#and before anyone asks!! no!! i will never draw fingers!! vague outline of a hand 4 life babey!!!

[filthyfluffyfantasies]

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . DL;DR - this fic is not meant for anyone under the age of 18 as it contains the following: casual sex with a stranger, one night stands, penetrative/unprotected p in v, oral sex, marking, handjobs/fingering, some dirty talk & the use of petnames. writer does not give permission for her works to be reposted, with or without permission. ✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

prompt nine - anonymous sex

character | fandom - rockstar!eddie munson | stranger things

reader | original character - female reader, one night stand /college coed & non -or vague, description.

words - roughly 4.9k

tagging - < taglist here >

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . Eddie Munson is only passing through with his band. He plays a show at your favorite dive bar and the two of you hit it off, spending a sex-fuelled weekend together... ( Pt 1 of 2, possible series later )✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

Cleveland, Ohio, 1988

❝ This is a bad idea, Taylor.❞ - the local dive bar 3 blocks away from your college campus is ten times as crowded as it normally is. Up towards the front of the small bar, a makeshift stage is being set up and about the third or fourth time someone bumps into you and spills some booze heavy bastardization of a mixed drink down the front of your favorite shirt, you’re seriously tempted to find the nearest exit, a promise is a promise but to be fair, you didn’t realize that live music would draw more people in.

Especially live music from a band that literally nobody’s ever heard of before.

Taylor grabs you by the wrist and she’s pointing to the makeshift stage excitedly. To the drummer, to be exact. You laugh softly because now it makes perfect sense why she dragged you out tonight.

❝ He’s hot, right?❞ she asks. You laugh softly and take a sip of the drink she’s offering you and as you drag the back of your hand over your mouth, you see him.

He’s every bit of 6’2.. At least. The black jeans he’s wearing are so tight you ponder for a few good seconds as to whether they’re painted on and alternately, how the guy’s even breathing okay. 

Your tongue drags over your bottom lip as your eyes linger just a little too long to be decent on the outline standing out against the zipper of his jeans. You actually whine, you don’t realize you have until Taylor starts to laugh softly, watching you as she takes a few sips from the drink after she’s taken it back from you. 

Your entire face feels hot and honestly, you’re not sure whether it’s the booze you’ve barely consumed, the fact that the man you’re currently eye-fucking is apparently hung, if outlines are anything to go by and he’s certainly the most gorgeous example of the male species your eyes have ever set sights on.. 

After you finally manage to tear your eyes off of his lower body, as they drift upwards and you see the defined V of his abdomen -plus a few gnarly scars and a tattoo or two that look pretty recent- peeking out from below the bottom of his cropped black muscle shirt, you gulp. It’s a pathetic attempt to swallow down the lump that’s built in your throat at the sight of this man and also, a pathetic attempt to get your brain unfrozen, get yourself centered and focused again.

And breathing properly, there’s that, of course.

Taylor is standing back, watching you. She’s amused because she’s never seen you this dazed. Especially not over some bad-boy rocker. Preppy law student types, those are all you seem to date.

And it never really works out, she thinks to herself as she continues to watch you as you fuck Mr. Tall, Dark Clothes and Broody Handsome as he sets up for the show, tuning his guitar. Gee, I wonder why. Maybe the preppy law students she’s always hooking up with aren’t actually her type. 

By now, your eyes are drifting to his hands. The way long and thin fingers pluck sound out of a Warlock guitar. You’re doing it again, biting down on your bottom lip, which is now accompanied by your thighs clamped tight yet somehow, still they manage to slip and slide off of each other. Taylor clears her throat just as you finally manage to tear your eyes off his hands and the way he plays his guitar and look at his actual face, locking eyes with him.

He’s staring right back. Hard. When he catches you staring, dead to rights, his cheeks darken just a little and he swallows hard, teeth plucking at a very kissable bottom lip as he grins from ear to ear.

There’s something very familiar about him despite the fact that you know for sure you’ve never met him a single time in your entire life. You know it, there’s no way in hell you would’ve forgotten the man if you had met.

He gives this little wave and you want to dissolve into the floor of the bar. Taylor has gone from laughing a little bit to full-on, doubled over laughing. ❝ Girl.. The look on your face right now...❞ she shrugs off the dirty look you give her as you reach for the cup in her hand and shotgun about a third of the mixed drink left inside of it. 

The watered down 80 proof still manages to burn from your throat down to the pit of your stomach and you grimace because you’re not really a drinker by any stretch so the sips you’ve taken so far have the tips of your ears on fire.

❝ Oh hush.. He’s.. He’s gorgeous, alright? And I swear to God, I’ve seen him before...❞ you’re biting your thumb as you try to puzzle out whether it’s just him in general that feels so familiar -and why, or whether it’s just the fact that you’re a little tipsy now and he looks like an old god or a breathing work of art.

Taylor shrugs. ❝ They’re not from around here.. According to Nick, they’re from some little pissant town.. Uh.. It’s in Indiana.❞ she rubs her forehead as she tries to remember what the owner of the bar was telling her about the band he’d invited to stop in and play an impromptu live show. She grins. ❝ Hawkins! It’s Hawkins, that’s the town they’re from.. You moved around a lot when you were a kid.. Ever heard of the place?❞

You mull it over. The second it hits you, you laugh and nod. ❝ My grandma lived there. I think we visited her a time or two but we were never in town for long or anything.. Definitely not long enough for me to meet and forget that man up there...❞

❝ I call dibs on the drummer..❞ Taylor butts in and you laugh, shrugging. Swallowing hard as you just happen to glance up at the makeshift stage to find the black clad lead singer watching you. A heat spreads throughout your entire body as the two of you lock eyes. He smirks again, giving you a bold little wink. You give him a sassy wave.

❝ The drummer is all yours, girl. If I had t’ call dibs on anybody, I think it’s gonna be him. He’s as tall as a goddamn tree and I’ll be damned if I wouldn’t willingly die to climb him.❞

Taylor snorts in laughter. She writes it off to the mixed drink you’ve been slamming back since the two of you finally managed to get into the bar because normally, you’re real quiet. Real sweet but also, real reserved. You don’t really let loose a whole lot, this is a huge reason why she decided she was dragging you out to the show tonight, hell or high water.

You needed tonight. She definitely needed tonight. Some live music, a few drinks and a chance to relax, no studying or other adult adjacent bullshit on the horizon until around Tuesday.

❝ What’s so funny? I was being completely serious.❞ you ask, giggling as you reach for the cup again, a pout promptly forming just as soon as you realized that the cup was just about empty. Taylor offers it to you and you take it, finishing off the drink.

Your eyes settle on the makeshift stage all over again just as the lights in the bar go dim. And as soon as you hear that they’re opening with a lesser-known Black Sabbath song, you’re one thousand and one percent sure of it, as sure as each breath you’re taking.

You’re fucked when it comes to this guy. Absolutely fucked. Because he’s the antithesis to your typical type and yet, he had you dripping with just a stolen look or two. And sure, you could lie to yourself and pretend that the reason is simply that you haven’t gotten laid lately. But you know you’d be lying.

This cannot be the trait I share in common with my ma. It can’t! I mean, is it the same as her thing with small time wrestlers, minor league hockey and baseball players though? Oh god, you’re gaping in horror as soon as the thought fully forms and panic sets in as a result, I’m turning into my ma.. Only with bad boy metal musicians.

Regardless of the internal panic, you find yourself humming along, drumming the top of the bar along with Corroded Coffin’s cover of Luke’s Wall.

Taylor’s giggling, stumbling through the lyrics right along with you and at one point, during a pretty high-energy cover of Whole Lotta Love by Led Zeppelin, you lock eyes with the lead singer and he’s staring right back at you. Hard.

The band moves on to a slower ballad after an intro from Mr. Lead Singer that has you giggling and gasping just a little in the same breath because he looks right at you, offering only a shrug and a playful wink, ❝ Bare with us. I normally hate this shit, but..❞ you can feel that slow burning heat rise up from deep within all over again as you instantly recognize the opening part of Poison’s newest release, Every Rose Has It’s Thorn.. Which ironically, is what you’d been telling Taylor it’d be neat to hear them play. She’d been heckling you for the better part of an hour since, trying to get you to shout out the name of the song.

He chuckles as he abandons the stool he’d been sitting on for two songs now and he wanders over, sitting down on the makeshift stage right in front of you. As he smirks at you, you nearly choke on air. He speaks up, addressing the crowd again as the rest of his band continues to provide track backing, ❝ There’s this girl. She’s kinda hot and she apparently likes this glam rock bullshit, so.. We wanna make our girl happy, right?❞

As he sings the slower song to you, you’re squirming in place, thighs so wet they slip off each other even easier than they have been all night already. He’s smirking, you know your face is on fire, you don’t need a mirror to see it, you can feel it in your cheeks, all the way to the tips of your ears. Even your scalp feels a little hot.

He leans in real close when he delivers the last lyric. ❝ Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song..Every rose has its thorn.❞

That has you biting back a helpless whine before you can stop it. Because his voice is a whole other level of velvet, gravel and sex combined perfectly. You can feel it in your bones, you’re never going to hear this song on the radio again without hearing the mysterious lead singer of this little unknown band singing it dangerously close to your face, nearly nose to nose.

He was close enough as he sang to you one on one that you could smell the stench of cigarettes on his breath, mixed with cheap beer and cheap cologne. Maybe a hint of sweaty musk layered underneath. It’s a smell you have the feeling will haunt your dreams long after the show is over and his band has rolled out of Cleveland, onto their next stop of God knows where.

The second the band takes a little smoke break, Taylor’s decided that one way or another, she’s going to at least casually bump into her drummer and say hey. You want to do the same but truth be told, you’re not even a little bit Taylor’s level of brave. So you’re wandering back over to the bar to get yourself a new drink and as you stand elbow to elbow with other people waiting to be served drinks, you feel the exact second someone pushes up into you from behind, a hand resting at the small of your back and somehow, without looking over your shoulder, you know it’s him.

The metal rings on his hand feel cool, smooth and heavy against your heated skin. You swallow hard as your brain immediately forgets how to properly function but you do manage to at least turn so that you’re facing him, staring up at him quietly with your head cocked to the side.

You just thought he was tall up on the little makeshift stage. He towers over you up close and personal. The thought prompts slurring giggles, you’re pretty tipsy at this point. Maybe that’s how you end up grabbing hold of the front of his t-shirt to sort of hold yourself upright when a group of assholes shoves around the two of you and throws your balance off.

His hand settles more firmly against the small of your back and you’re pulled against him a little closer. Eddie’s nose fills with the sweet scent of your perfume and he bites back a groan. Gareth wouldn’t shut the fuck up about him at least introducing himself to you, he came over here with a half-assed plan to do that, figuring that he wouldn’t even get the shot. Now you’re melting against him, looking up at him with those big and pretty eyes of yours as you pop little bubbles with a piece of gum you’re chewing. 

❝ Hey..❞ you both blurt it out simultaneously, sharing a laugh right after, ❝ My name’s Eddie.. Uh, Eddie Munson..❞ he introduces himself. You repeat his name and if he thought he was harder than concrete when you were catapulted into him just seconds before, it’s nothing compared to the way his name rolls off your pretty little lips the way it does. Soft and sultry. Dazed as you stare up at him. He chuckles. Drags a hand through sweaty brown frizz, his curls have given up the fight in the heat of the stage lighting and the crowded bar. His fingertips dig against the small of your back when you manage to just barely rub against him because you’re swaying just a little. ❝ I’m __.❞ you introduce yourself and as soon as you’ve told him your name, he’s throttled all the way back into the first month of 6th grade.

Right after he hit Hawkins to live with his uncle Wayne permanently. You moved to town the week right after and for whatever reason, the two of you just clicked. He’d been wondering what happened to you lately.. 

She doesn’t remember you, man. Don’t bring it up. It’ll fuck up everything. It’s better this way. His mind taunts him with it. You’re staring at him intently, lost in thought. Trying to figure out why you feel as if you should know him, that you’ve somehow met before and yet, the more you try to determine where, the more your mind seems to draw complete blanks.

He chuckles quietly. ❝ It’s nice t’ meet you, __. I think I’m gonna help you back t’ your seat, if that’s alright? Kinda looks like you’re havin a little trouble.❞ he nods to the way you’re swaying as you attempt to stand still and smiles at you. 

And given the fact that you’ll do anything to feel his hand on your body again, you nod. Laugh as you pop a bubble with your gum. ❝ I don’t always do this. But yeah. I’m just a little bit tipsy.❞

He snickers. Promptly followed by a gulp or two when you melt into him dramatically, your forehead in the front of his t-shirt. He slips an arm around you and as soon as he spots your best friend chatting up his drummer, he gives Gareth just the slightest ‘I told you so’ smirk because Gareth had been wanting to talk to your friend all night, he just kept talking himself right out of going for it.

You’re settled on a stool in front of the stage and Taylor makes her way back over to you as the band begins to set up to continue the show. The rest of the night goes by in a fun blur, you’re at least 80 percent sobered up by the time they play  the last song of the night and sadly, you and Taylor are making your way out the door, assuming that you won’t see either man again.

Neither of you realize just how untrue this is going to prove to be until about five minutes later.

Eddie spots you and your friend as the two of you make your way past, laughing with your arms around each other. Moderately sober but still slurring your words and swaying just a little as you pass by. Eddie and Gareth share a look but neither were planning to do anything until Grant speaks up.

❝ Will you two idiots just fucking go? At least see if they’re gonna be okay t’ get home. Our flight out isn’t until 10 am on Monday.❞

Jeff chuckles, glancing from Gareth to Eddie. ❝ Go! Stop standin around here with your thumbs up your asses! I’ve got a hot phone date with the missus and all Grant’s gonna do is watch shitty hotel porn..❞

❝ Fuck you, Jeff!❞ Grant flips off his friend/bandmate and the two share a laugh. Gareth and Eddie share a look and then suddenly, they’re both running. Shoving through a crowd of late-nighters as they make their way out of all the bars that have just given the 2 am last call.

They spot the two of you before you both duck into the diner you usually stop in after a long night at the bar and they clear their throats from behind the two of you.

You and Taylor share a look before turning around, quick enough that you find yourselves body to body with Eddie and Gareth.

❝ Hey.❞ you mumble softly. He chuckles. Bites his lip as he steps up into you even closer, a hand migrating straight to your hip and gently flexing. ❝ Hey.. Where are you two headin? We uh..❞ Eddie stammers, at a loss for words temporarily. It’s Gareth that speaks up after a few seconds of staring at Taylor, ❝ It’s downtown Cleveland.. Pretty sure neither of you should be walkin back all by yourselves…We thought we’d walk with you, right Munson? Earth to Eddie..❞

He’s using the fact that Eddie’s all sorts of dazed, blitzed by you at the moment to poke fun and be a little shit. He can see Eddie’s eyes flash angrily and he chuckles. Eddie mouths that he’s gonna kick the piss out of him later and Gareth merely shrugs. As this is happening, you and Taylor have kind of backed away and you’re talking amongst each other about letting the two men walk you home.

❝ They’re not wrong, _. This place does get crazy around 3 am and it is two entire blocks back to the apartment.. Besides,❞ Taylor points out, ❝ We need to live a little. It’ll be fine.❞

You’re staring a hole through Eddie Munson. And you smile, nodding in agreement when she makes her point. ❝ We’re totally safe.❞ you observe quietly, eyes glued to Eddie Munson. Taylor laughs and nods. ❝ It’s not like this happens all the time and damn it, I wanna have this experience to look back on one day and cherish..❞

The four of you set off in the direction of your edge of campus apartment building, a steady conversation the whole way there.

Everything feels right. Natural. Like you’re exactly where you need to be in this moment.

You’re even a little excited.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ ･ ｡ﾟ ───

Bits and pieces of the night before - your bodies tangled together, his head buried between your thighs, the way it tasted when you let him cum in your mouth.. Or the way he held onto your hips while he was fucking you deep and slow, that all comes floating back as you roll away from harsh sunlight. Instead of your second pillow, your head settles against hardness and warmth. Your eyes pop open and as soon as you see Eddie lying there, his mouth open and snoring lightly, you’re wide awake. Trying to remember everything.

Ultimately, you give up and curl into him, slipping your legs between his as you go back to sleep. You’re just happy the night before wasn’t a dream and it really happened and Eddie Munson is asleep in your bed in the light of day. 

Eddie’s starting to wake up. At first, he’s content to lie there and watch you sleeping, but there’s only so long he can do that and a few minutes later, when you’ve rolled onto your back again, he decides that he’s going to try waking you up.

Rough lips latch against your neck as he settles himself down into you, soft kisses against your warm skin as he bucks himself against you. He knows exactly what he wants right now. He wants to be inside you again.

 ❝ C’mon sweetheart...❞ he coaxes, chuckling when it’s met with cute little whines as your eyes flutter open. You stare up at him and yawn. He presses himself down into you a little better. You can feel the way his cock is strained at the confines of his underwear. This makes you whimper, rock yourself up into him. ❝ Want me t’ wake you up?❞ he questions and you give him a sleepy grin, nodding.

The Corroded Coffin t-shirt he’d given you at some point the night before is pushed up over your body and it falls from Eddie’s fingertips to the floor. You fell asleep not wearing any panties, so when Eddie starts to work his way down your body, pausing briefly to drag his mouth over your nipples as he buries two fingers deep in your cunt, you moan his name against the shell of his ear, rocking yourself against the way his fingers move inside you with precision, prodding at your spongy soft spot because he thinks it’s cute when you’re about to cum and you’re pinned beneath him and moaning his name like some kind of prayer.

His mouth works it’s way down your abdomen and the closer he gets to your throbbing sex, the more you come alive underneath him, your nails digging into his shoulders as your legs fall apart willingly. Your other hand catches up in thick brown frizz, tugging, fingers dancing over his scalp. His teeth latch onto your mound and you moan out his name a little louder than you mean to seconds later when he turns his attention from leaving his initial marked in your soft skin to sucking your clit as his fingers fuck into you faster. You tense just a little, toes digging into your bedsheets as you rock yourself over his fingers and moan at the way he’s dragging his tongue in tight circles over your clit.

When his tongue joins his fingers inside of you, you gasp and arch upwards. You tug at his hair all over again, just a little harder and he laughs against your pussy. ❝ Pull harder if y’ need t’, princess.❞ he coaxes as he grabs hold of one of your hips, both holding you in place just a little better and angling so that his face is completely buried in between the soft dough of your thighs. 

Your head falls back and you’re begging for release. He pauses to look up at you, your juices dripping off his chin and at the corners of his mouth. Then he’s back at it, bridge of his nose bumping against your sensitive sex as he buries his tongue and fingers inside of you even deeper. You’re rocking your hips against his mouth frantically, seeking any friction you can get. Your orgasm is building real fast, you tense up as he mutters against your cunt ❝ Aht aht.. Not yet, sweetheart.❞

He wants to be buried inside of you again so badly that he’s bucking against the mattress because his cock is hard, it’s getting harder by the second and the more he thinks about how good it felt to be buried balls deep inside of you the night before, the more he wants to do it all over again.

And again. And then again.

He’s dreading the fact that the band has to leave town bright and early Monday morning because he doesn’t want to leave you. It’s dumb, it’s way too soon but something about being with you just feels different. 

❝ Jesus.❞ he breathes out against your cunt as his tongue drags over your folds before disappearing inside again, ❝You’re so wet f’ me, sweetheart. Fuck.❞

And he can’t take it anymore. He coaxes you into your first orgasm of the day and then he’s working his way back up your body, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth. He’s glad he fell asleep naked the night before, there’s less clothing to be mindful of. As he settles himself down into you, his mouth crashes against yours. You moan into the kiss as the taste of you fills your mouth. He bites your bottom lip, teeth tugging at soft flesh as the tip of his cock teases at entry, pushing against your sex.

As he buries inside of you, you cling to him, your arms around his neck. You meet his deep thrusts clumsily, whimpering when he starts to move faster and bottoms out, cock scrubbing perfectly against your soft spot.  You’re clenching around him, he can feel the way you’re shaking just to try and hold your orgasm at bay. ❝ Gonna cum f’ me, sweetheart? Gonna flood my cock?❞ followed by a chuckle as he noses some hair away from your neck and his mouth latches against your skin.

