in his uniform, if he sleeps at all. She’s not sure she’s ever even seen him out of uniform. He looks sick: flushed but no longer worryingly so and pale but no longer toeing death’s door.

“Here,” she says, handing over a Gatorade and a banana. “Drink half of it and eat what you can.” He doesn’t even open the granola bar, but he does sip the Gatorade while they watch Bob Ross, though his eyes haven’t been open in a while.

“You’re going to be so tired tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

“Eh, I’m always tired. I’ll just let the kids free play. I told them if they’re good, they can have an ice cream party.”

“Good idea.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m so sorry about—”

“Don’t do that.”

“--about all the trouble—”

“David,” she curtails. “Don’t start. It’s not like it was your fault.”

“Okay. Thanks.” He places his hand atop hers, and she doesn’t pull away. “And thanks for taking care of me.”

“Of course.” She leans in and places her head on his hot shoulder. She really is exhausted, and the next few days are only going to be worse. “I think it’s time for bed.”

“Yeah.” But instead, they just fall asleep like together like that on the couch.

#camp camp sickfic #camp camp fanfic #camp camp david #camp camp david angst

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wild-lavender-rose · 1 year

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Hi, can I beg you for the 11 doctor x nonbinary reader? About maybe how the doctor helps them with their dysphoria and/or family issues (makes them comfortable or something like that)? I would seriously appreciate it because I need something like that right now....

Hey! So I will say that I struggled with how to write this one and finally decided to do a “would include” type fic for your request. I hope this helps <3

The 11th Doctor coming with you to family events would include...

Warning: toxic family dynamics, degradation

- You would be trying to prepare him for weeks, explaining your family dynamics, assuring him that the things he might witness were totally normal.

- The doctor never quite seemed to understand why all this information was important. “Yes, yes, yes, I’ve got it. Aunt Ruby is a bore, cousin Albert thinks he’s the best thing to walk the earth and your mom is nosier than me. Why should all this matter? You’re grown up enough, aren’t you?” He would stop and think about it, looking at you. “You are grown up enough, right? I won’t be charged with kidnapping or something, will I?”

- You took hold of his jacket and looked him in the eye. “Just don’t, say anything. All right?”

- He just regarded you. “Never seen you this worked up before.”

- You didn’t answer him. You never did. You just kept trying to prepare him for the inevitable.

- When the day of the event came, you and the doctor got all dressed up and walked in only a few minutes late.

- Which was when it all began.

- “So, your mother told me you ran off to be a tramp or something. Who’s this?”

- “Didn’t think I’d see you here, sweetheart. Where did you get those clothes, the thrift store?”

- “I see you’re still not married. If I were you, I’d settle down with the doctor here. Before it’s too late.”

- “How are your studies coming along? Your mother told me you were traveling with the doctor here. Wouldn’t you say it’s time to return to the real world and focus on what matters?”

- The questions and comments went on for three hours.

- True to his word, and much to your surprise, the doctor stayed silent.

- He would give a thin smile and an occasional nod, but would otherwise offer no comment in any of the conversations.

- The doctor never stopped holding your hand, sometimes squeezing it so tightly that it would have hurt had you not been squeezing back just as much.

- As awful as the event was, him beside you was like having a lifeline in the middle of a hurricane.

- But once it was all over and the two of you were back in the Tardis, then, and only then, did the doctor release everything he had held in.

- “Can you believe it, them calling you a failure! You perfect, beautiful little human, a failure. That’s absurd. That’s it! We’re leaving. I’m taking you back to your family’s ancestral ape tribe. Hopefully we’ll be able to prevent whatever rock slide landed on their heads and preserve at least a little bit of intelligence to be carried down through the generations!”

- That’s about when the doctor would notice that you had sunk down to the floor panels sobbing.

- The Tardis hummed sympathetically as he walked around to find you like that.

- “Darling, come here.” The doctor would sit down on the floor beside you and pull you into his arms. “It’s all right, love. It’s over.” His fingers would card through your hair, rubbing your back, rocking you gently. “You’re never going through that again.”

- “I have to,” you cried, face buried in his shoulder. “They’re my family.”

- “And what does that mean, hmm?” The doctor shifted to look you in the eye, brushing the tears from your cheek. “No one, absolutely no one, should talk to you like that love. You are too good for that, for them.”

- You’d nod, a fresh wave of tears blurring your vision. “I love you.”

- “Ugh, mushy.” The doctor would make a face for a moment before shaking out of it. “Sorry. Habit.”

- He’d smirk when you laughed at him, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I love you too. So very very much.”