He’s gotten it in his head that if he has to leave you, he’s going to do it covered in his marks. He wants you to remember how much fun your little weekend was come Monday morning when you wake up to an empty bed.

He doesn’t want to leave, but he knows -or he thinks he knows, that if he stays, it’ll never work out. The two of you are a little too different. And maybe, deep down, he thinks you’re too good for him. Maybe he’s afraid that sooner or later, you’d see that yourself and leave him behind. Maybe he wants you to finish what you came to college to finish. Meet a better guy, settle down.

But the thought of you with anyone but him hurts. He’ll deny it with his dying breath, but he can’t stand the fact that he’s going to leave without goodbye come Monday morning.

He pushes it all out of his head. He’d rather focus on now, this perfect moment. You’re caged in below him, your pussy is clinging to his cock,  you’re kissing him so soft and those little whines and moans.. You’re repeating his name like a prayer, over and over. Like he’s the only god you want to worship. 

❝ – fuck, oh fuck. Shit, sweetheart.❞ Eddie growls out against your ear as he fucks into you slower and deeper, ❝ Takin me s’ good. Fuck.❞ and he breathes in the fading scent of your perfume before adding in a quieter tone, ❝ Wanna cum so bad, princess. So fuckin bad.. Can I?❞

He’s begging to cum inside you and it’s the hottest -and the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard. Your nails dig against his shoulders, crescent imprints left in their wake as you try to meet his hips with yours but you’re clumsy. Drowning in the orgasm that’s threatening to shatter you. ❝ Let go, sweetheart. C’mon, let me feel it. I need t’ feel you, sweetheart.❞ 

His coaxing is enough. Your orgasm shatters you, leaves you clinging to his body as he fucks you through it and down from the high, straight into his own orgasm a few seconds later. You can feel his hot seed coat your insides and his thrusts come to a slow stop as he melts down into you, pressing his forehead against your tits. Breathing heavy.

❝ Morning, sweetheart.❞ he chuckles as he looks up at you, takes in the fucked out daze you’re in, the way your lips are bruised and swollen from the way he’s been kissing you. And all the marks he left behind.

He’s staring at you as if he wants to commit the way you look pinned below him to memory. You want to ask if there’s any hope for the two of you, if you’re ever going to hear from him again after he leaves town on Monday but you don’t dare. You can’t bring yourself to hear him say this was just a fling because it feels like so much more than that to you.

Things felt too good. Too easy.

He feels like home and you’re filled with dread at the thought that you’re going to lose that when the weekend ends and he leaves town.

#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #( ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ʟɪsᴛ ✓ ) #lazyghoulskinktober2023 #🔞ɴғᴡ. ᴍɪɴᴏʀs ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ʀɪsᴋ. #( ᴍɪɴɪ sᴇʀɪᴇs ; ᴘᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ ᴛᴡᴏ )

[fishstyx]

featuring. college au!gojo satoru x fem!reader x geto suguru

wc. 9.2k

genre. dark/taboo, smut, angst

tw. 18+ nsfw, non/dubcon, toxic/abusive relationships, manipulation, victim blaming, dry humping, penetration, masturbation, irresponsible practice of bdsm, hair pulling, mild exhibitionism, size kink (both 6’3”, gojo can lift you), implied corruption kink, degradation, creampie, intoxication/alcohol, incel behavior, misogyny, dacryphilia

synopsis.

“Parading around as my personal fucktoy get you that excited?” he starts with a smirk, wide eyes drinking up your sharp inhale as if it were his own, inspiring pinpricks of heat to rise to your cheeks.

He hooks the hem of your skirt with his thumbs when he’s met with silence, pulls you from the doorframe just far away that he can release the elastic with a snap, silent snigger on his lips when it elicits a small sound of surprise from you. You nod in response, frantic bob of your head drawing a low growl from his chest and a “that’s right, I know what’s best for my pet,” as he lifts you off your feet and carries you to the bedroom.

notes. title inspo: love the way you lie (eminem, rihanna). you’re dating gojo, a charming, manipulative, self-entitled bastard. geto is, of course, his best friend, written as an aloof, self-righteous, bitter incel. please stay safe, read all the warnings, and enjoy. this is the most personal fic i have to offer. it draws from not-so-savory past relationships... i hope it remains the only testament to them. <3

links. broken toys. (sequel)

You were stunned into silence when he first suggested it.

And how couldn’t you be? Any sane person would, or at least should, have recoiled at the proposition. Isn’t that right?

But he makes it seem so harmless, so innocent, somehow. Like it’s no big deal, far from uncharacteristic for either of you—just a walk around campus, nothing new there. He tells you this like you’re overreacting, slow on the uptake, taking far too long to reach a final decision. The rational part of your mind says it’s out of the option. But the irrational part is louder, all-consuming, domineering.

The irrational part says, out of all your options, it’s the only viable one.

“Come on, babygirl. What’s the harm of trying it out once?”

It’s always this way, always has been. He takes your hands in his with a dramatic swell, the sparkle in his eyes big and bright and gleaming, and you bite back the urge to pull away. You would break your gaze if you could, if he didn’t look so determined, if that twinkling blue galaxy wasn’t sweltering with hope and adoration. But you can’t, and he does, and it just about swallows you whole. 

The fact of the matter is, Gojo Satoru wants to take you out on a leash today.

Never mind today; he wanted this yesterday, the day before that, and the day before that, never one to shy away from his desires as you deliberated the entire time. By now he’s asked you to do this one, single thing for him far more times than you can count—initially playing it off as a joke, slowly feeling you out, gradually seeing how far he could push and pull until you explicitly told him no.

Except it’s never just one, single thing with him, and you—with the way you dance around the topic, hoping to give him the illusion that you might give in, or perhaps yourself the illusion of control—you never say no.

A simple line of defense, yes. Even you agree with that. But its execution? Around Gojo, it seems anything but.

Geto would beg to differ.

Geto.

The only other person privy to your latest concerns. The only other person you can bear knowing. And he’d be disappointed if only he could see you now.

Who are you kidding? He’s already disappointed.

A vague outline was all you gave him. A vague outline, you knew, not-so-deep down in your heart, was all you dare tell him—or anyone at all, really.

Because, sure, you’ve adopted a rather experimental lifestyle around Gojo, but that was supposed to be private. Reserved for behind closed doors, you thought, until now.

You were right in that the brooding brunette didn’t need every last grueling detail of Gojo’s newest request. He’s his best friend; he’s seen you at every single step of your whirlwind relationship together. The fervid beginnings, when the two of you couldn’t be physically separated, let alone in different rooms from each other. The ups and the downs, each one more intense than the last, each one blowing up in your faces before you ran back into each other’s arms and kissed and made up. You knew that much.

What you didn’t foresee, however, even as you recounted your latest grievance to him, was that nothing you were saying was new. To Geto it was regurgitated rhetoric, distorted and distressed, yesterday’s news—whereas you saw it as a unique conquest, a new hurdle to overcome.

“It almost amazes me how you can come up with so many new ways to say the same old thing,” he said, slanted eyes dull with apathy as they panned away from yours. “Almost.”

You could only choke on your words in response.

What Geto told you next is now a hushed murmur in the back of your head. It reverberates against your skull, pinballing against the walls of all that empty space and showing no signs of slowing down. It tells you to just say the magic word and it’ll be over, every last bit of Gojo’s borderline demands, washing away all of that white noise if only you’d breathe some life into it. That one word, the one that plagues your mind night and day, it begins to materialize upon your lips, poised and ready to spring into action, flexing on the tip of your tongue as if it were a wind-up toy. 

Just say it already.

Just say no.

But you’re always holding your tongue around the both of them, together or alone, whether on the bony roof of your mouth or its flexible, fleshy floor, biting your words back for an eternity and more. Perhaps you were only faking yourself out, simply going through—no, barely feinting at the motions so you can come back to this chapter of your life and say that you tried. The moment passes, the pause your boyfriend gave at the sight of your mouth ajar long over, his words beginning to bleed into your reality once more.

And he’s saying, “I bought such a cute collar for you, too,” voice rising and falling with lovelorn disappointment. You can’t help but wince at his gentle timbre, all too painfully aware that such a small investment is far from the root of Gojo’s displeasure. You can hear it in his tone, too, how his carefree singsong runs steely as his thoughts begin to wander, settling on a resigned indifference.

So you wander, too. Tear your eyes from his in search of something, anything that might lend a reason to divert your gaze. Your fingers encircle white leather before you realize it, turning the thin strip over in absentminded idle, silver o-ring jingling in place. The metallic clank doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You should at least try it on before I return it, don’t you think?” 

And you can’t find it in your heart to disagree, stiff choker tightening around your neck as he fumbles with the clasp. You trace the sanded edges before latching a finger—two fingers—beneath the leather material. 

Perfect. 

Perfectly irritating. Irritatingly perfect. It sits in the center of your neck without slipping, just snug enough that you can still breathe easy, comfortable and almost disturbingly so. 

“Well?”

White lashes flutter idly as he considers your reflection as if studying it. And with the hint of a smile behind you, large hands on your waist in the mirror’s image, you start to think for the first time that the collar really is a pretty number, and a shame and a waste to throw away. 

Because he looks so pleased now, creased cheeks and crinkled eyelids as he smooths his palms over your hips, like maybe you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever held. Because instead of the pouting you’ve come to expect, the declarations that you’re “no fun,” or that you’re “overreacting,” or that you need to “relax” you’ve come to accept, he simply brushes your hair to the side and rests his cheek against yours, warm breath just about tickling your chin.

It begs the question.

“Will you love me more if I do this for you?”

And it sends his eyes into a frenzied state, hungry void for pupils swallowing crystal irises with unabating greed, all frisky lashes and overeager ridges. 

Ideally, he’d take your hands in his, tell you that that wasn’t his intention at all and beg for your forgiveness. Ideally, he’d hold you close, say that he loves you no matter what and promise to never push you this far again. You know all of these self-evident truths and more, yet you still can’t stop your heart from skipping a beat when he tells you, voice hushed in awe, triumph washing over you in spite of yourself:

“Of course I will.”

It’s different when you actually go through with it.

You try not to regret your decision immediately when you’re chained to Gojo’s hand in public, dog leash swinging in the wind as you round the campus loop. What a waste of a beautiful day for you to be hanging your head low, tips of your ears burning with shame. You don’t even believe that you’ve agreed to this yourself as you search the faces ahead of you for a trace of anyone you might know, pushing down the urge to cross your fingers behind your back.

But Gojo himself? He loves the lingering stares to tiny little pieces, practically basks in the attention as he pushes his sunglasses back so they rest above his hairline. Airy tufts of white spill over the tinted lenses, billowy strands coming to rest upon his forehead. When you think of it as your gorgeous boyfriend showing you off, it makes it all a little more bearable, has you standing up a little straighter. But your heart nearly stops every time you think you recognize the passerby, and eventually you dread the sight of absolutely anyone in the distance, for fear they will finally be a person who knows and calls you by name.

Gojo takes quick notice, realizes you hardly want to take another step in this undignified manner, and thinks to himself that there must be a better way to go about the arrangement.

His solution is to turn your walk of shame into a crawl of shame.

“On your fours,” he says, delighted when you actually crouch to the pavement, thankful for an excuse to hide your face. He ruffles your hair and slaps your hand away when you try to pull your skirt down, enamored by the way it rides up and reveals the lacy material below. You suppose it’s a trade-off you’ll just have to take, and in a confession that gets caught up your throat, you don’t wholly mind it: the pairs of eyes you can feel burning through you, though real or imagined you can’t be entirely sure. It makes you wonder if anyone wishes they were Gojo. It makes you wonder if anyone wishes they were you.

In the corner of your eye, you think you see someone sneaking a picture, but you don’t dare lift your head for a closer look. Instead you track the ground for rubble, hoping you’ll get away without scraping your knees, shaky line for a pair of lips as micro cuts come to crisscross your legs.

The rest of the walk is spent with you crawling the ground, light breeze tickling your backside, every part of you flaunted as if you’re Gojo’s most prized possession. You had better be, you think to yourself as you circle back to his building, and luckily enough, he’s about to make good on that expectation. 

Maybe it’s the collar around your neck, or maybe it’s the surge of relief you get from returning, but by the time you meet the first glass door, you’re aching for whatever Gojo’s planned next.

He’s moving on predatory instinct the second you’ve set foot in his apartment, flushed lips curling around your own as soon as he pulls you up from all fours. A hollow knock sounds behind you as your heels strike the door, lower lip traced with a wet warmth until you’re gracious enough to grant him full access. He easily cages you with his entire frame, pressing that cute pink muscle in your mouth flat before writhing his own to the rhythm of his heartbeat, booming and ricocheting and alive.

It’s not nearly enough for either of you, of course, his hands beginning to roam all over your pliable form, all over his property, skirting along your outline and creeping closer still to the innermost curves of your contour cutout. Flitting fingers brush against your navel, dancing lower as you suck your tummy in by reflex, stopping right before the tingling bundle of nerves that just might explode as soon as he touches them. 

But he takes pause instead, presses his forehead flush against yours, jewel colored eyes waiting on you with intent. You swear they can see right through you, even sheathed behind a cluster of wild white lashes, gauge everything there is to know about you faster than you can say “blue.” The moment freezes over, two bodies still and unmoving until you suddenly remember your need for air, gasping when you realize you’ve been holding your breath. 

“Parading around as my personal fucktoy get you that excited?” he starts with a smirk, wide eyes drinking up your sharp inhale as if it were his own, inspiring pinpricks of heat to rise to your cheeks.

He hooks the hem of your skirt with his thumbs when he’s met with silence, pulls you from the doorframe just far away that he can release the elastic with a snap, silent snigger on his lips when it elicits a small sound of surprise from you. You nod in response, frantic bob of your head drawing a low growl from his chest and a “that’s right, I know what’s best for my pet,” as he lifts you off your feet and carries you to the bedroom.

Your body bounces back from the force with which he tosses you into the mattress, giggles erupting from your throat when he climbs atop of you, tugging at your leash. A thin stripe of saliva trails up and down the column of your neck, laving intermittently over the leather that encases your flesh. A coppery taste, of earth and salt and smoke, dances on his tongue as his front teeth sink into the stretch of your collarbone, nipping and sucking at the delicate flesh. You sink into the bed as you ease into his touch, but he doesn’t give you much time to get comfortable.

“Touch yourself, then,” he says, “if you like to be watched that much.” 

It almost sounds like a suggestion, especially with the way in which he uses the lightest touch to brush the stray hairs from your forehead, but you know better than that. Your fingers fly to the wet patch on your panties, thin material almost see-through with your slick, working the fiber flat against dampened skin. An echo of a chuckle reverberates throughout the room as he watches you, undoubtedly pleased by the way in which the fabric clings to your already dripping folds. 

Large hands have your legs spread wide open by the time you’ve traced the outline of your clit, your little show put on full display for him. They stay pressed against your thighs as you venture loose, round motions around your sensitive nub. Too timid. You tighten the circles into a coiled spiral, mustering the courage to go harder, faster, the friction of cotton against delicate skin drawing small mewls and sputters out of your trembling form. The delayed relief is sweet, your arousal crying into the pads of your fingers as you pick up the speed. The image burns itself into his brain, watchful eye unfaltering as you play yourself to your heart’s content.

The very air itself seems to buzz as you hold the other end of his gaze, thick fingers running along your sides as you start to roll your hips into the palm of your hand. He’s bent over you with the twitch of his pants, too worked up to remain a bystander any longer as he blows and sucks up your neck. The open-mouthed kisses only hasten the buildup, sensation shotgunning down your body from the surface of your nape.

But the coil in your core knots itself far too early for your taste, and you reel your hand back right before you can realize your peak. You opt to drag a lone finger down your slit instead, afraid that with too much pressure, you’ll come undone before Gojo has the chance to get his fill. 

Too late, too slow; he takes notice of your negligence immediately, eyes darkening at the pitiful way your hand skitters with abashment. He pulls away from the crook of your neck to get a good look at your dwindling handiwork, smirking to himself when you shrink in response.

“Having a little trouble there?” 

His voice is deceptively singsong as he takes your sluggish hand in his, guiding your knuckles back to that aching button that has you arching your back and curling your toes. He repeats the motion, half a mind to force an orgasm out of you right then and there when suddenly, a whimper—yours—sends his eyes darting back towards your own.

“No, not like this,” you say with strained breath, and he quirks an eyebrow in response, working your fingers into the fabric despite the interruption. “I want more, I need…” your voice trails off, a sorry attempt at stalling.

“Need what?” he asks as he catches on, shit-eating grin somehow audible without you even looking. You don’t know how he does it, how he locks his desires up as you squirm underneath him, waiting ever so innocently for a proper response.

“Need, need you,” you say under your breath, and he cocks an eyebrow, a clear sign of an underwhelming response. 

“Oh? I couldn’t quite catch that, princess.”

As if.

“I need you inside of me. Please, claim this filthy cunt,” you whine, determined to play, determined to win. Your hips buck into your interlaced fingers, searching desperately for the one word that’ll send him over the edge and finding it as the leather accessory rides up your neck—as if to remind you of its existence—“Master.”

And it does, it sends a jolt of heat to his groin, has him kicking his pants off and pinning your wrists into the sheets. It’s got him surging with primal need, tugging the pathetic mess of your soaked panties to the side with limitless hunger.

Because even though he’s drawn many names from your lips before, they’ve always been ones he’s insisted on, ones he’s downright pestered you about. Even the simplest “Satoru” was, admittedly, a struggle to pry out of you the very first time you got tangled in his sheets; you shielded your eyes then, cheeks burning and voice low as you whispered it in his ear. And look at you now, sprawled out beneath him as you edge yourself with a hand steeped in your own concoction, begging for his cock with that delicious nickname of your own admission, and it rings throughout his head like an addictive melody.

Master.

Master.

Master.

You can hardly recognize the noises he fucks out of you for the remainder of the night. He showers you with an unsavory slew of awful names, phrases you’ve never even heard aloud before, tells you that you’re his “freaky cocksleeve” and a “bitch in heat” as he jerks your leash without warning. And that’s exactly what you are, twitching for him like an animal as he screws you senseless, the most guttural of responses rising from your throat as he asks:

“Who do you belong to?”

And of course you respond, between labored pants, “You, master,” muscles taut as you fight for air, fingernails scrambling for purchase on his back but finding absolutely none.

It’s not until you’re entangled in a breathless mass that he pulls your head into his lap, strokes your cheeks and coos that you’ve been a good fucking girl, a thick mixture of his seed seeping from your gaping hole.

Morning always comes when you least expect it, sneaking up on you and peeking through the blinds before you’re ready to get going.

Gojo’s still passed out cold when you creep out of bed, only the most languid of movements used to pry yourself out of the mattress as your arms and legs ache for need of rest. The dull pain humbles you, delayed post-nut clarity finally hitting as you rub into your bleary eyes.

It feels like you’ve been struck by a train.

Your gait is but a tiptoe as you stalk towards his dresser, trembling hands slowly rummaging for something, anything that can provide you some cover. Your classes are starting soon, and whether his are, too, or whether he’s simply skipping out today, you know better than to rouse him from his toil-induced slumber. 

It’s nearly inaudible, the sound of the door closing behind you, clank of metal but a whisper as the soles of your shoes kiss up carpeted floor. You’ve left it unlocked, just the way your boyfriend likes it, a small assembly of what you hope he’ll recognize as breakfast perched upon the kitchen table—the last traces of your visit left behind in a neat and tidy little package.

Your eyes find Geto’s once you turn down the hallway, small black beads peering into yours before taking a lap around the block to assess the damage. He must not like what he sees, this tousled morning-after apparition, faint patches of indigo and violet creeping out from under your—no, Gojo’s—oversized sweatshirt, because it’s a solemn sigh that hits your ears next and not a “good morning” or even a simple “hey” that acknowledges you. 

Because he knows your average person wouldn’t notice the marks, too sheltered by all that thick cotton riding up your neck, purposefully pulled up just far enough that you wouldn’t see them unless you were looking. He knows your average person couldn’t have the slightest idea how you really scratched up your knees, pointillistic constellations of reddish purple threatening, however empty that threat is, to inch up your thighs. He scoffs.

“What do you even see in him?”

The words cloud the air before he’s completely aware of them, surprising the both of you as they surface.

You open and close your mouth like a fish out of water: for starters he’s charming, engaging, lively and free-spirited. He’s beautiful and he adores you, you want to say, but even though you have all the correct phrases picked out, all strung together in the same time and place, they don’t seem to roll off your tongue quite right.

You seem so tired, forced laugh falling short where it should flutter out of your mouth, the usual cotton candy you spout crystallizing before it can materialize.

“I could ask the same of you.”

It traipses out of your mouth before you can give it permission, easing itself into the atmosphere before sinking like a stone. Truthfully you don’t care to hear an answer, if only to avoid giving your own. You usher yourself out, pushing yourself past the towering wall of a human and stalking down the nearest stairwell. 

Gojo knows just how to toy with your pride. But Geto? Geto knows how to slash it down to shreds. 

The silence is deafening.

Geto sighs once you’re out of earshot, turning his heel to continue his trajectory. If anything, he didn’t want to run into you today, either. He cringes at the small collection you’ve no doubt assembled yourself, of iced matcha and a granola bar, staring him in the face as he stalks into the apartment. For some reason it only feeds into his mounting dread, the rising unease of what he might find waiting for him in the bedroom. 

So he raps the bedroom door with his knuckles instead of barging in like he normally does, hoping in vain that he can get its sole inhabitant to lumber out himself. But of course Gojo doesn’t make it easy, letting out an obnoxiously loud yawn before stretching his lanky limbs with an equally obnoxious groan.

“You said to swing by this morning,” Geto half-yells, half says to himself, already prepared to turn tail and leave. He’s honestly surprised when he gets a legible response instead of the hungover mumbles he’s grown used to.

“Oh, that? Come in, it’s unlocked,” Gojo calls out, each syllable punctuated with tardiness. So Geto braces himself, puffing his chest out before giving the doorknob a firm handshake, stepping deeper into the belly of the beast. 

Geto was prepared to see many things when he walked through that door. Something like lipstick stains and flavored condoms, S&M paddles and ribbed dildos. Instead he’s met with something completely other, the evidence already cleared away. Whatever late-night exploits you enjoyed are long gone, not a trace left behind by now, privy only to a grown man slumped over the edge of his mattress, grabbing around under the bedframe. 

“Ahh, got it!”

With sleepy eyes Gojo lifts his head and presents to Geto the chrome colored box he’s fished out. It’s small and compact and ridiculously outdated, a conspicuous red button jutting out of its interface. He holds it up to his friend’s face, and the device finally registers.

A voice recorder.

“What, they still make those things?”

Geto schools his features easily, wiping the shock off his face before it can even materialize. It’s not exactly a lie; he knows he shouldn’t be surprised at all that Gojo has kept such an antiquated device for the occasion. 

“You act as if you’ve never seen one before.”

It’s a smirk that’s plastered all over their faces now, one that nearly matches the one across from the other, and knowingly so. The two burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of it all, Gojo slapping his knee and Geto clutching onto his sides. They’re not sure who starts it, but one of them high fives the other.

Girls like you are oh so naïve.

Your wish is granted for about a week total.

Gojo keeps his promise, of loving you more and loving you better, throughout the remaining weekdays. 

He takes you out for brunch, picks you up after class, and best of all, doesn’t ask anything more of you, doesn’t ask for anything better.

He opts to shower you with gifts instead, of stuffed animals and chocolates and bite-sized amenities, insisting that you take them all, no strings attached. Your nightstand overflows with his presents, mismatched tokens that remind you of his affection even when you’re not together. And although neither of you explicitly verbalize it, it seems like his way of apologizing. Silently.

You whole-heartedly accept.

This is the Satoru I fell in love with, you think to yourself as he pets your head one sunlit afternoon, grogginess setting in after a particularly big meal. You nuzzle into his lap and relish in the soft filtered light, sprawled out on your side on the living room sofa. He has you gazing upwards at a tap of the shoulder, all softened eyes and unkempt locks of hair, the smell of sandalwood and fresh dry cleaning enveloping you entirely as he leans in for a faint forehead kiss.

“What’s up?” you half ask, half mumble, eyelids heavy with sleep.

“Just wanted to see my princess’s face,” he says, a fleeting grin on his rosy lips. A hollow thud sounds as you play-punch him in the chest, but you roll over from your side to look up at him anyway.

“You happy now?”

“Overjoyed.” 

The two of you lock eyes, slivers of white hair undoing themselves from behind his ear as your breath syncs up slowly, gradually. He stares at you with such longing that you would think you weren’t laying right atop of him, and you struggle to hold your ground. 

“Are you—”

“Yup.”

You groan, eyes overcome with on demand prickling. “No thank you,” you proclaim as you squeeze them shut, uninterested in indulging him a staring contest. Moments pass and your eyes stay closed, a tide of tiredness washing over you. You loosen up, head rolling back as you allow yourself to relax. 

Big mistake. He takes it as an invitation for his hands to descend upon you, attacking your sides in an attempt to tickle, and you jerk away instantly.

“What the—Sato, cut it out!” You bat his arms away, one eye open as uproarious laughter fills your ears.

“If you’re gonna fall asleep then at least let me lay down too,” he says, drawing out the last word as he props your upper half up. He takes your place on the sofa before pulling you on top, and you huff as you fall into a pile.

“Jerk.”

“Your favorite jerk, though.”

Oh, he definitely feels it when you smile into his chest.

The weekend arrives without issue.

Wednesday night you’re watching the sunset over melon sodas.

Thursday night you’re falling asleep on Facetime.

Friday night you’re in the midst of downtown Tokyo, multicolored lights casting your faces in ethereal glow as you work against the hustle and bustle of regulars and tourists. Karaoke songs eat up the most of your visit, Gojo’s voice slowly going scratchy until the crowd finally works the nerve to drag him offstage. You spend the remaining time hopping restaurants, ordering exactly one dish at each location, slowly working your way through a full course meal. The waitress who serves you nothing more than a plate of gyoza gets an especially generous tip.

Dessert is by far his favorite dish: a deluxe parfait, served in a tall, American-style glass and filled to the brim with sorbet. You can still taste the fruit toppings, fresh and fragrant and honeyed on your tongues as you swap saliva in the back of his car. He cups your face with one hand and holds the small of your back with the other, pressing dangerously close against your body. When you finally have the chance to breathe, a thread of spit trails between your lips, in memory of your union. It glistens in the color of the muted city lights, persevering through the window tint in all of their electric might. A mischievous glint reaches his eyes, and all of a sudden he’s pulling you on top of his lap.

“We can get away with this much, can’t we, princess?”

And you oblige, patch of wetness already creeping through your panties as he starts to move, clothed cockhead grinding against the curve of your ass. He’s louder than usual, quivering groans crumbling as they reach your ears, his hips rolling in stuttering motions. You feel as if you’re aflame, pulsating with need, decadent sweetness enveloping your senses every time he pulls in for a kiss, every time he grazes you with his pubic bone. Your clit sings with praises as he pushes you down by the hips, whispering how good you’re being for him, how gorgeous you look in the dress he bought you, and you make a silent wish in the faint moonlight that the moment will never end.

But it seems that good things always meet their end, and come Saturday night, the monster rears its ugly head again.

Because on Saturday night, Gojo’s got you hanging on his arm, the two of you ascending concrete steps to the usual place. Same group of people, different game every week. The two of you are greeted with sweet sighs and boozy smiles, clink of bottles surrounding you as they prepare this week’s drinking game. Gojo’s a lightweight and Geto sticks to designated-driver duty, so it usually works out just fine.

Just not this week.

If Gojo was the sun, then Geto was the moon.

It always seemed to Geto that his best friend had everything in the world he could possibly need: looks, charisma, and status, all readily available to him without much effort of his own. And honestly? He loathed him for that.

As soon as the clock strikes midnight, Geto knows there’s absolutely no way he’s making it to the party. Instead he opts to spend Saturday night alone in the comfort, or perhaps the prison, of his own room.

Because the sun is a star that births brilliance, instilling vitality and inspiring vigor wherever it goes. Whereas the moon only picks up in the after hours, left to guide the lost and the wandering in the nighttime. He feels like he’s always scraping the bottom of the barrel, the pool of women he can choose from limited to the gaggle of bumbling stragglers who lament, still, the absence of the blinding sun. And for the past twenty or so years of his life, those bumbling stragglers have not so much as glanced back at him, too enchanted by the liveliness of day.

Worst of all is that softheaded people, scatterbrains just like you, they think they can fix Gojo, super-fucking-nova Gojo who burns it all up, destroying everything in his course of direction. Part of Geto thinks it’s absolutely deplorable, the way in which pea-brained whores throw themselves at him, hankering for his attention and jumping through all the hoops necessary to get just that. But part of Geto also wants to have his own stake in the fun, and Gojo—pretty boy, genetic-lottery winner Gojo knows this all too well.

The glint of the moonlight taunts Geto as it reflects off the silver-toned box in his hand, bold “STOP,” “REC,” and “PLAY” lettering practically chanting his name in the dim illumination. He was told that the handheld device was safer with him, well out of your reach in the confines of his single dorm, and he supposes that’s the truth, what with the lack of foot traffic in this cramped room that lacks of fresh air and sunlight.

It’d be doubly safer if he’d just tuck the abomination away, stick it deep in the corner of his sock drawer or perhaps somewhere underneath the bed frame, but he’s kept it well in sight ever since he first laid hands on it. He clutches it tightly as if it just might disappear when he lets go; chances like these are rare for him, to be so close in proximity to the wanton whines of someone he knows and sees almost daily. And if it’s anyone’s fault that you’re still fucking an immature bastard, a privileged manchild who gets pretty much everything he wants, it most certainly isn’t his own.

It’s just so exhilarating, to be able to cradle the cool metal in one hand, throbbing cock in the other, drawstring sweats already halfway down as he thumbs at his flushed, pink head. He’s kicking his pants off as he leans into bed, flat of his slicked-up fingers laving over the sopping tip that cries and weep for release. He’s already imagining it, the kinds of o-shaped faces you make with a leash dangling from your neck, bubbling with excitement and intoxication and jealousy at the mere thought. But he doesn’t start the audio yet, fumbling for his stash of lotion before moving to fist his cock in its entirety, twitching creature red with excitement as he jerks it up and down.

It feels so intimate to him, the fact that you’re so close yet so far away, musical mewls available on demand whenever he so pleases. He quickens the pace, palm of his hand practically flattening the vein on the underside of his cock as he starts to buck his hips into his tightening fingers. He’d just love to ram his dick down your throat one day, but for now he’ll have to make do with his hands.

He hits “PLAY” with bitter determination.

The very first sound of crumpling bedsheets has him curling into a full-body tingle. He’s close, so close he can almost taste it, but he keeps his concentration on the audio speaker, waiting for something, anything to heighten his arousal. He sucks in the cold air between his teeth, curses threatening to pour from his lips at how right, how wrong it all feels. The anticipation is short-lived, however, broken by the sound of Gojo’s voice, just barely recognizable in the speaker’s tinny, superficial quality.

“My, my,” the silver-haired deviant says, corners of his mouth undoubtedly upturned as he leans into the microphone.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Geto?”

The voice recorder hits the floor at the sound of his own name, blood pressure rising as his arms and legs tense up in disbelief. His own orgasm slips away and out of reach in an instant, petering out in wretchedly slow motion as his stiff cock throbs with pitiful languor. He wants to laugh, he wants to cry, wants to curse the world for ever thinking you were actually within his reach, wants to chuck the accursed gadget across the room and watch it scatter across the floor in glittering smithereens. Or maybe he just wants to cradle his head and sink into the ground, face his back to the despicable device for the rest of the night as the cold seeps into his sides, but he’s not even sure where the damn thing skittered off to and his head is spinning and his eyelids clench shut and the world just grinds to a halt.

Gojo doesn’t take the news well.

Gojo doesn’t want to take it at all.

You’re chatting up the party’s host, a premed student in the same year as him, when you first notice him glancing at his phone.

“So how are things? Between you two, I mean,” Shoko asks as she follows your gaze. 

“Couldn’t be better” is your absentminded answer, and she stifles a laugh—a perfect relationship with the Gojo Satoru? But you’re only half listening as she expresses her disbelief, eyes never quite leaving Gojo’s back as he shifts away from the mass of people and shuffles towards the windows, cell phone in balled-up hand.

The first call is inconspicuous enough—Geto has a habit of running late, after all. But when you excuse yourself to the bathroom and come back find to Gojo still holding the phone to his ear, half crouched with his lips screwed up in a pout, you know something’s off. Part of you doesn’t want to take your place beside him, but he pulls you down by the wrist, grip strong enough to leave dime-sized bruises.

They’re explaining the game of the night before you can ask him what’s up: a  pitcher of beer will round the group of players, all sat in a circle on the carpeted floor, each and every one taking turns trying to steal the last drop. It’s a familiar setting, the music but a hum in the background as the participants buzz with idle chatter, but the person beside you feels alien somehow. The woolen material pills underneath your toes as you curl them into little balls, eyeing him with a sideways glance. You know better than to raise the issue when his foot’s tapping the floor with such force, rapid rhythm almost matching the incessant pace with which he thumbs at his phone. He’s calling Geto three, four, five times before changing tack, demanding an explanation through text.

Shallow breaths are all that fill your lungs as you keep as still as possible, trying your best to get a good read on the screen. If the slump in his shoulders is any indicator, you’re sure he’s seething at the words that light it up. But before you can make out a single phrase, he’s slamming the phone down with one hand, clenching the pitcher of freshly poured beer with the other.

His turn to take the first swig.

He ends up gulping until you’re sure he’s out of breath.

“Whoa there, Satoru,” the person next to him says when he sets the pitcher down, nearly emptied. “What the fuck was that?” 

His wrist rises to wipe the corner of his mouth and he exhales sharply, as if his simple reply requires strenuous effort.

“DD bailed on us,” he announces, “fucking flake.”

“Maybe we should have you sober up, then,” someone else, likely Shoko, calls out from across the room.

The change in his demeanor is instant.

“Ah, we’ll make it back in one piece, won’t we?” Gojo’s glance darts sideways, playful lilt betraying the ice he has for eyes.

The room hushes, waiting for an answer, and you sit up straight when you realize who he’s asking. You quirk an eyebrow, amused. With his cheeks already flushed, what seems to be a pointed gaze unfocused and glassy, you can’t help but beg to differ. You know the answer he wants to hear with every bone in your body. But every fiber in your being knows the truth.

“Bullshit.”

The entire room erupts and it’s decided, against his will, that you’ll be spending the night.

Everything falls apart from there.

Shoko shows you to a guest room once the others begin to clear out, dark circles carved out by cool white fluorescents that cast shadows behind her puffy eye bags.

“Sorry it’s so small,” she says, gesturing at the lone mattress, creeping moonlight like a spotlight on its linen-lined surface.

“It’s everything we could ask for,” you say as Gojo falls into bed, sprawling out against the twin sized sheets. “Thanks for letting us crash.” She shoots him a tight lipped smile before placing a deft hand on your shoulder, brown locks cascading as she leans into your ear.

“Let me know if you need anything, okay?” 

The night is long and never-ending. 

Teeny tiny bits of skylight taunt you from above as Gojo proceeds to keep you awake well past twilight. He’s tossing and turning in the guest bed, kicking the blanket off the both of you with spiteful purpose, inviting in the cool night breeze. It nips you from your face to your toes, colder still even as he tightens his hold on you, and you decide to finally break the silence.

“You still mad about that one thing I said?”

He scoffs, huff of breath like a shot to your neck.

“You seriously have to ask?”

You tense up immediately, spine straightening flat against his chest as he continues, edge to his voice swelling as it looms behind you. “Honestly, who do you think you think you are? Always acting like you’re better than me.” Razor thin needles lodge themselves into your scalp as he pulls your hair back, your chin meeting chilled air as you offer up a whimper. 

“It’s not like that.” 

He only tightens his grip on your hair, pulling it back harder still.

“Think I need to remind you of your fucking place,” he mumbles as he presses into you, something stiff rocking against the fat of your thighs.

“Not here,” you breathe, eyes widening as you realize his intent, the alcohol in your system seeming to swirl in your head. He staggers his hips in response.

“Wasn’t a problem in the car.” 

“Satoru, they might hear us,” you say, the steel in your voice cracking as his free arm snakes around your side, searching for the hem of your pants. “Mercy,” you try again, the familiar, agreed upon safe word sounding foreign and unfamiliar when it comes out but a croak. It hurtles from the shelter of your lips, forever lost as the strain in his pants only grows, breath going ragged as he ruts into your hips.

“Just let me have this.”

And he revels in the way in which he easily overpowers you, enamored in how his towering frame nearly swallows you whole. When a particularly loud groan—one you’re sure anyone in a neighboring room can overhear—escapes his lips, you blister with shame, burying your face in the pillow, limbs aching for need of sleep.

And then his breath hitches as he chases after fireworks and explosions, captivated by the way that you squirm in vain. His palms claim your hips as his own, cockhead grinding behind you, servicing himself with feverish concentration. He presses your side into the mattress, ass cheeks squeezing together like a homemade fleshlight, and you arch your back in a sorry attempt at evasion. 

He groans in response, knees buckling together as he brushes up against the makeshift curve, and you stop struggling altogether. Your body buzzes from the touch, head swelling like a balloon, skin crawling from the jerky movements as you go limp as a ragdoll.

“God, you’re so good to me,” he says, praise anything but endearing when it hits your ears. It’s the same kind of acclaim he gave up just the night before, but it cheapens as he repeats it, banal phrase playing over and over in your head. He’s still humping your butt when he cums, shaky and delirious as he rides out the high, profanities rolling off his tongue until he’s shuddering himself to sleep. All is still once he’s blacked out from the stimulation, pitter patter of salted frustration the only movement left over as it soaks the pillowcase through and through.

You lay awake, caged by his toned muscle, trapped by his carbon curses, praying for sleep until the birds begin to chirp. They sing a song that they borrowed from the night, a harrowing lullaby that has you in a panic, slipping out of his grasp as you crawl out of bed. 

By the crack of dawn you’ve tiptoed into a cab, belongings clutched tight to your chest, apartment complex shrinking in the distance, but it never seems to get further away.

Geto hasn’t breathed a word about the voice recorder.

Geto doesn’t want to think about it all.

He’s paying for it now with a barrage of daily phone calls from none other than Gojo himself, who dials him day and night and morning, no regard for moderation. Geto regards the fallout as both of their instant karma, still miffed by the prank he’d just fallen for, but unwilling to reveal his folly. He fills the role of trusty confidant nonetheless, his betrayal as M.I.A driver long forgotten. It’s a spectacle, the frenzy Gojo is bound in, and he might as well watch from a front row seat.

But he hasn’t made a full recovery yet, forever irked at the pretty privilege Gojo takes for granted, the privilege he downright hoards for himself, barking into the speaker when he feels his blood begin to boil.

“Seriously, what did you do this time?” He wants to tear his hair out at Gojo’s stupidity, his utter lack of tact, wants to pull out his front teeth and pulverize the dental tissue into a fine powder when he’s met with momentary silence. 

It’s been a few days since you left the guest bedroom alone in the wee hours of morning, and Gojo hasn’t been able to get ahold of you since. You haven’t been answering his texts, his calls, Christ, he even tried your personal email, and now Geto finds himself shouldering the brunt of his correspondence, trying everything in his power to get him to calm the fuck down, albeit fruitlessly.

“Nothing we haven’t done before,” Gojo insists once he’s found his choice of words, spitting them out one by one, raking stiff fingers through colorless locks. “I got a little handsy, but it was seriously nothing.” Geto shakes his head and rubs his temples; nothing isn’t enough to make you walk out on him. 

“If you’re telling the truth, then stop worrying already.” A stray section of his bangs fall forward, sweeping over his eye as he slumps over in his chair. “But if you’re lying—” he starts, cut off by the sound of chaste knocks, an unassuming 1-2-3 kissing up at his door before he can finish. 

Saved by the mystery visitor.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d sigh relief, eager to break away from the droning and moaning of the spoiled brat on the other line. Instead he gives pause, as if weighing the cost of answering the door against the merit of staying put on the phone, moment’s hesitation only giving way to a guaranteed getaway.