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starwalker42 · 11 months

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human credentials

A realisation, a car ride, and a question.

“Scully… do you think there’s a chance you might be autistic?”

Autistic!Scully fic, because my brain wouldn't shut up until I wrote it. I've pictured it taking place in season 2, but it could probably fit anywhere between season 1-6. Many thanks to @i-want-those-files for the autistic Scully meta that started this whole thing, and for the Discord loaves who have put up with me talking about this for weeks <3

Read on AO3 | @today-in-fic

It's been a long morning.

A phone call at 3am; Skinner’s voice, still thick with sleep, apologising for the early hour. Some weapons bust at a warehouse in northern Virginia – intel was fresh, perps were in place, and all hands were needed on deck for go time in two hours. A car would be outside his apartment in ten minutes. Mulder had rolled off his couch, turned off Space Odyssey, and was waiting by the kerb within two.

Scully was already in the back of the sedan, but they’d maybe exchanged ten words on the way – she’d dozed as Mulder had watched the pitch-black countryside roll past the window, feeling a familiar itch buzz through him. If he was back at his apartment, he’d be heading out for a run to shake it off. He guessed an armed raid would be a suitable replacement.

They got to the rendezvous late, barely twenty minutes before it was time to go – just enough time to get kitted out and receive a rundown on the plan. He sat next to Scully in the SWAT van, elbows bumping in the close quarters, and waited for the signal to go.

It was loud, messy, but over in less than ten minutes – the gang had been caught unaware, with barely a chance to react. All the same, there were casualties: two agents and four suspects wounded in the crossfire, and one suspect dead from a hand grenade he’d detonated accidentally. Mulder’s ears were still ringing, four hours later.

Four hours later, when he’s still at the warehouse, because a big raid like this means one thing: paperwork.

His rifle has been checked three separate times, and he’s been asked the same questions twice, by separate senior officers: How many times did you fire your weapon? Do you feel you reacted with proportionate force? Who provided your orders? Did you voice any concerns prior to engagement? Were these listened to by your task force leader?

And he’s answered the questions as they want him to, playing the good little FBI agent and biting back any sarcastic response that threatens to raise its head. They’ve shut the X-Files before. He doesn’t need to give them encouragement to do it again.

Once the seniors are satisfied, he’s allowed to go, so long as he promises to keep his cell phone close by and not to speak to any press until the official statement is released. They give him permission to turn in his vest and helmet, and after leaving the debrief area he’s finally allowed to talk to the other agents milling around the scene, looking just as drained and bored as he feels.

There’s only one agent he wants to talk to, but she’s nowhere to be found.

He feels his heart twist in something that feels like disappointment as he realises she’s probably long gone, on her way back home after her own debrief. There’s an understanding that they won’t be in the office until later, now, but part of him had been hoping they’d drive back to Washington together, sharing common grievances and singing to the radio. He swallows the familiar feeling of abandonment and asks another agent how to get out of here.

“There are cars out the back.” Mulder nods and turns to leave, until the agent adds, “Good luck out there.”

He doesn’t bother asking why, but the comment is explained soon enough.

Someone must have tipped off the press, because the moment he steps out of the warehouse he’s blinded by camera flashes. There are microphones being thrust towards him, and he can’t respond even if he’d wanted to, because all the questions are flowing together, too loud for him to hear. For a long moment he just stands there, blinking away the sunspots in his vision.

Then he remembers – he’s got to be a good little FBI agent, and standing mute and dumb in front of the press is not a good look.

“Excuse me.” He squeezes past the cameras, keeping his head down.

He isn’t wearing his windbreaker, and he hopes that with nothing to formally identify him as FBI the journalists will soon lose interest. A few keep trying as he edges through the crowd, but after a few ‘no comment’s they leave him alone.

As he leaves them behind, the first drops of rain start to fall. He hurries around the side of the warehouse to the cars, flashing his ID to the agent monitoring them as he ducks under the ticker tape.

It’s a standard fleet, government-issue black sedans, and Mulder knows each one has the keys waiting for him in the ignition, ready for him to head back to Alexandria with the understanding that he’ll return it to the Hoover Building at his convenience.

He doesn’t like being a good little FBI agent, but it does have its perks.

He’s surveying the cars, reading to take his pick, when he sees a flash of red hair out of the corner of his eye.

It’s Scully. She’s sat in a car – in the passenger seat, he realises with a grin.

She waited. Of course she did.

He practically bounds over, throwing open the driver’s door, and leans in. “To Georgetown, ma’am?”