“Hold on, I need to get this,” is all Geto says as he hangs up the phone, equal parts appreciative and skeptical of the person at his door. He isn’t exactly friendly with anyone on his floor, and few would show up here without asking first, so he peers through the peephole, curiosity getting the better of him.

And lo and behold, speak of the devil, it’s Gojo’s missing girlfriend, standing alone with her hands twisted together.

Amazing. You’re quite literally the very last person he wanted to see right now.

“Do you have any idea how worried he is?” Geto snaps when he answers the door. You have no idea what kind of mess he has on his hands. “Go and make up with your boyfriend already.” He moves to close the door but you react quickly, wedging yourself before the doorframe, eyes wide and pleading.

“I’m in trouble, so please...” You scramble for something half believable. “I can’t turn to anyone else.” He laughs in your face, eyebrows quirked with mirth at how genuine it almost sounds.

Almost.

“Don’t give me that.”

“No, I mean it,” you press on, unwilling to admit that anyone else who’d listen to your cries for help, from trusted family to doe-eyed friends, would undoubtedly have you in a beeline for the authorities. “You—you’re the only other person who can put up with Gojo.”

That gets him stopping in his tracks.

“Barely,” he scoffs, but the pressure on the door lets up. He hates that you have a point there. Hates that he can’t look away from Gojo and his silly antics and his daring ploys and especially hates that he has that in common with you. He wants to turn you away but you look so hopeful, ignoring the dulling pain of the door trying to crush your foot flat.

He bites the bullet.

“You know he’ll be pissed if he finds out you came to me first, right?” You screw your lips together when he cracks the door slightly.

“Well, he doesn’t really have the right at the moment,” you sniff, barging in when he lets go of the door completely.

The room is impossibly smaller than you ever imagined, in direct contrast to all the empty space in Gojo’s rental. It’s a wonder how all his necessities fit in the cramped shelves and tiny drawers, and you almost marvel at the scale of it until the sound of wood on vinyl tiling snaps you back to focus. A few stray articles of clothing are plucked from the ground and chucked to the corner before he’s pulling two chairs up, one for you and one for him. Once he’s sitting, you have his full, unadulterated attention.

Not that you know what to do with it.

It takes a while to find your voice, fiddling with your fingers as you try, unsuccessfully, to hold his gaze. There’s no clock but you swear you can hear the second hand ticking. The curtain’s closed but you’re sure you can feel the heat of the sun disappearing. You’re certain that it ebbs below the curve of the horizon as you watch, timidly, the tap of Geto’s wooden sandal. It remind you of the clack of Gojo’s dress boots, impatience slowly exceeding its carefully drawn bounds.

You time out a moment of silence.

And then another.

And then another, until Geto is staring you down expectantly, pinpricks for eyes. You take the hint.

“I said it.” You look down, fidgeting with your shirt. “I said no.”

His eyes soften immediately, struck by the raw edge of your voice, your inability to look him in the eye.

“And he didn’t respect that?”

“He touched me. When I asked him to stop.” The words have to force themselves out your throat, the little bit of courage you have all that keeps the walls from collapsing in completely. You take as deep of a breath as you can manage when the memory flickers through your mind, clear as yesterday. “He—he fucked me through his clothes.” Your head’s buried in your hands as you fold into yourself completely, rocking in place, and something rages inside of Geto.

“Wait, what?” Geto looks at you incredulously, disbelief scrawled all over his face, eyes narrowing when you keep your head down. “Through his clothes?”

You nod slowly, knowingly, and he feels as though the world is spinning all over again. The ground seems to shift beneath him as your face contorts in pain, saltwater already beading up along your lower lashes. That’s it? That’s what this entire circus is on about? He cards his hands through his hair as he tries to process it, shaking his head when you fail to respond. That’s all it takes for your whole body to quake, hard lumps bubbling up your throat at the bite of his words, breath stuttering irregularly as your windpipe starts to clench up. 

And then you’re crying, body wracked with hiccups as you try to quell the chills crawling up your skin. Your chest heaves in a sorry attempt to keep up with the lurch of your lungs, sputtering as you try to suppress your voice.

“God, you’re all so fucking annoying.”

He watches you bubble over, feeling his own emotions swell as they hit a critical mass, stomach churning at the sight. You couldn’t manage a comeback if you wanted to, a blubbering mess as you try to wipe your eyes dry. The small bit of composure that’s kept him whole these past few days finally snaps when the tears trail down your hands, no end in sight in the onslaught of waterworks.

“I bet you wanted it,” he continues, unfazed by the fattening tears, fingertips digging into his thighs as he spots the yellowed bruises he jacks off to at night. He leers at the fading brown and imagines them overlaid with fresh, new marks, gleaming blush and fiery crimson. “I bet sluts like you don’t care what happens as long as they get dicked down in the end.” A quiet sob tumbles out of you and your cheeks tingle with hurt, like you’ve been backhanded once, then twice.

“It’s n-not like that,” you finally manage to say, gasping through choked noises as he creeps closer, cloaking you in shadow. He stares vacantly from his vantage point, as if looking at an ant on the tiles.

“Then why don’t you walk away for real?” 

And that’s exactly what you should be doing right now, cornered by a large man in his dark, dingy room, but by the time you think to stand up he’s grabbing you by the wrists. He sends you barreling into the desk, spinning you around so your hands clutch the edge, chest pressing up against the surface. He pins an arm behind you with ease, kicking your legs wide open, and you flail the other in no particular direction.

“You secretly enjoy all of it, don’t you? You secretly get off on the idea of being raped by your boyfriend.” He sneers as you buckle underneath him, grazing his growing erection. “All worked up over a little dry humping? Get over yourself already. You females want to be hurt so bad.”

“Fuck you,” you manage between muffled sobs, chest feeling as if it’s about to break in half. “You’re j-just like Gojo.”

“Just like Gojo?” Geto echoes, free hand coming to snake between your thighs, voice catching as he speaks. “You’re sorely mistaken.”

You fall limp as he draws a single finger under your panties, tracing your hipbone as he muses. He imagines their contents, imagines how easy it would be to take you by force, sighing aloud at the prospect of doing it without.

“I can never be him.”

fishstyx © 2021 ✸ all content and their rights belong to me. do not repost, reproduce, or modify anywhere.

#gojo smut #geto smut #geto x reader #gojo x reader #jjk smut #tw. dark. #tw. noncon. #tw. dubcon. #tw. influence. #tw. toxic. #tw. penetration. #tw. showoff. #tw. size. #tw. degradation. #tw. corruption. #🍣.food #fishstyx.jjk

[clarissalance]

Hints of something more

Albedo x fem!reader

Warning: Slight suggestive language at the end. 

Word count: 2k7

Summary: Apparently, visiting Albedo in Dragonspine has somehow opened a new door to your vague, no-label relationship. And Kaeya won’t stop teasing you about it.  

Before leaving for Dragonspine two days ago, Albedo told you to bring him some canvas, a few pencils and a paint set of watercolour. However, he failed to mention which brand and type of watercolour he wants you to bring. Is it a set of 24 colours? 48 colours or the 12 colours set? Furrow your eyebrows, you stared questioningly at the shelves, hesitating to pick one up. Knowing how picky Albedo is if it is not up to his standard. The man would refuse to touch the paint. 

What would he choose usually? You can’t seem to recall his watercolour preference. Funny how it is, he usually encourages you to follow your instinct. Human instinct is the best to study. He would say something like this out of nowhere. Sometimes they make a really questionable decision that I can’t decipher. Definitely one of his catch-on phrase. 

 Drilling holes on the shelves for too long is not the solution, so you finally choose the most expensive set of 48 watercolours in the store. You cross your fingers and hope that he doesn’t question your choice. There it goes for half of my salary. Far away, you can faintly see the outline of the money fairy waving at you, flying toward Celestia. I hope he will like this one. 

 Packing up the last few things inside your backpack, you prepare for the adventure to the Dragonspine to meet with the chalk prince. The bright sun on the blue canvas is almost halfway to the top. The weather would be lovely for a small picnic, too good to waste over climbing to Dragonspine. Dragging your body toward the front gate, you lazily hope to hitch someone carriage. It would be best to start early than arriving at the lab late.  

 The journey takes an hour by feet to walk from the city to the foot of Dragonspine and then takes another 2 hours to walk to Albedo’s lab on the mountain. It would be much faster if you can actually have combat fighting skill to head-on with the cryo mitachurl, but life is much a sadder reality. You don’t have a vision nor a combat skill to solo a whole camp of hilichurl. However, with your brain and your gifted survival (escaping) instinct, dodging a few camps and distracting a few of them isn’t very hard. 

 The weather in Dragonspine is much better than what you anticipated. The sky deep and clear, the veil of fog has thinned enough. The air is crisp, mist rises and slowly dissipates after each exhales. The sheer cold is as brutal and sharp knife-like as usual. You can’t understand how Albedo loves the weather in this place enough to set up a lab in here. A summer person like you refuses to set foot in this area unless for commissions and Albedo’s related purpose. Hnng, you are starting to regret coming here.  

There are a few more camps of hilichurl than usual on your way to the mountain, so you decide to take the longer route. At least meeting with a few Fatui is much more comforting than getting hit by an ice mitachurl shield. 

 By the time you get to the camp, the sun is standing proudly on the top. You get here an hour late, and much to your dismay, Albedo wasn’t in his lab. He is going out to look for more sample again. Heaving exhaustingly, you drop the heavy backpack thud on the ground. Scampering over the fire, you let out a satisfying at the charing fire. A pyro vision would be convenient to have in this weather. 

 With the sound of wood cracking under the desiring heat, the frost bearing breeze slowly finds its way into the camp, cooling the scorching radiation from the glowing fire. Warmth slowly crawls and sinks in on your dry skin, soothing the icy air. Exhausted, your eyelids slowly pull themselves over, threaten to extinguish your consciousness. A nap wouldn’t hurt anyone, right? You let out a long yawn, curl into a fetal position and use the bag as a pillow. Darkness comes within a second. 

 _____________________________________________________________

 You are woken up by the warmth on the hand caressing your cheek, running through your hair. The familiar smooth hand resting on your face doesn’t know you have woken up, the thumb fiddling with your soft skin. Nuzzle lovingly at the palm, you let out sigh contentment. The hand is big enough, gently and carefully tracing your face outline like it’s treasuring a gift. This familiar feeling tickles you like a feather. 

 Groggily, you peel your eyes open and greet with a stunning sight. Albedo is sitting next to you, the fluffy blond hair softly falls on the cheek, some being tucked under his ears. The teal eyes focus intently on the notebook in front of him, glimmering with interest and dedication, his long lashes fluttering like a butterfly wing on a flower petal. The golden diamond on his neck glimmers faintly under the flicker of light, stand out on his creamy white skin. His warm slender fingers still lightly touch your hair soothingly make you feel so relaxing. Letting out a satisfying purr, you press your plump lips on his wrist, successfully gets Albedo attention. 

 “ How long have you been up?” His soothing voice has never failed to calm your nerve. You yearn up a little bit, trying to peek at the notebook on his lap. It’s so far away, you can’t catch a glimpse from here. 

 “ A while.” You hum. “ Long enough to get drunken at your handsome features.” 

 His eyes widen a little bit, not expecting that coming out from your mouth. 

 At the corner of his eyes, he catches your cheeky grin. Beaming widely at him, you internally cringing at your cheesy remark. You don’t even know what gives you the courage to slip the embarrassing words. 

 Albedo smirks at your blatant flirt, his reaction opposite what you look for. He returns his attention back to the notebook. His eyes still remains a hint of amusement. You want to dig a hole and jump in it. 

Slowly rise up, you rub your eyes tiredly, and notice Albedo’s coat on your body. Did he put it on you? You glance at him curiously, trying to seek an explanation, but he remains quiet, focuses on the piece of paper. The sound of pencil rustling on the parchment eases you somehow, like waking up in a small cottage with your loved one. 

 “ What time is it? ” You let out a big yawn, voice thicks with sleep. His light coat somehow is warm. Maybe you should ask him where he got this. 

 “ It’s around 3.” Albedo mindlessly points out. “ You can sleep more. Put my coat on if you're cold.” He reminds.  

 “ I shouldn’t be sleeping longer. Let me help with your work so I can get back to Mondstadt on time.” You scratch your head, your body is numbing over the sheer cold. Throw on Albedo coat, you hope the thin layer can keep you warm a little bit longer. His coat smells like frost and Cecilia. Inside the pocket, you find a heating pack. Maybe this is what kept you warm when you were sleeping.  

  “ M almost finished.” The sound of paper rustling each time he turns a page. “I can accompany you back to the city.” 

 “ But I haven’t done anything?” You furrow your eyebrows in confusion, hands folding at your chest, trying to saviour some warmth. “You’re sure you finished?” 

 “ Yes, just a few more retouches, then we can go back.” Albedo nods, his eyes still glued on the piece of paper. Abruptly, he stops and looks up at you, waving his hand, signalling you to get closer. Obediently, you walk toward him. When you are an arm-length from him, the man gestures at the chair put closely next to him. He wants you to sit down?

 You sit down quietly, trying to take a look at the drawing he is working on. Hmm, is that you? Did he draw your sleeping form? On the paper is the portrait of you curl like a fetal, your long hair splaying on the floor. Each stroke of pencil depicts the gentleness you have in your face when you are sleeping. The drawing is mundane somehow, you feel comfortable and relax when looking at the piece. 

 Suddenly, you felt a warm hand slotting in your palm, elbow nudging yours. His slender digits are weaving tightly with your fingers, warmth tingling on the tips of your fingers. . Look up from the drawing, you see a tint of pink on his ears. So he can also get embarrassed. 

 “ You look cold.” He mumbles, eyes avoiding yours, his cheek flush furiously. “Sit closer.” You gladly shift closer, your hand and shoulder touching his. Albedo picks up the pencil and returns to his drawing. This time he turns to a new page, start to draw another specimen. Looking at the sketch, you guess he is trying to sketch the abandoned ruins. The comfortable silence envelopes the two of you. 

 Being so close to him, you can make out the whiff of fresh Cecilia and pine. Engulf by his coat and, now next sitting next to him, you are bathing under his signature scent. It would be nice if I could feel him more. Blushing at the thought, you try to push away those not-so-innocent thoughts. Obviously, he is trying to be a gentleman. You should be grateful, if not because of him, you're going to freeze to death.

 Albedo is much warmer than you, his body radiating heat like a furnace after a while. Silently, you pick up a book you left here last time on the table. Most of his books are either textbooks or ancient language book about the alchemist, which you think you are qualified enough to read. Waiting for him in silence is a form of torture if you don’t do something. Your attention removes from his body and to the novel on your hand. 

 After what feels like two hours, Albedo finally puts down his pencil and stretches. His long limb knocks your hand a few times, your knees bump with his. He let out a tired yawn, cracking his knuckles. 

 “Finished?” Your eyes still glue on the thick book. You hear him let out a hum, his hand remove to clean up the mess on the table. 

 “ What are you having for dinner?” Albedo casually asks, hand dusting the enormous amount of eraser dust on the paper before dumping them in the trash. His voice wavers a little, but you aren't sure why. 

 “Hash brown and cream stew. I have a brownie for dessert.” You notice Albedo never makes small conversation like this. He is the type who would get straight to the point or request. Perc up from the book, you are faced with his back at you. He is arranging the bookshelves.

 “Do… you want to join me for dinner? ” After it felt like a while, you finally break the silence, your voice laces with uncertainty. If you read the atmosphere wrong, it can cost you quite severely.  

 “Sure.” He shrugs nonchalantly, continues sorting the stacks of books on the ground. Somehow you can feel the tension in the air is lifted, and he seems more relaxed than before. 

 “These are some observations and speculations I made in the last few days in here.” The chief alchemist hands you a folder. 

 You flip through the files, they are mostly pictures and drawing of large camps of hilichurl. At the end of the file is a map marked with their locations. The Abyss Order's activity has increased rapidly in this month. Commissions have been sent out continuously, yet many of them haven’t been sorted out properly yet. It seems like the sheer cold of Dragonspine can't prevent their enthusiasm. On your ways here, you have met 4 more camps, hence the reason why you choose to be acquainted with the Fatui instead.

 “I will give this to the Adventurer Guild. Thank you for this.” You exhale, fingers rubbing your eyes tiredly. The next few days are going to be very busy. 

 “If you are done, then pack up. We are going back.” He announces, returns his attention to pile on the ground. Fold the corner of the page, close the book, prepare the pack-up for the leave. You can’t wait to leave this devastating sheer cold and return back to the realm of fog and wind. Shuffling through your backpack, you put the art supplies Albedo asked you to buy on the table neatly. You didn't take anything out, so no need for packing. Basically, you are done. 

 “ Let’s go back.” 

 _____________________________________________________________

On the way back, you both walk in silence. Most of the camps are cleared, barrels and boxes shatter into tiny pieces scatter on the ground. Seem like our dear traveller has their job quite well. The place is almost spotless, even with the Fatui camp. You are impressed with their productivity.  

 It takes less than 2 hours walking back from Dragonspine, now that your bag is lighter. Walking comfortably next to Albedo, your hands grazing past each other a few times. You watch the sunset etches widely on the blushing hues orange sky in Dragonspine can be so romantic. 

 Suddenly feeling so motivated, you gently slip your index into his palm. Albedo freezes but still complies, his fingers caught your hand, slowly interlocking yours. Your heart thumps loudly in your chest, heating creeping up your cheek. Shutting your eyes, you mumble incoherently something about how unfair life is. 

 He let out a breathy snicker, with your fingers interlock, sharing the heat in the harsh weather. Look up the fading orange, slowly disappear behind the layer of thick snow, you blow out warm air, fog gathers and dissipates in the air. Sunset in Dragonspine can be arguably one of the best scenes in Mondstadt. 

    “I’m going back to my office to put this away.” When you arrive at the gate, Albedo decides to head to the HQ of the Knight of Favonius. He motions at the package in his hand. 

 “ See you later at dinner.” Nonchalantly, he plants a kiss on your cheek, hand ruffles your hair a little bit before head off in the opposite direction. 

 You stand there, still trying to comprehend what just happened a few seconds ago. The peck on your cheek is too short, too light, like feather brushes. He can’t do this to you. Your cheek is blazing with fire, and if not careful, a spark can ignite an explosion right here. You turn your head sideways, trying to saviour and recall the feeling of his lips. 

 “ Tch tch.” The sound is coming from the nearby alley, the click-clack of boots coming closer. You whirl your head toward that direction, just to realize the source of the sound is all-mighty Calvary Captain of the Knight of Favonius. 

 “ Love is really in the air.” He comments sarcastic, hand waving around to shoo away those imaginable ‘love’. 

 “ Living this long, I have never thought I would be able to see our Alchemist Chief giving someone a goodbye kiss.” Kaeya smugs at you, his deep blue eyes gleaming with mischief. Oh, you really can't wait to wipe his shit-eating grin off his face. 

 “Stop being a drama queen, Kaeya.” You shot back. “ He gave Klee one too, don’t treat this as such an abnormal supernatural act.” Internally, you have to say that Albedo giving affection is kind of a supernatural incident too. Kaeya eyes at you like you grow another head, shaking his head.  

 “ You know what I meant.” The captain shrugs, his voice ringing with a hint of smugness. 

 The man suddenly walks closer, his gloved hand pats your shoulder, squeezing it lightly. “Must have been really cold in Dragonspine for him to give you his coat.” He winks at you, his eyes slowly drag down your figure. You cautiously look down. Shit, you totally forget this. 

 “We have a meeting at 8 tomorrow at the HQ. Please tell him to not stay up too late.” The cryo user whistles teasingly, heading toward Angel Share, his hand waving in the air. Your face flushes furiously, smoke almost come off your burning face. Now you realize why people have been giving your pointed gazes when you first enter the gate. Damn it, Kaeya, it is not what you think it is.  

#albedo x reader #genshin x reader #genshin albedo #genshin impact #genshin kaeya #fluff #hint #genshin headcanons #albedo kreideprinz #dragonspine

[monsterfuneral]

sparks in the rain | bill and ted | ch. 2

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Coming Soon

Relationship: Poly!Bill and Ted x Fem!Reader

Summary: A malfunction with the booth lands Bill and Ted into the most peculiar situation they’ve been in, stuck in the year 2021 standing in front of a woman they never thought they’d meet. 

Words: 1.5

Warnings/Tags: nothing

Author’s Note: After like actually outlining this a little more, I think this story will end up being one of my favorites I’ve written.

REQUESTS OPEN | MASTERLIST

(please read my “I do NOT write” section before sending in anything <3)

---

This was the most unusual day for both Bill and Ted. Sure they had experienced mishaps with the booth, and sure they had also met people that they vaguely knew about. But they had never met someone that knew about them. Especially when it came to an on screen babe like Armageddon Lady, who had totally been Bill’s biggest crush for a majority of his teenage years. Not that he’d admit that to anyone other than Ted though. And here she was in the weirdest of coincidences, standing right in front of them. 

“What?” Ted asked dumbly as he heard the girl in front of them blurt their names. His brain struggled to keep up with the situation. 

“Dude she totally knows who we are somehow!” Bill said with an almost starstruck look on his face, his eyes sparkling in amazement. 

You stayed silent though, staring at them like a deer in the headlights. Your mouth agape as you, like Ted, tried to process what you was going on. While running into celebrities in the middle of your apartment complex was one thing that would never happen, seeing two movie characters that you liked standing just seven feet away from you was next to impossible… No it was impossible. 

You had to be dreaming still. A very vivid dream where you were going to the crafts store to pick up a new set of markers, before suddenly running into Bill and Ted of all people... In a dream. There was literally no other logical explanation. 

“Woah, you look like you’re going to hurl, Miss. Armageddon Lady, dude- babe.” Bill stumbled on his words like a nervous child talking to his first crush. Which honestly wasn’t far from the truth. 

“I- This isn’t real.” You concluded, finally removing your hand from inside of your purse and straightening your back. You were almost tempted to just turn around and walk back into your apartment, but you didn’t. Instead you thought over the jumbled words Bill had said to you, something sticking out more than anything else. “Why do you keep calling me that?” You asked, your brows drawing together as you looked at the blonde for answers who looked at you with widened eyes. 

Ted suddenly remembered something Rufus had told them not too long ago, alternative universes and whatnot, where things are different from their world but can also connect somehow. He talked about how sometimes the booth can malfunction and send them rocking into another circuit without them even noticing. That’s probably how they ended up here! 

“Bill... I don’t think we’re in our world anymore.” Ted chimed before Bill could even attempt to come up with a sufficient answer that would satisfy you. 

“What?” Bill asked, looking up at Ted. 

“Yeah! Remember the thing Rufus told us a few months back?” 

“Don’t over-tighten the guitar strings because they could break?” Bill answered, bringing up an entirely different conversation they had with Rufus. 

Ted shook his head looking behind his shoulder and to the still sparking booth “No dude! The whole alternate dimension thingy.” 

“OH YEAH!” 

You watched the both of them converse, your own brain still trying to catch up with the bizarre situation, still not entirely convinced this wasn’t a dream. You tried pinching your arm a few times, at least testing it out to see if that trick even worked, but you were still standing in the same place right in front of them. It was all so much to process at once and so early in the day, even though it may have been 11am, it was still too much. 

“So you really didn’t put in the wrong number then.” 

“I told you so Bill!” 

They paused, smiling at each other before both shouting “Excellent!” in unison before air guitaring. The action was all too familiar but unfortunately missed the overlapping guitar that would play when they did it. Both boys stared at each other for a second afterwards, beaming smiles still ontheir faces. Their stare lasted a beat longer than you were used to seeing on screen. 

A shiver wracked through your body, the jacket you had not shielding you from the cold that the rain brought like you had hoped it would. You clutched your arms, pulling them a little tighter to your chest. It only continued to solidify the fact that this was probably real and not a dream at all, like you had thought. I mean, sure you had considered the possibility of fictional universes being real, who hasn’t? But it was just a theory you played into half-heartedly but never considered it to actually be true. 

A hand waved in front of your face, jolting from your deep train of thought where everything you previously thought was impossible could be and it was just too much. Reality as you knew it was both expanding and collapsing all at the same time. 

“You good, other dimension babe?” Bill asked, a small smile on his face as you stared at him with wide eyes.

Ted tilted his head as he watched you curiously. Sure you looked like Armageddon Lady and her actress, but you were neither, you just looked like them. He had an easier time accepting this as a reality than you did though, already having his experience with the impossible. But you looked like you were about to explode from the overload of information. He felt sympathetic. He thought back to a conversation he had with Rufus a year after their first time traveling in the booth, remembering how Rufus told him how he had seen others cope with the discovery of time travel, how some people just could not handle the information and it literally drove them to insanity. Ted would feel like such a dick if that happened to you, even if he didn’t know you. 

“I-” You started, abruptly stopping as you tried to piece your words together “I think so?” You clutched the strap to your purse a little harder, blunt nails digging into the leather slightly “This is all just… A lot to process.” 

“That’s okay!” Ted reassured softly with a wide grin, his hair falling in front of his eyes slightly as he nodded and looked down at Bill who was also nodding along. 

Your fingers were starting to feel numb and you shifted on your feet for the first time since you were stopped in your tracks. Your knees felt stiff from not moving for so long and you were shaking a lot more than you thought, the cold starting to deep into your bones and making your teeth chatter. You were sure they weren’t feeling any better as they were both wearing short sleeved shirts, and Bill was wearing a crop top. 

“I know you guys don’t know me but it’s freezing out here and it’s supposed to get colder.” You said looking back at your apartment door, trying to draw your coat closer around you “Would you like to come inside? I can make some coffee-” You watched Bill pull a face at the mention of the bitter beverage “Or some hot chocolate, up to you.” 

“Sounds great.” Ted answered, glancing behind him once more at the booth before back at you, “Lead the way!” 

The warmth of your apartment was more welcoming than the quickly dropping temperature outside. The rain clouds had left the sky dark and your living room was close to being pitch black. You carefully maneuvered past the couch and over the bean bags that were carelessly strewn across the floor in front of the TV stand. You felt for the pull-chain underneath the lamp shade, the black tassels tickling against your forearm. Finally your fingers grasped around the thin chain, gently yanking it and letting the light finally fill most of the room. The large leg lamp glowed on the small table tucked in the corner of your living room. A lovely gag gift you had been rewarded on christmas a year or two before at a friend’s party. While A Christmas Story was very much an overplayed movie on the holiday’s and certainly not your favorite, you still enjoyed the gift. Finding it pretty cool that someone had gone through the effort of getting something like this as the winner’s gift.

“Woah...” One of the boy’s muttered from behind your couch. You turned around and gave them a small smile, walking over to the other side of the living room to turn on the other lamp so the room was fully lit up and you weren’t going to trip over your own feet by accident. 

“Pretty neat huh?” You asked, always finding people’s reactions to the infamous lamp rather funny.

They both looked at you simultaneously, their eyes sparkling in wonder.

“You’re so cool…” Ted whispered. 

You let out a quiet laugh, trying to push down the heat that had suddenly started to rise up your neck, to your cheeks, and finally finishing at your ears. Never in your life did you think you could be receiving praise from Ted Theodore Logan himself. This really felt like it was too good to be true. 

“Thanks.” You replied, turning your back to them so they didn’t catch on to your flustered state. “So, how about that hot chocolate?” You asked, walking over to the white cabinet that held your collection of mugs.

#bill bnt #ted bnt #bill and ted #bill s preston x reader #bill s preston imagine #bill s preston esquire #ted theodore logan x reader #ted theodore logan imagine #ted theodore logan #bnt imagine #bnt x reader #monster writes

[guqin-and-flute]

Ok but. What is JGY’s reaction to hearing. that. Apparently. A-Fu... doesn’t? Have a knife/lock pick on him at all times???

LXC: Why Would Our Child Have A KNIFE (the lock picks a LITTE more reasonable)

NMJ: Hmmmmm (idk What he’d say)

JGY:.....(trying to figure out how to answer ‘perverts and theifs’ without revealing more of his messed up childhood)

[WOW, I apparently wrote this months ago, put it in my drafts and completely forgot about it?? This happens when A-Fu is about 3, so before And A-Fu Makes Four. TW: Vague allusions to hypothetical and past child abuse/predatory adults]

[3zun Raise Jingyi AU] [Main Fic][Ao3 Link]

“When were we thinking he was going to get one?” Jin Guangyao idly pressed his index finger around the rim of a tiny sauce dish. The force he exerted fell into sync with the steady, confident rhythm of Nie Mingjue’s knife cuts, echoing throughout the kitchen, his eyes watching the dip and flash of the gradient of blue, like the waves of the ocean. Dark to light to dark to light.

Lan Xichen hummed in thought as he sorted the vegetables A-Fu had helped grow in the little practice garden with Huaisang near the late Second Madam Nie’s flowers. His long fingers lightly turned them this way and that against the heavily marked counter. “Their progress dictates when they receive their first spiritual tool, but they received practice swords to build their strength when--” he obligingly cut himself off when Jin Guangyao gave a light, correcting shake of his head without looking up.

“Not a spiritual tool; his first knife for defense. I was taught the precautions of it when I was much younger than him, so I wondered if you had spoken to him about it already and decided to wait.”  Dark to light to dark to--the knife strokes had stopped and there was silence. He raised his eyes and found both of them looking at him with varying degrees of confusion and concern.

“What are you talking about? We’ve barely just taught him that knives are not to be touched,” Nie Mingjue demanded with a frown. “The ‘little Baxia incident’ only happened last month. Have you forgotten already?”

Jin Guangyao bit the inside of his cheek to quell the rush of irritation at the accusation in his voice, and responded with a cool smile. “No, I haven’t.”

“Usually they begin with wooden swords to build their strength and to teach them proper etiquette. I’m confused. Have we talked about a knife before?” Lan Xichen was studying his face as if he were trying to draw the answer from him through his gaze, searching and puzzled.

A strangeness that sometimes rose in Jin Guangyao all at once widened the gulf between their lives impossibly under their gaze, yawned to show the canyon of space that separated their experiences and his own. Gentry. Safety. Comfort. The outlines of his own wickedly sharp blades, tucked into sash, sleeve, and boot seemed to warm at his awareness. As soon as he had been able to understand speech and balance on his own feet, there had been a blade in his possession and it was not until this exact moment that he realized this might not be universal.

It shouldn’t surprise him--and in a way, it didn’t. It made sense that they would feel safe within their own lands, their own homes, tucked away in neat little boxes of what was ‘yours’ and ‘mine’. They had not had to live in a place that was ‘theirs’ where you were unwelcome and unsafe. Where anyone could come and go as they pleased. Could use whatever they chose. He had just never considered that anyone would be so...arrogantly confident. Naïve. He had simply thought that perhaps they waited a little longer before teaching their children--though 3 had seemed almost egregiously old.

This was a different world that he was raising his son in. This had been an alienating mistake, once again reminding them that he did not belong, that he was not the same as them. He smiled. “My mistake, I must have misheard.”

The other two traded a look that immediately told him that this was not something they would allow him to brush past. Nie Mingjue’s frown deepened. Purposefully, Jin Guangyao relaxed his shoulders and went back to spinning the dish, as if the tension of an uncomfortable conversation was not already creeping through the room. 

“A-Yao,” Xichen said in that gentle way that felt like his hair was being stroked, but in the wrong way, prickles that were not wholly pleasant nor wholly uncomfortable. He wanted to swat away the sensation. This tone was the precursor of being Seen when he had not meant for it. “A-Fu doesn’t need to protect himself here the same way that you did. The sort people he is with are different from the ones that you grew up with.”

His press on the bowl rim was a little too hard this time, spinning it out from under his hand as it wobbled around noisily against the wood. His smile tugged up lopsided, the edge of it sharpening. Because they were alone, together, and they knew him. Because so often he was completely sheathed away. Because it was such a sweet and thoughtless thing to say. 

“Er-ge,” he said in the same patient, understanding tone he had used. “I think maybe you’ve forgotten the sort of people who visited where I grew up in the first place.” 

The silent consideration that deepened in Lan Xichen’s face was exactly the point; not pity, not shock. But the allowance of a redirection and the reminder of exactly how Jin Guangyao had come to be in this position. Who his mother was. His father. The gentry are not more civilized. Their coin makes their weight and words heavier and their rules and learning help to veil their nature. But at their core, they are just as despicable. The only true difference between them is power. 

Watching this disturbance cloud the eyes of the man he loved, he felt the bite of his bitterness melt into a dull ache, a yearning. Except you. Except the most principled and gentle of men. Beyond him, Nie Mingjue was frowning with narrowed eyes and that yearning grew barbs, the sharpness of it a million tiny pinpricks. And you, you....

“Have you seen anyone....” Nie Mingjue’s voice was a dark growl, grating to a stop before he could voice the unspeakable.

When he would have bowed his head or deepened his smile in the presence of others, Jin Guangyao instead let the mask drop away entirely and stared at him. Voice tight and low, he asked, “If I had, would I stay silent?” Would they still be breathing? hung heavy between them all, unspoken because it was unneeded, because he, of all people, knew. 

Nie Mingjue blew out a breath and considered the knife in his hands, the bits of greenery clinging to its blade before he shook his head and met his gaze again. “No.”

Well. At least they had that understanding. “No,” he agreed, bringing his voice back to mild, settling his expression. He picked up the dish and set it delicately on its side and spun it, the blurred blue whirl making a little orb slowly traversing its way over the table. “It’s simply something to consider, I suppose.”

He felt the weight of Xichen’s gaze move off of him and knew he was trading a look with Nie Mingjue that he didn’t want to unravel. So he kept his eyes on the liquid shine of that sphere. It was clear to him now that speaking to the both of them together had been a mistake. He had thought it efficient, since they so rarely could bear to inhabit the same room all together. Stupid.

“I’ll start teaching him some more hand to hand combat. Would that suffice?” The rhythmic, solid ‘thunk’ of the knife was back under the shortness in Nie Mingjue’s tone. 

A warmth pressed to his side as Xichen slid onto the bench next to him and Jin Guangyao’s hand was engulfed in his gentle grip. He did not look up, but instead used his other hand to flick the now wobbling sauce dish, tilting it off its axis so it rolled out of its spin and clattered noisily to a stop, upside down. No. “Whatever you both think is best. I suppose was being paranoid.” 

Xichen’s hand squeezed and Jin Guangyao knew there was enough strength in him to crush every slender bone in his hand. And that Xichen would never use it. “You’re being a good father,” Xichen murmured. “But, remember, A-Yao, he has us. He will never be alone.” Not like you were, he seemed to mean. Oh, Er-ge.

Did your mother mean to die when she did? He wanted to ask, oh so gently. Mingjue’s parents, Huaisang’s? Our son's birth parents? Of all people, would my mother leave me in that place willingly? His palm rested over the back of the little bowl, let the coolness of it combat the spiced and rising wet heat of the kitchen.

“A-Yao?” A murmur as, across the room, Nie Mingjue began loading the wok and loud hissing flooded over them, blurring Xichen’s quiet voice.

Jin Guangyao looked up at him; the sweet sympathy in his dark eyes, the tug of sorrow at his lips. He pulled out a smile and laid his head on Xichen’s firm shoulder. Turning the dish over, he set his finger again on the rim, tipping it rhythmically, now soundless in the boiling noise around them. Dark to light to dark to light.

“Of course.”

#Anonymous #my fic #my stuff #3zun raise jingyi au #Don't know how this one disappeared into my drafts but here it is now! #3zun raise jingyi au content

[peach-the-owl]

Tainted Innocence

Percy & Younger Sibling!Reader

You let out a fit of coughs, being sick sucked, you couldn’t move without getting dizzy, you couldn’t join the family for dinner or else you might get someone else sick, and worst of all you couldn’t leave your room to play. So here you lay on your bed wishing to get better soon so you could play outside under the sun. A sudden commotion could be heard outside your door, shouts and screams ringing down the halls, you ever curious would’ve loved to investigate if it wasn’t for the fact that your dizzy head would make you nauseous the second you got up. The sounds only got louder until they were right outside your room, you throw the covers over your head in an attempt to hide from whatever the scary noise was. You hear your door open and try to stay as still and quiet as possible, unfortunately your hit with another fit of coughs making your presence known to whoever had entered.

"My my, what have we here?" The woman’s voice was vaguely familiar, making you peek out from under the covers to see only the darkened outline of a feminine figure. "Poor, sweet little (y/n), caught a fever have we?" The more they spoke the more you could recognize the voice as Delilah Briarwood's, you’d met her a once before and she seemed nice but now her tone sounded almost sinister for some reason.

"Yeah, I’m not feeling very well. You probably shouldn’t be here, I don’t want you to get sick too." You say innocently, before going into yet another fit of coughs. She lets out a chuckle, by now it seemed the sounds from outside your room had faded into nothing.

"How considerate of you to think of my well being. What if I were to tell you I knew a way that could… cure you of your ailments." The ominous undertones she had went right over your head.

"Really?! You can do that!?" You bounce excitedly in place, quickly stopping from the dizziness in your head.

"Not only that, but you'll never have to worry about getting sick ever again." The offer almost sounded too good to be true.

"That sounds awesome! Let’s do it!" You were brimming with excitement at the thought of never having to worry about sickness again.

"Calm down now, all will be well in due time. For now you should rest, my husband and I shall handle everything and I guarantee you’ll wake up like a brand new person." You give her a nod and are hit by a sudden wave of exhaustion. "Sleep now… my child." You don’t have time think about why she referred to you like that before your vision goes dark and your mind goes blank…

Lady Delilah was right, when you awoke again you no longer had your fever and felt completely different, but even though you did feel all better now you still weren’t allowed to leave the castle. You were only allowed to wander the wing where your room was or explore the catacombs, even then there wasn’t much you could do but that's what you were told you were allowed so you had to follow the rules. It was strange though to be told all this by the Briarwoods, wondering why it was them instead of your parents to tell you all these new rules and why one of the rules was you couldn’t see anyone else in your family. You had asked about this once but Delilah only told you that once you were ready they’d tell you everything, so time went by and you stayed alone, forced to play inside away from any sunlight, almost completely isolated from social contact. You don’t know how long it’s been, no longer having a way to tell day from night made it really hard to know how many hours or days had passed, everything just blurring together. There was one other thing that really bothered you and that was this strange sensation you’d get from time to time, it was almost like you were hungry but also not because you’d eat like normal and the feeling wouldn’t go away. You told the Briarwood's about this but Lord Sylas just told you that if you’d ignore it then it would go away by itself, what he didn’t tell you is that you’d pass out and wake up with a strange metallic-y taste in your mouth, at least the feeling went away though, right?

Another day, or what you thought might be a day, goes by as you wander the tunnels having mapped them out to memory by now. You brought some toys with you to play around with for some entertainment and hoping deep down that one day something new or different might finally happen, then you heard something faint hit your ears. It was different but at the same time it could’ve just been another rat scurrying around with how faint it was so you ignore it. There's another sound like quick footsteps approaching getting louder until it comes to a halt close to where you were playing making you glance over your shoulder at the man staring at you. He looked very familiar you just couldn’t place why right away, you turn to fully face them and have a better look.

"Hi there mister. You look familiar, do I know you?" You ask them with a slight tilt to your head. They just stare at you in silence their eyes wide in horror, you look behind you to see if they were looking at something behind you but find nothing and look back at them in confusion. "Is something wrong?" You step towards them and they step away in retaliation furthering your confusion.

"No no nononono. This isn’t real, you can’t be real." He presses his hands to his head, his voice also sounded familiar, who was he?

"You’re really weird." You then poke your arm to as a way to show you were really there, then let out a giggle. "See, I’m real, if I was fake I couldn’t poke my arm." You place your hands triumphantly on your waist but the man didn’t look impressed, instead he looked like he was going to vomit. "Are you okay? You don’t look well." You take another step towards him out of concern.

"Don’t come any closer!" He holds up a strange item you’ve never seen before, there’s a slight shake to his hand. You stop and stare interested in the strange item, it had fancy engravings on it, six hollow slots and some odd mechanism the man warily held a finger over.

"What’s that? It’s so cool and fancy, what does it do?" You lean in closer to it curiously.