She doesn’t acknowledge him. At first, he thinks nothing of it, just climbs into the seat and starts to buckle his seatbelt, but then he notices her hands. She’s got both of them resting on her thighs, and she’s clenching and releasing her fists, over and over, so fast it seems an almost unintentional movement, a spasm of muscles.

He looks up at her face, and realises her eyes are squeezed shut. Her shoulders are tight, pulled up towards her ears, and her hands keep going. In, out, in, out.

He’s never seen her like this. He’s not sure what to make of it.

“Scully?”

There’s a noise, then, a whine almost, quiet but continuous, and it takes him a moment to realise that it’s coming from his partner.

“Scully?”

It doesn’t stop. To his distress, her movements start to get more frantic, her fists clenching faster and faster, until suddenly something changes. Before he can stop her, her hands have come up and she’s hitting herself, slapping her open palms against the side of her head hard enough that it must be hurting, but she doesn’t stop.

Mulder doesn’t think, just moves – he gets out of the car, indifferent to the steady downpour that’s now started, and heads to her side, opening the passenger door. He reaches in and grabs her wrists, so tight he can see the skin there turning red as he pulls her arms away, back into her lap.

“Scully, stop.”

His touch seems to freeze her, and she stops, not fighting him – but as soon as her hands still, her feet start to move, her knees bouncing up and down, and she’s still making that noise, a soft keening in the back of her throat. Frantic, he runs his eyes over her, searching for an injury, blood, anything that would explain… oh.

Some part of his brain finally kicks into gear, and as he watches her, watches the tension in her body and the need to move, it all slowly starts to make sense in a way he hadn’t been expecting but now seems entirely logical.

“Scully,” he says quietly, kneeling down next to the car. “Scully, I think I know what’s going on. I know you need to help yourself calm down, but I can’t let you do something that’ll hurt you. Okay?”

She doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t open her eyes or relax, but she acknowledges him, gives him a quick, jerky nod of the head.

“So if I let go of you, I need you to do something that won’t hurt. Promise me?”

Scully nods again, and he releases her wrists.

As he’s expected, her legs slow their bouncing as she laces her fingers together, squeezing them against each other. Little by little, her shoulders start to relax.

Mulder stays kneeling by her side, and keeps his voice quiet, his tone even.

“Can you tell me what happened back there?”

For a long moment, Scully doesn’t reply, just sits there, clenching her hands. Then, just as quietly as he had, she speaks. “It was too much. It was just… too loud, and too bright, and there were too many people, and it wouldn’t stop.”

Her hands start to move faster, and he fights the urge to grab onto her again. Instead, he exaggerates his breathing, gently prompting Scully to do the same, helping her breaths come slow and deep. He waits until her hands slow down, and then asks her another question.

“How can I help?”

“Uh…” She gives a shaky smile at that. “Honestly, just keep doing what you’re doing.”

That eases the grip of fear from around his heart, just a little. He’s doing something right, at least. Realising he’s still crouched next to her open door, he starts to straighten, giving her space.

“Should I get back in the car?”

For the first time, Scully’s eyes open, seeking his.

“No,” she pleas. “Stay there?”

Her desperation makes him pause; he relaxes back onto his haunches as her eyes slide shut again, and stays in place by her side, feeling the rain drip off his hair. “Okay. I’m here for as long as you need me.”

Gradually, her hands start to slow, moving from a regular rhythm of clenching and releasing to an occasional squeeze together, until they’re resting on her lap, entwined but still. Her breathing has steadied, too, and with a final deep inhale Scully lifts her head and opens her eyes again to look at him.

“Okay. I think I’m okay.”

There's a moment where he wants to say something, wants to take her hand and squeeze it, but he stops himself, aware they’re not completely alone.

Instead, he suggests the only thing that he can. "Do you want to get out of here?"

She breaks eye contact, something under the surface that he can’t quite place. "Yeah. Let's do that."

He gets back in the car and they drive.

xXx

It’s been almost an hour of driving before Scully speaks.

“I’m sorry about that.”

They’ve made good progress through the near-empty roads on the way to DC, but now, as they near the capital, the traffic has started to pile up; Mulder watches the rain bounce off the trunk of the car ahead as he tries to think of a way to reply.

Finally, he settles for an easy response, a non-answer, really. “How are you feeling now?”

“Better. Calmer. I think it was bad because I hadn’t slept - my nerves were a little frayed.”

“Has it happened before?”

“A few times. I normally deal with it before it gets that bad.”

What she doesn’t say doesn’t escape his attention. This has happened before. Multiple times.

He tries not to think about that – about her struggling, panicking, feeling overwhelmed and not feeling able to tell anyone. Has it happened when he’s been close by? After she’s left the office, or in the adjoining motel room? Have there been times where he’s missed it, or mistaken it for tiredness or irritation, when actually it was something deeper, something far more difficult for her to explain?

He remembers what crossed his mind, standing in the rain next to the car.

“Scully…” He starts, immediately trailing off as the words escape him.

How do you ask something like this? And not just to a stranger, but to a friend, his partner, who knows him better than anyone? Who he knows better than anyone?

Someone he should know better than anyone. There’s a voice at the back of his head asking why it took him so long to notice, why he never asked the right questions or picked up on certain things, why it took him until now to join the dots together. He can’t indulge that voice right now - there’ll be time for blame and rumination later. He needs to finish his question, get it out before he loses the confidence to do so. So, before he can overthink it any further, he sets his jaw and bites the bullet.

“Do you think there’s a chance you might be autistic?”

He can’t look at her as he says it, but there’s a pause, and he feels her eyes on him. He keeps his fixed on the headlights of the car in front, giving her time. She can shout at him if she wants to – he thinks he might deserve it.

She doesn’t shout. After a moment, she asks him a question in response. “You’re the psychologist, right?”

He knows what she’s asking, and he doesn’t want to lie to her.

“I think… I think what happened earlier, what you described, was sensory overload. And what you were doing with your hands looked a lot like stimming.”

“And that’s related to autism?”

“It can be.” She’s not going to let him drop it, not that easily, so he fishes for the right words for a moment. “Scully, I can’t diagnose you, and even if I could I wouldn’t want to. A diagnostic label is so definite, and people can find it so harmful if they’re not ready, and the last thing I want to do is to make you feel uncomfortable - I know it’s not easy to hear, not if you’re still processing the idea.”

He stops himself, aware the words are coming out faster than he can control them.

“I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t want to upset you.”

“You’re not.” He turns to look at her. She’s looking right back, endless blue shining with a resolute certainty. “Mulder, back there… that’s the first time anyone has ever understood what’s going on, or said something helpful. When I used to – what did you call it?”

“Stimming. Self-stimulating.”

“I used to do it sometimes, in grade school, when it got loud, or everything was too much. I’d just… click my fingers, or clench my fist over and over. But then the teachers told me off for fidgeting, and the other kids laughed at me, so I forced myself to stop.”

He forces himself to wait, to let her fill the silence.

She takes a long, deep breath.

“I remember thinking ‘what’s wrong with me?’. It felt like there was some big joke, something everyone else was in on, but that I couldn’t work out.

“I still feel it now, sometimes, this sense of…” she gestures vaguely. “Of something being wrong. Something’s wrong with me, and everyone else knows, but I can never pinpoint what it is.”

She runs her tongue over her lip, and her next words shake a little. "Mulder, are there… are there other things? About me?"

He knows what she means. And she wants it from him straight, so that's how he gives it to her.

"I know that when people make small talk with you, you get uncomfortable. You prefer it when people say and act how they think, and you find fitting in with people, especially other women, difficult. You don't like change. You have a very rigid belief system, and you don't like anything challenging that. Expressing emotion doesn't come easily to you, but when you feel you feel a lot. You like numbers and science and the certainty of the laws of nature."

And there's nothing wrong with you, he thinks, but doesn't say. There's nothing wrong with you at all.

Scully's quiet for a long moment. He knows her well enough to know that this means she's thinking, probably too much.

“Okay. I probably, to some degree, fit the profile. But I can do all those things. I can make small talk and act interested in those conversations, and I can tolerate uncertainty and change. And I can deal with too much noise and movement, most of the time.”

“Isn’t that the problem?”

She looks at him.

“The words you’re using, Scully. ‘Act’, and ‘tolerate’ and ‘deal with’. You don’t do those things because you find them easy, or because you enjoy them. It’s because you have to.

"A lot of autistic people - autistic women, especially - talk about pretending. Masking how they actually are or feel, because they want to blend in. It's like… like constantly wearing a disguise you don't feel safe enough to take off."

She falls silent again. The cars ahead start to move, and he puts the car into drive, almost missing her next words under the noise of the engine.

“I thought that was how everyone felt.”

Mulder doesn’t know how to respond to that, or if she even needs a response, so he just waits.

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t even know myself. So much of who I am is for other people, to fit in, and I don’t even know why I bother because it doesn’t make me feel better. Instead I feel like I’m hiding, and I’m terrified of being found out. I’m waiting for someone to realise I’m not who I pretend to be.