"This isn’t real, you’re just an illusion to mess with my head." He sounded hesitant, like he was trying to convince himself of something. Having been able to look at the man this long it finally clicked in your head why he was so familiar.

"Wait a second… Percy?" This fully draws his attention back onto you. "It is you! What happened? How did you get so big and why's your hair all white?" He looked so different, no wonder you didn’t recognize your own brother right away. He doesn’t answer you, just stares with a look of conflict in his eyes and continues to hold the strange object in his hand towards you, you paying no mind to it. "This is great! Lord and Lady Briarwood said I wasn't allowed talk to anyone, I don’t know why though, but you’re here now so who cares! I miss talking to people, the guards are no fun and there’s hardly anything to do anymore…" You start to ramble on about how boring things have gotten and how you made due, still wondering why or how Percy got so tall and looked so much older. "Where is everyone else? I want to ask mother and father why the Briarwoods seem to be in charge." This statement really got to Percy, making his eyes go wide in realization.

"You… you don’t know?" You tilt your head in confusion, what where you supposed to know. There’s a strange wispy or smoky substance that trails up Percy's arm, then the sound of a loud bang followed by ringing fills your ears, something grazed past your cheek, cutting into it a little and leaving a lingering stinging sensation behind. You quickly place a hand on your cheek where it hurt, recoiling away only hearing a clattering and soft thud after a moment of silence. You slowly turn back and see your brother had dropped the item from his hand and was on his knees, holding his face in both his free hands now, his entire body physically shaking and he lets out a series of coughs.

"P-Percy? Are you okay?" You approach with much more caution this time, trying to ignore the throbbing pain still in your cheek. More footsteps can be heard hurrying towards your location.

"We heard gunfire and came as fast as we could." A half-elven man was the first to reach your location, he looks over seeing you and takes a step back in surprise.

"Hi there, are you a friend of Percy's?" You ask, rocking back and forth on your feet.

"I am. Did you do this to him?" There was a threatening tone to his voice that made you feel scared and uncomfortable.

"I don’t know, I was just playing because I was bored, then he showed up and I didn’t recognize him at first, then I did and got really excited because I haven’t seen anyone in what feels like forever, then there was a loud bang and now my cheek hurts and he was just like this." You try to explain as best as you could. By now others who were most likely with the half-elf showed up, having heard at least some of your explanation, they looked at you with wide eyes. "And why does everyone look at me like that, is there something wrong with my face or something?"

"That’s one way to put it." A half-elven woman who looked very similar to the male one talks slowly. "Do you mind telling us your name little one?"

"Of course! I’m (y/n) de Rolo." You reply proudly.

"You’re a de Rolo?" The glowing gnome sounded sad for some reason, why was everyone sad? Shouldn’t this be a good thing?

"Yeah… why are you all acting so weird? What’s going on? Who are you?" You cross your arms, getting a little frustrated from your lack of answers, just wanting to be in the know. They whisper among themselves, you barely catchy anything coherent before they turn back to face you.

"Do you mind giving us a minute alone, please." Percy having finally gotten a better hold of himself asks, you give a small nod and step away, picking up your discarded toys to mindlessly play with. You discovered if your really focused you could hear what they were whispering about, though it was hard to decipher who’s voice belonged to who.

"Is it true? Are they really your…"

"I-I’m not sure anymore." You were able to at least tell your brothers voice apart from the others.

"How could you not know!?"

"They seem pretty clueless themselves, it’s like they not only still have the body of a child but also the mentality of one too."

"Perhaps that’s from the lack of social contact, they did say they’ve been alone for a long time."

"Percy… this changes everything we know."

"No, this changes nothing, it only makes it more complicated."

"How can you say something like that, they’re your family!"

"They’ve been turned into a monster, whether they’re aware of it or not!" You frown when you hear this tuning out the rest of their conversation, that couldn’t be right you’re not a monster, sure things were weird and you’ve felt different since your illness was cured but that didn’t make you a monster… did it? You sit aback and look yourself over, holding out your arms in the dim lighting which you now realized you could see rather well in, you always thought that was just because you were so used to coming down here that your eyes adjusted quickly, but now you didn’t know anymore. Focusing back on your arms you also notice that your skin was extremely pale then what it normally was. When was the last time you’d seen yourself in a mirror? You’ve passed some in the halls of the castle but never payed much mind to them, and now that you thought about it when was the last time you’d seen the sunshine? You really missed playing outside but always just followed the rules the Briarwood's gave you because they were the grownups and they knew what was best, right? The sound of footsteps coming back your way slightly pull you from your thoughts, but you don’t bother looking up and just stare at the ground in front of you. You hear a shaky sigh but before they can speak you beat them to it.

"There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there." Your blissful joy was gone, replaced with doubt and sadness.

"I-how much did you hear?" Percy's voice wasn’t as angry sounding as it was earlier but there was still tension in it.

"I don’t know, you said something about me being a monster. I thought you were just saying that because you were angry for some reason, but I don’t know anymore. Am-am I really a monster?" You turn and look up at him seeing him flinch slightly, but not quite intentionally. Your lip quivers as you shrink more into yourself. "When we used to play pretend the monsters were always the bad guys… I don’t want to be a bad guy." You whimper and tears start trailing down your face as you try to hide in your arms.

"I didn’t… you’re not… it’s just…" He lets out a long breath followed by a cough and a longer pause. "(Y/n) look at me…" another pause, you don’t move. "Hey, look at me." You feel warm hands pry your face up to make you look at your brother, now you were the one to slightly flinch from the slight sting that was still on your cheek. The two of you have a small staring contest before he speaks up again. "Listen carefully, things are no longer the way you remember them to be, a lot has changed for the worst and for some reason or another you’ve been left to be blissfully unaware of all of it. I don’t know why they decided to do this to you, but I swear we'll figure this out together one step at a time."

"We will?" You give him a hopeful look, he nods slowly

"I hope so… I don’t know who I can all trust here anymore. Things are stressful right now, but if you don’t want to be a part of the bad guys, as you put it, my friends and I are going to need your help. Can you do that, can I really trust you?"

"Yes! I want to help my brother stop the bad guys." You put on your most serious look, Percy then releases his hold on you and you stand up. "Hey Percy?" He lets out a slight hum of acknowledgement. "When we're all done, does that mean I’ll be able to play outside in the sun again?"

"One step at time…" He trails off with a somber sigh. The two of you now heading over to rejoin Percy's group so you could be properly introduced.

Should I continue something with this for a part 2?… or just leave it as is…? Idk, you tell me

#critical role #critical role & reader #vox machina #vox machina & reader #percy de rolo #percy & reader #nothing romantic here

[imwhumpee]

Don’t Show Weakness

Kakashi x gender neutral reader whump

TW: blood, stabbing, impaling

During a mission you suffer a wound and Kakashi is there to save you.

You and Kakashi are on a mission together, a straightforward one yes, but a ninja’s duties were never one to be dismissed. You two are supposed to explore one of the nearby forests and scout for any clues of possible thieves after a string of night robberies took place. They specifically were targeting ninja tool shops, obviously either stockpiling for some sort of attack or were selling them on the black market. An eyewitness saw them heading west towards the Hidden Rain Village...any connection to Orochimaru needed to be investigated despite there being little evidence he was involved. Thus, the Hokage had asked you, a freshly appointed ANBU member, and Kakashi to investigate quietly. Your thoughts trail off as you jump through the trees, wind and drizzling rain rushing past your ears--your eyes kept sharp for anything out of the ordinary. 

“Y/n, wait,” Kakashi calls calmly, coming to a halt on one of the moss-covered branches. You dash over to his position and adjust your wooden mask slightly. He crouches and gets a closer look. “Here, a set of footprints.”

“Whoever did it must have done so recently, the rain would have washed it away,” you reply, “I suspect they may be nearby. Don’t let your guard down,”

“Oi, oi, I should be the one telling you that,” Kakashi says, “But yes. The footprint is headed towards that rocky area. They could be hiding in a cave or cliffside. We should check it out but not get too close. We know they have weapons and we don’t have a great idea of what kind of justu they may use.”

A solid nod is shared between the two of you before you both turn and once more are on the move towards the suspected location, now slower and more careful to stick to shadowed areas to avoid being seen.

As you two get closer, the mist that surrounded the area no longer hides the fact that campfire smoke rose out of the mouth of a cave and hurried muddy footprints led straight for it. Stopping on the edge of the forest clearing, the two of you exchange glances. Kakashi signals for the two of you to split on either side of the opening while drawing out a kunai with his other hand. You do the same, exhaling a slow and silent breath as you do so to center yourself before going ahead and put on your cloak and hood. 

You and Kakashi turn your backs against the wall and laughter can be heard. You count three men’s voices as their conversation drifts and echoes. “Man I still can’t believe we got away with it...we’ll be set for life after one more hit..” A pause. “...Of course we weren’t followed...”

There was more silence not long after. Your heart thuds in your chest. One voice speaks quietly, “Stash it all in the back, I think we have company.” 

In a flash, the sounds of fast shuffling and a whizzing of kunai flew from within the cave. The two of you threw return fire and backed up away from the entrance. “Damn it,” you mutter under your breath, drawing your katana and hold it with both hands. Kakashi readies his stance and reveals his sharingan as three ninja run out, dressed in black cloaks. “Get them!” One cries as two of them rush you, throwing stars and kunai, all to be blocked with your blade. You thrust towards them, swinging and slashing as one grabs their own sword. Dodging your attacks, they split up and and the mist begins to thicken... hidden mist justu.

Out of the corner of your eye you see vague outlines Kakashi throwing punches and kicks with who seems like the smaller of the three, dodging and dashing in and out of direct combat when with a loud “Chidori!” the sound of birds and lighting is muffled and then loud again as his attacker is struck through the chest before the mist and rain completely whitens out your vision.

You feel your way to to turn your back to the cave wall once more to guard it. You gather your chakra and swing your katana forward, “Shinkūken!” A gust of wind flows from your sword and disturbs the fog around you in an attempt to gain any insight of your enemies, scanning the area directly around you. Nothing. Best thing now would be height, perhaps you could get on a ledge and get out of the fog. You prepare to jump when you hear, “Didn’t anyone teach you not to turn your back to an enemy?” 

One arm melds through the cave wall and wraps around your neck and chokes you before you feel the piercing of a sword through your back and out the front of your stomach. The tip dripping with your blood. “Ack-!” You manage to yell before you feel it pull out again, blood staining the front of your grey jacket. The pain is searing through your core as you struggle to breathe. In an attempt to at least return air to your lungs, you quickly pick up a kunai from your leg strap and stab the enemy’s arm. He cries out and releases you.

You fall to your knees and grab at your bleeding wound, hunched over in pain as the ninja reveals himself and comes out of the wall, yanking out your kunai from his own arm. He holds the bloody tool and his own sword and grins. “You ANBU aren’t anything to be scared of,” He chuckles and raises his blade. 

The other of the enemy ninja screams somewhere beyond the mist and is then silent, making the last one in front of you turn his head towards the direction of the yell. Now! You think and take advantage of his distraction. You muster your strength and quickly up and cut him down across the chest, his body crumpling at your feet. Breathing heavily, you clean your blade and return it to its sheath on your back. Rain soaks through your clothes and sends a chill through you. The mist lifts with the death of its caster and you see Kakashi making his way towards you. 

“You alright?” he says through his own pants, placing a gloved hand on your shoulder.

You nod despite the intense pain coming from your core and back. You hide your bloodied vest with your cloak and and are thankful for your mask to hide your intense grimace. “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

He pats your shoulder before performing mud wall technique to seal the cave. He pulls his headband back to hide his sharingan once more. “We can report back to the Hokage now and they can dispatch people to come pick up all the merchandise. There’s too much for just us to carry back.”

You manage a “Yeah, let’s go,” and with that, the two of you dash back up into the trees and head back towards the village. Let’s just get back as soon as possible. I gotta get this taken care of. Not now, not in front of him, you think. Kakashi had always been someone you looked up to, and to look weak in front of him was not an option. Especially not as an ANBU. Weakness is not tolerated.

As you jump from tree to tree back to Konohoa your pain grows as you trail behind Kakashi. Every jump and landing on a branch is felt through you. Hidden under your cloak you hold your hand to it in an attempt to help stop the bleeding and reduce the impact but it was intense and only getting worse. In your thoughts, you fall further behind and your vision begins to blur. “Shit...Kakashi....” 

While quiet, your call is heard and Kakashi stops and turns to see you lose your balance and fall to the forest floor in a heap. “Y/n!” He cries out and jumps down to your side, your wound revealed. “Dammit, y/n why didn’t you say something?”

The frustration in his voice is also tinged with worry, his hands then covering you and uses his body weight to apply better pressure. Through your mask your vision worsens and the edges of the eyeholes of your mask seem to get smaller as your consciousness begins to fade and your breathing gets more labored. “I didn’t want...some faceless ANBU...to let down...the great copy ninja...” Then there was nothing but black.

His eyebrows furrow and he checks to see the bleeding has stopped as well as checking your pulse and breathing. Alive, but unconscious, he picks you up in his arms and once more makes his way to the village, heading straight to the hospital. “Faceless, maybe,” he murmurs, “but precious life none the less.”

                                                       ***

You wake up in the hospital, the feeling of tight bandages around your middle. Throbbing pain radiates from your stomach but it’s no where near as bad as before. Opening your eyes to the bright lights, a tired Kakashi is sitting at your bedside, reading Make Out Paradise. You feel the blood rush to your face as you realize its him and turn away to hide it.

“Hey, seems like someone’s awake,” the masked ninja says casually, putting his book away and sitting back in his chair. 

“Y-yeah,” you reply, turning your head to once again face him while fiddling with the white bedsheet between your fingers.

He lets the silence hang in the air for a second. “What, so a big bad ANBU ninja can kill a man no problem, but they can’t say, ‘Ow?’” He jokes giving a small laugh. You can’t help but let out your own laugh and crack a smile. 

“I suppose so. I’m sorry, but thank you.”

“No problem, y/n,” He assures you before leaning forward again grabbing your hand. “Just please don’t be afraid to ask for help. A ninja can’t do their job properly if they don’t trust their teammates to lend aid. It doesn’t make you weak, it makes you smart.”

You nod and look down. It’s true, teammates and teamwork is key and hiding from them sabotages the mission and puts you all in danger. Kakashi squeezes your hand before letting it go. “Luckily this time you got me as your teammate, and I never let my teammates die,” he says confidently. 

Once again your blood rushes to your face. With that, he stands to leave when he adds, “No worries, y/n. I know you’re a strong ninja and this is just a step towards being even stronger.”

#whump #naruto #kakashi x reader #naruto whump #gender neutral insert #reader insert #fanfic #naruto fanfic #tw blood #tw impaling #tw stabbing #kakashi hatake #imwhumpee

[pitviperofdoom]

Obviously I can’t get through one fandom event without bringing Jongerry into it.

Aspec Archives Week Prompt: Confusion

(AO3)

Jon caught him in a kiss as they passed in the hallway, and these days that always meant trouble. Once upon a time, in the distant past of around last month, he’d been bashful about it. They both had—Gerry especially, after Jon had sat him down to explain a few things about his preferences. But that was last month, and that hurdle was well behind him. Now the question wasn’t finding the nerve to start; it was finding a reason to stop.

On a lazy Sunday morning like this, those reasons were few and far between.

They wound up on the couch, because it was closer, and that was the direction Jon had been heading, and Gerry was happy to let himself be steered. Kissing Jon was like that, now that they were both past being shy. Even with his mouth occupied, he never failed to let Gerry know exactly what he wanted and where he wanted him.

The backs of Jon’s knees hit the couch. Gerry broke the kiss for a moment, just to enjoy looming over him a bit. He liked this view of Jon—this close, staring nearly straight down while Jon tilted his head back and met his eyes.

Then he reached up, tugged Gerry back down, and kissed him again.

The noise Gerry made came out like it had been punched out of him, and he had to draw back just to catch his breath.

Jon’s hand was on his jaw, carefully tilting it so Gerry would look at him, which really wasn’t helping with—whatever was going on. His eyes were dark and serious, scrutinizing Gerry’s face as if inspecting him for an injury. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Gerry said, more hoarsely than he meant to. “Mm. I’m good.”

“You’re sure?” Jon pressed, frowning deeply enough to form a crease between his eyebrows. Gerry kissed it before he could think better of it. “Ah—”

“How about you?” Gerry asked, even as a small but very loud part of him screamed to kiss him again, to hold him close and never stop.

“Like I said,” Jon replied, his voice raspy but warm. “This part I like.”

Gerry grinned and let himself be pulled down to the couch cushions.

Jon wound up mostly under him, propped halfway up against pillows and armrest with Gerry hovering over him, tugged down by Jon’s hand at the back of his head. He kissed Gerry the way he always did, so gentle and unhurried, but with just enough insistence to make his heart race with an unfamiliar thrill.

Felt a bit dangerous, sometimes. And while Gerry was no stranger to it, it was different now, when he finally had something he wasn’t willing to risk.

Lots of things were different, with Jon. But different could be good, different could be new and exciting before it settled into a comfort, like hands in his hair sliding down to the back of his neck, like the teasing warmth of his mouth, like arms around him holding him close—

Then Jon turned his head, fingers digging firmly into the back of Gerry’s neck, and mouthed at the corner of his jaw with just a hint of gentle teeth. In an instant, Gerry went hot with want. His body moved before his brain caught up, canting his hips forward into Jon’s.

Beneath him, Jon startled and pulled back, and Gerry belatedly realized what he’d just done.

“Shit—” He shoved himself off of Jon, face heating—not desire this time, just mortification. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine—”

“I didn’t forget, I just—that’s never happened before—”

“Gerry I’m serious, it’s fine.”

“—and I don’t know where the fuck that came from,” Gerry went on, mouth running with nervous, frantic energy.

Jon was sitting up, pushing his hair back out of his face. “I think I have a pretty good idea.” His eyes flickered vaguely downward.

There wasn’t much he could do about that particular situation, so Gerry sat back and drew his knees up to his chest, breathing deep to slow his racing heart. All traces of warm excitement were gone, replaced by hot, prickling shame.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Jon scooted closer and carefully took his hand. “It’s alright,” he said. “I mean it. No harm done—look, can you just sit properly? You look horribly uncomfortable.”

“Better me than you.”

“What do you mean by—oh, for God’s sake.” Jon sighed, infinitely patient and—fond? Maybe? “Gerry, I’m asexual, not a prude. I’m not going to faint at the sight of a clothed erection.”

Gerry choked on an unexpected laugh, then slid his feet down to sit in a more comfortable position, Mercifully, he was already softening.

“I’m—” He bit down on another apology.

Jon hadn’t let go of his hand yet. “If it makes you feel better, that’s probably the fastest anyone’s gotten off when I asked.” Gerry stared at him wordlessly. “I mean—don’t look at me like that, I meant literally—physically gotten off of me when—oh, you know what I mean!”

“Right, right.” Abruptly, the words sank in, and he went stiff with alarm. “Wait. Jon, does that mean—have other people…?”

“What—? Oh!” Jon’s eyes widened. “No. God, no—I’m sorry, that came out wrong. No one’s ever—right. What I meant was that, of the very few times I’ve been in this situation before, the other person was usually… I mean, they stopped when I asked, but I had to ask, and sometimes I got the feeling that they were… sort of reluctant? It made things extremely awkward, more often than not.”

“This isn’t awkward?” Gerry asked dryly.

“In comparison? Hardly at all.” Jon squeezed his hand. “And even if it were, I’ve had my share of awkwardness.”

Gerry squeezed back, finally starting to settle. “That so.”

“I’m going to regret telling you this, but my first kiss was an absolute disaster,” Jon informed him. “I went for the cheek, he went for the mouth.”

“Yikes,” Gerry said with a wince.

“Oh, but I haven’t told you the worst part,” Jon went on. “I turned my head away, and he went for the side of my neck—no, stop laughing—he latched on like he was a bloody vampire—”

He couldn’t help it. Gerry dissolved into laughter, ducking his head and muffling it behind his fist. At some point he looked up again to find that Jon had scooted closer in his distraction. He liked when Jon got sneaky.

But did he like it the right way, was the question.

“Alright?” Jon asked, tentatively brushing their shoulders together.

“Guess so,” he replied, with another long breath. “Better, at least. Could be loads worse.”

Jon was running the pad of his thumb over each of Gerry’s knuckles now, in slow, back-and-forth swipes. “You don’t sound very sure of that,” he said after a moment.

“Maybe not.” Gerry sat back, leaning his head on the back of the sofa. Jon continued to play with his hand, tracing the outline of each tattoo. It felt—nice. Not the dangerous sort of nice that he’d just now managed to dodge. Just comfortable. Fond. (Loving.)

“If you—” Jon began. He hesitated, pressing Gerry’s hand between his palms. “I’m not the best at this. But if it’s really bothering you, then I need you to know that you don’t—you don’t have to feel guilty about this, it’s not like you can—I don’t know, make yourself stop feeling… whatever it is you feel.” He paused again. “Anymore than I could make myself feel it at all.”

“That’s the problem, though,” Gerry admitted. “I shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, I just shouldn’t!” Frustration welled up in him, and he tugged his hand out of Jon’s grasp without thinking. “I never have before, but now I am and I don’t know why. I’ve lived my whole life without giving people a second glance, and it never crossed my mind because I just—I never had the space for it. Good thing, too; dunno what I would’ve done if I had to deal with that on top of everything else.”

“Right,” Jon said softly.

“And then I met you,” Gerry went on. “And we had that talk. And I thought, fuck, there’s a word for it, it’s just a thing and it’s fine, it’s not just me being—being not right. There’s a reason why I’ve never given anyone a second glance, not even you. At least—not at first.” His voice trailed off, words running dry. “I dunno. It’s just been different recently. I look at you and… and I think about things I never have before.”

“Me?” Jon stared at him incredulously. “You feel that way about me?”

“I know you don’t like that,” Gerry answered, trying not to sound as miserable as he felt.

Jon gave a quick shake of his head, though whether it was denial or just to clear his head, Gerry couldn’t tell. “No, that’s not—I just mean, why? Why on earth would you—me, of all people?”

“Because you’re hot, apparently. Can we not argue about that while I’m having a crisis?”

Jon shrank a little, looking ashamed. “Right. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Surprised me too, to be honest.” Gerry looked away. “Feels like—more like greed than lust, sometimes. Like the more I get of you, the more I want.”

At that, Jon sat up straight, and Gerry realized how that must have sounded.

“I’m not gonna ask you for any more,” he said quickly, cutting off whatever Jon was about to say. “We had that talk, and I listened, alright, and it’s been—it’s been good. Really good. I don’t need anything more, especially if you don’t want to.”

“I know,” Jon assured him.

“Oh.” He deflated a bit. “Good, then.”

“Can I ask you a question?” Jon asked.

“I’ve about spilled my guts already, but sure, maybe there’s a bit of spleen I missed,” Gerry said wearily.

“It’s a bit personal, but… have you ever been close to anyone before?” Jon asked. “Emotionally close? Friendships, anything like that?”

“No…? No.” Gerry shook his head. “Never had the chance. I don’t have that kind of life. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well… I mean, far be it from me to impose a label on you,” Jon said cautiously. “But from the way you describe it… it’s possible you might be demisexual?’

Gerry frowned. Another new word. Demi usually meant half or partial. “What’s that one mean? I only want it sometimes?”

“Sort of.” Jon had grabbed his phone off the side table and was scrolling through it. “It’s on the spectrum of asexuality. To my understanding, it’s when you only experience attraction when you’ve formed an emotional connection with someone.”

“That’s a thing?” Gerry leaned over his shoulder to see the screen. “Don’t tell me there’s an app for this.”

Jon laughed. “No, but there is a wiki—here it is. Demisexual. Have a look.”

Gerry took his phone and read through the definition, frowning in thought.

It certainly sounded like what the past month had been like. And it explained a few things—he’d been alone his whole life until Jon, and even with Jon he hadn’t wanted him at first sight. It had taken time. It had grown into it—as far as he could tell, it was still growing, still changing.

“Say you’re right,” he said at last, looking up from the phone screen to Jon’s face. “Say this is me. Where does that leave us?”

Jon shrugged. “Same place as usual, I hope,” he answered. “If… this doesn’t change anything for you?”

“Should it?”

“Maybe.” Jon shrugged again. “I don’t know. I’ve just found that it helps to have a word. Makes things simpler if you can at least name them.”

With a sigh, Gerry passed his phone back. “Would’ve been even simpler if I could just be like you, not feel this shit at all.”

Jon put the phone down. Then, turning so that he was fully facing Gerry, he took his face between his hands.

“You are,” he said, as his dark, serious eyes bored into Gerry’s. “You’re just a step to the left, that’s all. But you are like me.”

It was enough to rob him of speech for the better part of a minute. When he found his voice again, he leaned forward until his forehead was on Jon’s chest.

“See, you say things like that and then turn around and wonder why I think you’re attractive.”

Jon spluttered, even as his arms wrapped around Gerry’s shoulders and pulled him back down. They didn’t kiss again, just lay squashed together on the couch with Gerry sprawled on top, enjoying the warmth and closeness without feeling like he was scratching an itch that would never settle.

“Thanks,” he said, after the silence stretched long enough to circle back around to comfortable again.

“Whatever for?”

“Dunno.” Gerry pressed his face into the soft fabric of Jon’s shirt. “Glad you’re here. Glad you’re you.”

Jon gave a noncommittal hum, like he wasn’t sure whether to agree or how to answer. His fingers combed softly through Gerry’s hair, and after a moment Gerry let himself lean into the touch, Jon’s quiet amusement.

He was no stranger to wanting things, but—all he needed was this, right here.

It was more than he ever would have dared to hope for.

#AspecArchives #the magnus archives #jongerry #jonathan sims #gerard keay #tma fic #fanfiction #tales from the pit

[ashes-and-ashes]

For the beautiful @e-of-west-glendia <3

Happy Birthday!! Thanks for being such an amazing friend - for tagging me in everything, for writing incredible fics, for always being someone I can scream to about AFTG. I’m so, so glad that you lost that bet with Asu ❤️❤️❤️

You once said that the reason for your user was because you told stories to your brother about a magical kingdom. So I wrote you a story about Sirius telling his brother stories of a magical kingdom - and all the angsty Wolfstar shenanigans because you break my heart with your writing on a regular basis and I have to return the favour ☺️

~

Remus finds him sitting on his bed and drawing a castle.

It’s gorgeous, of course, like everything he drew. It’s all soaring towers and arched windows and twisting vines, each line sketched out with such impossible detail that it almost looked like a photograph in shades of black and white. It’s vaguely familiar too - Remus stares at it for a couple of moments, unable to place where exactly he had seen it before.

He doesn’t realize he’s been hovering awkwardly until Sirius lets out a long sigh, drops the sketch pad on top of the bed. Sirius used to draw on ragged bits of parchment, the corners of his homework, unceremoniously crumpled at the bottom of his bag. It had physically pained Remus to watch - the torn edge of what used to be a flower, the unblinking rendition of an eye on the back of a scribbled note. He had bought Sirius the sketch pad for his 16th birthday, though he didn’t really know who it was for - Sirius and his love of drawing or Remus and his love of watching him.

“What are you doing?” Sirius asks. He’s in one of Remus’ old, soft sweaters, just slightly too big for him, 2 pencils sticking out of his messy bun. He runs an exhausted hand over his face and Remus sees the bags, the tiredness and winces.

“You should sleep,” he says - he can’t remember the last time he saw Sirius truly asleep, beyond fitful naps in front of the fire.

Sirius shrugs. “Can’t,” he says, and picks up his pencils again. In the dim light of the room Remus watches as he adds a bit of detailing on a window, head tilted forward and brow furrowed -

He suddenly remembers where he’s seen the castle. Sirius always drew it, on the nights when his parents wrote to him, a thousand castles outlined in ink and then burned to ash. He never showed anyone them - didn’t even seem to like Remus knowing about it.

It looks lonely, Remus thinks. The castle was beautiful but it always looked lonely.

“Sirius,” he starts, but Sirius shakes his head. He puts the sketch pad down on his knees, knuckes white where he gripped the paper.

“She wrote,” he whispers, and Remus doesn’t have to ask who she was. “I’m disowned.”

Remus’ heart breaks. “Sirius...”

There’s a sharp snap - the quill cleaves underneath Sirius’ iron grip. “No,” he says. “You think I give a shit about that? I’m disowned, Re. In their eyes they only have one son now. What do you think will happen?”

“You can’t,” Remus breathes. “You can’t go back.”

Sirius just stares at his sketch pad. There’s a sharp mark where he had obviously jerked his pen off the page, turning one of the towers into a mess of conflicting lines. “When I was younger,” he starts, then swallows. Remus joins him on the bed. “When I was younger - right until I turned 13 - he used to come into my room, late at night when mother was asleep. I’d tell him stories. One story, really. It only ever was one story.”

“Sirius - “

“We were princes. Both of us. And our parents loved us and we lived in a castle. And every now and then we’d get into mischief, or go on those long epic quests to save the kingdom, the ones with magic and dragons and sword fighting. And - “ Sirius’ voice breaks. “And I remember where I left off, the last time I told him. Because that’s it, right? I’m never going to get a chance to tell him again.”

And he looks so broken, so shattered that it’s all Remus can do to lean over and kiss him, tangle his fingers in his hair, pull him away from that cliff of despair. He can taste the salt of Sirius’ tears, the wet flutter of his eyelashes, and Remus holds on, curls his hands and kisses him harder.

“You were in it,” Sirius whispers. “In the story.”

Despite himself Remus can’t help but smile, a small, sad one, imagines himself woven into the fabric of a fairytale. “Who was I?”

“A prince,” Sirius says. “A prince from another kingdom. And you sometimes came to visit us and - and even then I think I loved you. Even when I was a kid, I think I loved you.”

The rain lashes against the windows, the steady noise reassuring against Remus’ raw nerves. He pulls Sirius down to rest against him, pulls the blanket up and wraps them both together.

“Tell me,” he says, and he thinks he sees Sirius smile. “Tell me the story.”

Sirius just swallows, and for a moment they’re kids again, young and hopeful and beautiful. “Once upon a time...”

#Wolfstar #Wolfstar angst #Wolfstar fanfic #Sirius Black #Remus lupin #Sirius Black x Remus Lupin #Remus lupin x Sirius Black #Sirius black angst #Remus lupin angst #Sirius black fanfic #Remus lupin fanfic #amazing friends #Marauders era #Marauders era angst #Marauders era fanfic

[satendou]

⟶ sympathy vs empathy

⍣ 365 days of sun series | next

・‥…━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━…‥・

⇢ pairing: iwaizumi/reader/oikawa

⇢ au: 365!au, poly!au, college!au, pro!oikawa

⇢ summary: after a close game and a closer loss, you learn the difference between empathy and sympathy the hard way

⇥ masterlist 

⇥  requests are open! | rules

⇢ warnings: smut, established relationship, threesome, polyamory, swearing,  mild daddy kink, semi-public sex, spitroasting, deep throating, fingering, unprotected sex, creampie

⇢  word count: 3.7k

⇢  an: so this is my first fic for the hq fandom. essentially i am leading with my [redacted]. i hope you enjoy! my fic was beta read by the absolutely amazing @keijiskitten​ whom I love dearly. she writes for hq as well, so go check her out!

There was a moment of silence in the split second after the ball hit the floor, the whole stadium seeming to freeze in time. The scoreboard read 37-35, but the players on the court stood staring at the ball rolling towards the wall. Oikawa lay splayed out on the floor, Iwaizumi and the libero whose name you couldn’t remember around him in similar positions. Shock was evident on their faces; even from the stands, you could read the myriad of emotions that flashed across their faces. Disbelief, followed by acceptance as their defeat registered, the anger, the resignation, and the regret all mixing in with it as their shoulders slumped in.

They accepted their defeat as gracefully as they could, thanking everyone for coming and smiling, but the blank stares and subtle wiping of their eyes as they took their walk of shame made your heart thump painfully in your throat. Your gaze flicked back and forth from Tooru to Hajime, unable to decide who you wanted to linger on.

Without really paying attention to what you were doing-- and probably stepping on a few toes-- you excused yourself, making your way out into the aisle. The throngs of people slowed your rush towards the locker rooms, most going in the opposite direction so that by the time you made it to their locker room, the team was just starting to stream out. Upon recognizing you, slightly out of breath and worried, they pointed towards the door, telling you that Oikawa and Iwaizumi were going to be out shortly. As they walked away, they let you know they were going to go and watch the last match of the day before you were finally alone.

You all knew what that meant. Oikawa and Iwaizumi were taking the loss the hardest, as they always did. They were the leaders of the team and losing meant that they had failed.

With a sigh, you pushed the door open and poked your head in, bracing yourself for the worst. Most of the lights were off, and the two men were sitting at opposite ends of the bench in the far corner of the room.

Iwaizumi was staring blankly at the wall, his hands curled into fists on his knees, his nails surely biting into his palm. His eyes shimmered with unshed tears, his teeth digging lol into his bottom lip as he fought not to let them fall and he shut them before they could.

Oikawa was hunched over, towel still over his head and his hands to his face. Though you couldn’t see, you were sure his state was no better.

Neither flinched until the door clicked shut behind you, both whipping around and ready to bite whoever’s head off until they saw it was you. All the air seemed to leave them when they realized, and it was like they deflated. Iwaizumi scrubbed his face with his hands, heaving a sigh as Oikawa returned to his previous prone position. Your heart hurt to see them like that and it never got easier.

Skimming your hand over Iwaizumi’s broad shoulders as you passed him, you knelt in front of Oikawa and took his hands in yours. The skin was rough and worn but warm-- and damp. You looked up, expecting to see fresh tear tracks on his cheeks, but they were dry. Scrubbed red, but dry.

And he was staring at you with a deadened expression.

What sounded like shuffling distracted you and a glance at Iwaizumi confirmed he had moved closer, reaching out to you. Your gaze did nothing to stop him and he brushed a strand of hair off of your forehead.

Your throat was sore with your own unshed tears, feeling their pain like it was your own. Every win was important to them, but the semi-finals were...well they were special. The championship had seemed so far off until they lost and they realized it was in their grasp.

With a hoarse voice, you whispered, “I-- I’m sorry, you guys. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

You felt Iwaizumi’s gentle touch on your cheek, but your eyes were locked on Oikawa.

As the words left your lips, his eyes had narrowed, a fire lighting in them and forcing a shiver down your spine. You were suspicious of it, like it was familiar yet not. It was like a harder version of the bedroom eyes he’d give you just before tackling you to the bed.

Fingers threaded in your hair, and you belatedly realized they were Oikawa’s. They tugged you closer and you shuffled forward, until you were knelt between his thighs. The sharpness in his eyes had subsided, leaving only that new, suspicious look in them.

“Tooru--” Iwaizumi warned, glancing at the door. He had vaguely recognized the look Oikawa was wearing too and took it at face value. Anyone could walk in, and Iwaizumi didn’t like the idea of getting caught by a referee-- or worse, the coach. The warning tone of his voice and the click of the lock fell on deaf ears as Oikawa continued to stare you down.

“Do you mean it, _____? You’ll do anything to make us feel better?” he asked, dangerously low and just above a whisper. The fingers curled in your hair tightened a fraction and you gulped as you realized the fire was exactly what you thought it was.

Iwaizumi cut in before you could answer, the last voice of reason, even though he wasn’t sure if he wanted it to stop. “You can say no, _____. This can wait until we get home.”

Both men paused, staring down at you, perched on your knees with your pretty mouth parted in surprise. They followed the way your tongue poked out and wetted your lips and your teeth dug into the bottom one. And both men thought about the way they would feel wrapped around their aching cocks, doing anything to help them feel better.

That thought alone, the mere mental image it conjured up, made them hard in an instant, straining against the fabric of their uniform shorts. They were already borderline too tight, and weren’t meant to hold a raging erection.

Iwaizumi fidgeted on the bench, feeling a little awkward, but Oikawa openly adjusted his shorts, drawing your gaze down for just a moment. Your mouth watered at the obvious outline pressing through, aching to skim your fingers along it as you had so many times before.

“I mean it, Tooru. Anything,” you whispered, just a bare breath of words. There was something sexy about the way you watched him, drinking in every small movement with an enraptured expression. You couldn’t have been more obvious if you had been trying, and he found it adorable Oikawa’s fingers tightened, silently telling you to stay as he tugged his shorts and boxers down with one hand. They slid down his muscular legs, pooling at his ankles and he led you forward with the pressure.

He tugged at the zipper of your jacket, the only sound besides your heavy breathing in the otherwise silent locker room. The sound of metal hitting the tiled floor made a small tink before it was forgotten, your t-shirt doing little to protect you from the moderate chill in the room.

Goosebumps rippled up your arms, and then Iwaizumi’s arms were around you, his hands rubbing up and down to warm you up again. It worked, you realizing that you were now sandwiched between your partners and that it was really going to happen. Your heart fell from your chest into your stomach, thumping away with nervous anticipation, butterflies spreading outward.

Oikawa groaned low in his throat as your soft, small hand wrapped around him and pumped, watching precum bead at the tip. Iwaizumi’s breath fanned across your neck, followed by his lips nipping and trailing their way up and over your pleasure spots. Your back curved, a shiver passing down your spine and your lips parting.

Your hand tightened around Oikawa and his hips jumped, a hissed curse leaving his lips at the electric pleasure it brought. He wanted more of that, precum now drooling down his shaft and easing the way for your hand to move faster. Iwaizumi tilted your head around to cover your lips with his, his tongue sliding past your lips to taste you.

“Hajime,” Oikawa bit out, glaring at the other man, “wait your turn.”

Iwaizumi chuckled as he pulled away, gazing fondly at your now swollen and parted lips. It was only just the beginning, and he ached to see it. Your eyes were glazed over, half-lidded and you went willingly when Oikawa pulled you back, Iwaizumi’s rough hands sliding up your back under your shirt.

He brought your lips right to his cock, tilting your head back just enough so that he could look you in the eye. There was playful glint underneath the needy lust, and it made him smirk, knowing you got off on this just as much as him. Taking his shaft in his free hand, he smeared precum all over your lips, making them nice and shiny. “You made a promise, _____. You’re going to keep it, right? Let me cum down that tight throat and I’ll feel much better.”

Iwaizumi scoffed behind you, his calloused fingers sneaking further up under your shirt while you focused on Oikawa. Already he could feel your breathing deepen, and he was sure you were wet beneath the jeans that you were wearing. He fiddled with the clasp of your bra for a moment before it came loose, letting your breasts free. He was quick to reach around, palming and kneading, nipples already hard and you mewled as you lapped at Oikawa’s cock.

Oikawa watched Iwaizumi groped you underneath your shirt for a moment before deciding he needed to see. His fingers finally came free of your hair only to tug roughly at your top, pulling it over your head. Looking at the door for the first time, he asked Iwaizumi, “You did lock it, right?”

Iwa blinked, shaking his head in exasperation at his captain, though he never stopped rolling your nipples between his fingers, enjoying the way you pushed into his hands for more. In typical Oikawa fashion, he only worried about the details after he’d made his decision, but one look down at you chased that annoyance away. It was usually Oikawa that got you into messes like this, not that you really discouraged him, and Iwaizumi usually got dragged along for the ride. He was almost always met with a reward, though, he thought with a smirk.

As soon as your head was free of your shirt, you returned to Oikawa, wetting your lips as you skimmed your lips in light kisses down the underside of his shaft.

Oh, if that doesn’t feel good, he thought, letting his head fall back. He found purchase on the bench and leaned back, closing his eyes as your mouth worked every sensitive pleasure point it could find. You knew him so well, knew exactly where to kiss, to squeeze, and to lick, making him feel lightheaded with pleasure. The feel of your lips parting around his tip caused him to sigh, pushing his cock further into your warm, inviting mouth.

Looking down once more, he admired the light reflecting off your hand, slick with your own spit as you twisted it, working it up and down where your mouth couldn’t quite reach yet. Tangling his fingers in your hair once more, he pushed, wanting to hear more of the wet sounds your mouth made as you swallowed him down. You tensed up as he reached the back of your throat, trying not to gag and he pulled back, allowing you a short breath before gently forcing you down again. He knew how far he could push you, unwilling to hurt you but determined to have your lips wrapped around the base of his throbbing cock when he came, and the intensity of the situation assured him it wouldn’t take long.