“You know, I get so excited about science. About the beauty and the mystery of it, and its absurdity and incredibility, about how I’ll never know everything about how the world works, and how the laws of nature and physics are older than the Earth, and will keep the universe moving even after I’m gone. But I can’t explain that to anyone in a way that makes sense, so I pretend I’m interested in science and medicine in the same way everyone else is.

“But it’s not just that, it’s everything else. I mean, at work I wear certain clothes and style my hair in a certain way, not because I want to but because that’s how I’m expected to, and I look in the mirror and don’t recognise myself because that’s not me. I feel like you’re one of the only people who’s ever seen past that, who even gets close to knowing who I actually am. To everyone else, I’m completely different. I’m some person who doesn’t even exist, it’s just a lie.”

She pauses.

"It's… it’s exhausting.” Saying that seems to help some of the tension leave her body.

“That’s how I feel. I don’t know if I can explain how… how tiring it is, having to be normal, for other people.”

“What if you didn’t have to be?”

She gives him a look. "Mulder."

"No, just bear with me for a minute. I know you won't be able to with everyone, but with me, at least. What if you could completely let go of that need to be normal?"

Another pause. Then, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear: "I'm afraid."

He's only heard her say that once before, sat at his bedside discussing belief and life after death, and her father who passed away only a few short days before.

"I think I'm afraid of what happens if I let go of the mask."

Something twinges in his chest at the idea that Scully – Scully, who can stand in front of a team of seasoned agents and give orders with the best of them, who will stare death in the face without blinking, who is the kindest, most compassionate, most amazing person he’s ever known, is scared of the judgement of other people.

The words come to the front of his mind again, and this time he feels them almost slip from his lips: There is nothing wrong with you. Everything you think is weird, or wrong, or unacceptable, makes you perfect. You’re incredible, Scully.

But he can’t say that. Can’t allow himself to say it, not like this, because he’s a little bit scared of what it signifies. So instead, he says something that he hopes is close enough to what he means, what he wishes he could say.

"Scully, I am the last person on earth who would judge you." It comes out softer than he'd intended it to.

Slowly, they edge forward with the traffic, the rain starting to slow. He doesn’t take his eyes of the car ahead, but he can feel her thinking all the same. This time he finds himself filling the silence.

“I want you to know that if the office is ever too loud, or we’ve just come out of a busy meeting, and you need time to yourself or you need to stim, you can do. I know it might be hard if you’re used to hiding it, but I don’t want you to feel like you can’t.”

“I wouldn’t want to distract you.”

He glances across at her. “Scully, I do it around you all the time. It doesn’t bother me.”

They stop again. There’s a moment of silence, and when he turns to face her, Scully’s looking at him, forehead creasing in confusion. Mulder suddenly realises that he’s always just assumed Scully knew.

“I stim.” He answers her unasked question. “When I tap pencils, or chew seeds? It’s different to you, I do it to concentrate, but it’s the same thing.”

“But you’re not…”

“Autistic? No, I’m not.” Now he has to explain, he’s not actually sure how to. He’s never said the words out loud before. “In 1983, ten years after Samantha went missing, there was a police inquiry into her disappearance. I had to have a psychiatrist assess me, to check how reliable my testimony was, and if there was a chance I had a psychotic disorder that would explain what I saw.

“When he finished the assessment, he asked why no one had ever assessed me for attention deficit disorder before.”

Scully smiles at that, her lips twisting into a half-grin.

“I know,” Mulder jokes. “You’d think I would have worked that out sooner, given the 21 years I’d spent with my brain and the three-year psychology degree.”

The traffic starts to move again – the roads are clearing now as rush hour comes to an end and they move further towards the centre of the city. They both fall quiet once more, Mulder’s attention on the roads ahead and Scully back to gazing out of the window. It’s a peaceful silence, though, one that Mulder hopes is a good sign rather than an indicator that Scully’s lost in her own thoughts again. Neither talk until he pulls up outside of her apartment building, which is when Scully turns to look at him, one hand on the door handle.

“Mulder?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

He hears the gratitude in her voice, deeper than he’d expected. He can’t quite acknowledge it; he wants to tell her she has nothing to thank him for - that all he’s done, really, is the bare minimum, and probably far too late, at that.

He doesn’t say any of that – just nods a little, in understanding, and offers her a small smile.

“Any time.”

She opens the door, saying over her shoulder almost as a second thought, “I’ll see you later?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Scully glances back at him properly, and he gives her a full-blown grin. “I’ve got a case about hydrokinesis that’s got your name on it.”

She rolls her eyes at him as she gets out of the car, and he laughs.

#xf fanfic #txf fic #msr #my writing #please someone validate my headcanons lol

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