While Oikawa worked your throat open for himself, Iwaizumi contented himself by pinching your nipples one last time before moving on. Oikawa might like cumming down your throat, but Iwaizumi had better plans.

Fingering the button of your jeans, they came undone along with your fly. The angle was awkward, and Oikawa muttered in aggravation as he took your attention from him, but Iwaizumi was determined to get your jeans down to your knees, at least.

While he worked on that, Oikawa contented himself with just sitting with his cock halfway down your throat, feeling your muscles constrict around him while your tongue lapped at the prominent vein on the underside.

“That feels so good, babygirl. Don’t stop,” he moaned, sliding just a little further into your throat. He knew you could take it, needed you to take it. Your nails dug into his thighs, bracing yourself while you let him take what he wanted, and he was so grateful to you for it.

Forcing yourself to relax, you took him further, truly into your throat now as your nose buried in the brown curls at the base of his shaft. As he felt your hot breath fan, tickling the coarse curls, he groaned, the sound echoing in the tiled room. Twitching, he pulled back and thrust again, repeating the motion until the slick sound of him fucking your mouth filled the room.

Tears filled your eyes and you closed them, focusing on breathing and the feel of Iwaizumi’s fingers on your slick clit behind you. You trembled as one dipped into you before retreating.

“Shit, Tooru, she’s so  fuckin’ wet,” he said, almost in awe. Oikawa smirked at his words, staring down at you from between his bangs, his perfectly coiffed hair falling apart as the heat in the room built.

“Is that right? Does sucking my cock turn you on, princess? I wanna taste you,” he said, and your pussy clenched around nothing at the thought of his tongue on you.

Iwaizumi was quick to deliver, allowing Oikawa to wrap his lips around his fingers, lapping at the rough pads and nipping the tip of his middle finger as he pulled back. He made a show of savoring your taste, licking his lips in an exaggerated manner and moaning.

You fought back a moan as Iwaizumi’s thick fingers slid back into your tight heat, your slick folds offering no resistance, his thumb circling your clit. Even just those two gave you a pleasurable stretch, and you would never get tired of the feel of his rough hands running all over your body as he pleasured you. It felt like everything he did-- even when he punished you-- was done with some level of reverence. You fluttered around him when he plucked a nipple, as if to prove your point.

Oikawa must have felt it anyway, or perhaps it was the way your throat spasmed around him as you tried to hold back, because he jerked once and forced you all the way down, your nose in his curls once again.

He pulsed once, twice, three times, shooting hot cum right down your throat and you couldn’t fight the moan this time as he milked himself off in your mouth. When he finally let you pull away, his face was right there, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth before wiping at the drool there. You were beyond caring though, moaning against his lips as Iwaizumi fit a third finger inside you, your fingers curling tighter and nails digging harder into Oikawa’s thighs. There was no room for thoughts beyond Iwa and Oikawa, not even for worry about your current location.

He wasn’t even doing it to you, but you were giving him such a pleading, needy look that he wished he was. Cupping your face in his hands, he kissed you desperately, his tongue delving into your mouth, swallowing your moans as heat coursed through you. He almost groaned as he tasted his release on your tongue, a sense of satisfaction sweeping through him because of it.

Deeming you ready, Iwaizumi withdrew his fingers, and locked eyes with Oikawa over your back. They seemed to egg him on and he grinned, just a little uptick of his lips that Oikawa immediately locked onto. There was some rush of amusement as he drew one finger, then the next, then the last into his mouth, tasting your on his fingers in a show that outshined Oikawa’s. And Iwaizumi knew he enjoyed it, watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, his tongue sweep across his lips before looking at him again.

Iwaizumi positioned himself at your entrance, spreading your slick all over the head of his cock and mixing it with his own precum. You trembled under his hands, listening to the slick sounds his fist made as he used it as lube and arched your back further, begging him without words.

Oikawa dragged your bottom lip between his teeth, nipping lightly as he pulled away. Now that he was satisfied, he was feeling much more relaxed, watching you squirm in Iwa’s hands as he teased you. “What do we say, princess?”

“I want your cock, daddy, please!” you instantly moaned against Oikawa’s lips, your eyes fluttering as you felt his cock slide into your tight hole. Too needy, too desperate, you didn’t want to play, not with the clock ticking on your hiding spot. “God yes, that--”

You choked on a whine as he bottomed out, grinding his hips against your ass to go as deep as possible. You might have stopped breathing, you weren’t sure. White flickered in your brain at the incredible stretch, friction against your clit sending shocks of pleasure to your toes.

“You’re so tight,” Iwaizumi growled, pulling out and slamming back into you, desperate to feel your soaking cunt cum around him, “so wet for us. You get off on sucking his cock, princess?”

But your mouth was occupied, Oikawa’s tongue halfway down your throat again. He could still taste the remnants of his cum on your tongue, underneath the normal sweet taste of your mouth.

Iwaizumi got his answer loud and clear though, when you clenched down tight around his cock as he thrust into you, hips slamming into yours. The utterly filthy sounds your pussy made as he pounded your tight hole filled the room, spurring him on faster. You squeezed tight around him, like you were trying to suck him back in and he didn’t deny you, chasing his own pleasure as your walls fluttered.

His rhythm stuttered when something brushed against his shaft, looking up to see Oikawa staring at him with a devious grin.

“Don’t let me stop you, handsome. Just gonna give our princess a little push is all,” he said, letting his fingers ghost along Iwaizumi’s balls for a moment before circling around your slick clit.

You jumped at the sudden spike of pleasure, spiraling as Iwaizumi filled you with his cock. It caused you to squeeze tight around him, your face pressed into Oikawa’s toned stomach as you let out a stuttery moan. Mindlessly laying open mouthed kisses on every inch of skin you could reach, you were more focused on the surge of white hot heat that came up on you suddenly.

Unable to stop it, you hid your face in Oikawa’s stomach as it overwhelmed you, your back bowing and a borderline scream ripping from your lips because Iwaizumi didn’t stop, riding through your orgasm until you were a twitching, overstimulated mess and the only thing keeping you up was Oikawa’s hold.

“Haji, Haji--” you cried, looking up into Oikawa’s face as your toes curled in pleasure that bordered on painful, your cunt clenching down in a chokehold on Iwaizumi’s cock-- whether to keep him out or suck him back in you weren’t sure.

But you were given relief when he buried himself to the hilt inside of you, his fingers wrapped in a bruising grip around your hips as he came, a broken grunt escaping his lips at the tight squeeze around him. “Fuck, princess, you feel so good.”

You let your head come to rest on Oikawa’s thigh, closing your eyes as his fingers pushed your sweat soaked bangs off your forehead before combing gently through your locks, asking “Did you enjoy yourself, _____?”

You laughed lightly, still lightheaded from your orgasm and Iwaizumi’s, and nodded. It took all your strength to lift yourself out of their holds, sitting up on your knees. Taking Oikawa’s face into your hands, you planted a kiss on his lips and asked, “Did you, you pervert? Do you feel better?”

You were pulled back into a solid chest before he could answer, hands coming up to cup your tits while Iwaizumi trailed kisses up your neck to your ear. He laughed against it, nipping at the shell as he stared Oikawa down. “Of course he did. And he better, because the rest of the team will be looking for us soon if we don’t hurry.”

Oikawa didn’t look remotely abashed as he threw Iwaizumi’s shirt at him and picked up yours, handing it to you much more gently. Iwa threw his on before helping you stand, keeping you balanced while you righted your jeans. No one commented on it, but everyone was thinking about the thick creampie now pooling in your panties, and you felt yourself get wet all over again.

You finished dressing in a rush, haphazardly fixing your hair. Oikawa tried to do the same, but there was nothing for it so you could only hope the rest of the team didn’t pay enough attention when you showed back up.

Poking his head out, Iwaizumi gave you the all clear and you snuck out, giggling like teenagers sneaking around. But the two of them seemed to be in better spirits, and you certainly weren’t going to complain if you got something out of cheering them up either.

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#oikawa tooru #oikawa tooru x reader #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi hajime x reader #oikawa tooru x reader x iwaizumi hajime #oikawa tooru x iwaizumi hajime #.sympathyvsempathy

[mandolovian]

2. kannida

part 2: five years in five bags

pairing: the mandalorian x f!reader 

words: 2.8k+

warnings: some mentions of (minor character) death

summary: the mandalorian invites you onto the razor crest, and while you prepare for your first destination, he learns a little of your past

In a wartime hospital, all physicians were recommended to keep a medkit on them - in case the resource supply chain gets interrupted, in case there was a casualty outside, in case something happened. A standard issue kit came with a scanner unit, hypospray, some tools for treating wounds and setting broken bones, as well as basic medication. It was designed to be able to be used by anyone, but came to life in a physician’s hands. 

Your scanner unit was outdated, and when you calibrated the machine on yourself, it proudly displayed a heart rate of 437 beats per standard minute. The medications had also long expired, and when you opened some of the vials, they hissed menacingly at you. 

The entire medkit would need to be replaced. You weren’t particularly against using questionable medications for treating someone in a pinch, but this was pushing it a little. Felucia wouldn’t have the supplies you needed, and you idly wondered what the Mandalorian would say if you asked for a trip to Coruscant.

The Mandalorian. He had been far more considerate than you had expected him to be. His ship was large, rusted, and possibly in need of a physician itself, but he listened with quiet attentiveness when you wondered out loud whether some of the cabins in the hull could be made larger, and promised to knock out a wall between a cabin and supply closet before leaving Felucia. When you had begun to protest at the thought of the Razor Crest becoming even more structurally unstable, he promised to put in stabilising beams. The baby had been absolutely delighted at your presence in the Crest, and grabbed you with a tiny hand to drag you over to his cabin. Inside, the metal walls were decorated with notepad-paper drawings, some of green blobs and grey rectangles, others adorned with wobbly outlines of a three-fingered hand in red crayon. 

He didn’t let you leave until he had traced your hand on a piece of paper too.

Your apartment was one of the few that were attached to the cantina - free rent in return for nightly work. The rudimentary floorplan was merely a square with a foldable divider in the middle, just big enough to accommodate one lonely bartender. On one side of the room, a rickety bed was pushed against the wall, and on the other side sat a metal desk decorated with a pot of wilting flowers. The window was a narrow rectangle that was carved into the wall and looked down into the alleyway below. It was barred with grills and no glass and, as a result, you had accumulated a healthy collection of blankets to keep you warm while sleeping through the day. 

Home. Home. Was this a home? Could this be considered a home? Stripping away the blankets, the clothes, the books, could this room have been yours? Would that have been clear? 

All your blankets and all the clothes you had ever owned fit neatly into two duffle bags, and your non-functional medkit joined them at the apartment doorway. One shoulder bag holding your datapad and books, and one backpack for your toiletries. Five years of living fit into five bags. It was oddly satisfying, and you cocked your head at the sight. Five bags. 

Five bags.

At the hangar office, you were filled with ire at the sight of the reception droid again, but it was decidedly more polite to you now. Gone was the judgemental bristle in its stature - instead it stood up straight behind the desk, civilly taking down your details in the hangar logbook, secretarially tapping away at its keys.

‘...and what will be your return time from the hangar, sir?’ it asked.

You stared blankly at it. ‘Return time?’

‘Yes sir, you will be entering the hangar presently at 0823, what will be your return time?’

‘There won’t be a return time,’ you said. ‘I’ll be leaving with the Mandalorian on the Razor Crest today.’

The droid clattered some more, humming in burbles as it does. ‘Very well sir,’ it garbled. ‘Take the corridor to hangar nine please. Have a safe flight.’

You blinked blankly at the platitude. ‘Thank you,’ you tried, and you only received some beeps in return. You picked your backpack off the reception scanner and put it back on, and hauled the shoulder bag on with a huff. Trying not to tip over from the weight, you picked up the duffle bags and the medkit, and hobbled down the corridor. 

At hangar nine, the side gangway of the Crest was open and inside, the figure of the Mandalorian was vaguely visible. The ship was humming, lowly vibrating, and the outside looked decidedly cleaner than it had when you had last seen it.

‘What do you think?’ said the Mandalorian as he walked down the gangway. He held out his hands for your duffle bags, and you handed them over gratefully. He shifted them to one hand while gesturing for your shoulder bag.

‘Did you wash the Crest?’ you asked. The baby poked his head out of the doorway and you waved your hand at him. He eagerly waved back, his ears fluttering upwards.

The Mandalorian shrugged, turning as he did so, and walked back up the ramp. ‘It needed a wash,’ he said. ‘Any opportunity for maintenance.’

Inside, the wall between the cabin and the supply closet had indeed been removed. The space now contained a fold-out cot against one wall, and a small shelf on the other. Against the wall at the foot of the bed was a stowaway desk, with the foot of the cot doubling as a seat. A little drawing of a hand was stuck on the wall above the desk, and you looked down to see the baby already staring at you. 

‘He was insistent on the drawing,’ said the Mandalorian as he placed your duffle bags inside the cabin, just next to the cot. 

Your cot. Your cabin. 

You looked down. ‘Is that so?’ you asked the baby, and he grabbed onto your leg with a giggle. ‘It’s a fine artwork. Deserves to be placed in a gallery.’

The Mandalorian picked up the baby. He was tiny in his arms, bundled up in an oversized canvas robe against the beskar cuirass. He slapped his tiny hands against the helmet and knocked his forehead onto the visor.

‘Is it alright?’ he asked quietly.

‘It’s wonderful,’ you said, and you bowed your head a little. 

The Mandalorian hummed under his breath. ‘I’ll let you settle in,’ he said. ‘Wheels up in fifteen. I’ll be in the cockpit.’

--

Watching the Mandalorian take off was like watching a dance recital. 

The baby observed the show from his pod in the corner of the cockpit, and he watched in earnest: his eyes carefully and attentively following the yellow tips of his father’s gloves as he flipped notches methodically. The control board came to life, whirring comfortably as the Razor Crest stretched its legs and prepared for takeoff.

The Mandalorian was quiet and focused, and the holo-map hovering in front of him rotated slowly to show the glittering skyscrapers of Coruscant, sheer and diaphanous against the blinking console lights. With a quiet groan, the Crest yielded and rose into the air. 

‘How long have you been in Felucia?’ he asked, after he had switched to autopilot. The baby was now hobbling on the cockpit floor, happily chewing on an empty blaster cartridge. The Crest continued to rise above the Felucian atmosphere.  

You took a second to count in your head. ‘Five years,’ you said. ‘I was hopping between planets a little before that, but I’ve been in Felucia for five years.’

‘And working at that cantina for five years?’

You laughed a little at his skeptical tone. ‘The cantina came with the apartment,’ you explained, leaning your head back against the seat, stretching your legs out with a sigh. ‘The owner said he would give me free rent if I worked every night at the cantina. It wasn’t a bad deal.’

The Mandalorian gave a contemplative hum. ‘You don’t seem to own too many things for five years in Felucia.’

Outside, the green planet seemed like a child’s plaything, becoming smaller and smaller with every breath. You watched as each tree dissipated slowly, becoming a pinprick, and then indistinguishable with the others. 

He wasn’t wrong. It was only five bags. 

‘I didn’t need anything more,’ you said, crossing your legs onto the seat. The Mandalorian flicked some overheard switches, preparing the hyperdrive.

‘Didn’t need, or didn’t want?’

You glanced at the Mandalorian, who kept his visor firmly forward. The streaks of starlight shone off the beskar, and you blinked at the brightness. 

‘Still figuring that out.’

--

‘What are you doing?’

It was five hours into the journey to Coruscant, with about eight hours to go. The Mandalorian seemed unable to keep to himself, and now leant against the frame of the doorway to the cabin with a hand resting casually against the blaster on his hip. 

A holoprojection of an identicard hovered above your datapad in your hands. Your face on the identicard stared blankly as it rotated, your mouth set into a neutral yet slightly displeased line. A decidedly younger version of yourself; hair regimentally slicked back into a bun, clear of the light lines at the corners of your eyes, your chin raised a little defiantly. 

‘I’m missing a lot of equipment,’ you said, looking up at the Mandalorian. He tilted his head; a silent invitation to continue.

‘You… lead an eventful life,’ you began with a sigh. ‘I’ve never been of medical service to a Mandalorian before, but I’ve treated plenty of soldiers. It’s never just the simple knife wound with you lot.’

A soft sound escaped the Mandalorian - a hum of agreement, perhaps.

‘Classically, soldiers - warriors - are at risk of much more debilitating injuries. Concussions, internal bleeding, organ damage, neurological dysfunction - and your armour poses a little bit of a conundrum for me.’

‘The beskar is an issue?’ he asked, affronted.

‘Not an issue,’ you said, staring squarely at his helmet. ‘A conundrum.’

‘Semantics.’

‘Different things,’ you countered. ‘I don’t have a problem with the beskar. It does, however, create a clinical problem. Simple medkit scanners won’t be able to penetrate the metal, and I have no equipment to keep track of your vitals, let alone to help treat you.’

You looked down at your medkit, sitting dismally at the doorway. ‘Besides,’ you added, ‘all the equipment I have is broken.’

You adjusted yourself to sit crosslegged on the cot, your back against the wall. The Mandalorian moves to take a seat at the edge of the cot, an arm's length away from you. He looked pointedly at the identicard, and you sighed again. 

‘What I’m trying to say, is that we can’t rely on regular bacta spray and sutures.’ You waved your hand at the hologram. ‘In Coruscant, there’s a medical supply warehouse that caters directly to hospitals - powerful scanners, e-bacta shots, bone fixators - but obviously you need to be a hospital representative to make any purchases.’

‘And this is going to be a problem,’ said the Mandalorian with quiet comprehension.

You shook your head. ‘Not if I fix it,’ you said. ‘The issue is that I never renewed my physician’s registration, so I can’t use my own identicard. But I can fix that.’

A few taps on the datapad, and the identicard shimmered lightly, then began to shift. The lettering blinked and flashed, and the Mandalorian sat up straighter at the sight. 

You turned the identicard to face the Mandalorian. ‘Hi,’ you said. ‘My name is Shari Haren, and I’m a nurse at Takodana Medical Facility.’

You could almost see the disbelief as the beskar helmet flicked between the flickering identicard and your face. ‘You changed the identicard,’ he whispered, his voice barely making it through the vocoder. ‘You changed your name. And your title. How the hell-’

‘It doesn’t matter how,’ you cut in. ‘It just matters that I can.’

The Mandalorian stared at the rotating identicard, and you could feel your heart rate increase, and the rush of blood in your ears became a little bit more obvious. The grip on your datapad tightened, and you had to avert your eyes from the darkness of his visor. This was a dangerous ability to share, and some silly, almost delusional voice in your head wondered whether he would throw you off the ship, right here, right in the middle of hyperspace.

That’s a little impossible, another voice countered. Can’t open ship doors in hyperspace. 

He leaned forward across the cot, putting his weight on one hand while the other turned the shaky identicard to better see the hologram, flickering in its translucent blue sheet. ‘How accurate is this?’ he asked, tracing the letters of your fake name in the air. 

‘The Coruscant security system works in levels,’ you explained as the Mandalorian moved back to his previous position. ‘Ten levels, eleven if you include civilian citizens. The warehouse requires level three access, and this identicard has level five access.’

‘Impressive.’

‘It’s handy.’

The Mandalorian tilted his helmet, and you tilted your own head in response. The praise sat low in your chest, and nudged your chin a little higher.

‘We’ll need to make a plan for this,’ he said, tapping his fingers absentmindedly against his knee. ‘An identicard might get you through the door, but it’s not going to be enough to get you all the way. Coruscant is crawling with bounty hunters, and we don’t need to draw attention to ourselves.’ 

He stood up, the beskar making soft clinking sounds as he did. ‘Get some sleep for now,’ he said as he walked out. ‘I’ll be in my quarters. Comm me if you need to.’

--

Your last placement as a student was at Kannida Hospital.

The planet was like nothing you had ever seen before - the most bewildering combination of the forests of Takodana and the skyscrapers of Coruscant. The people lived in the trees themselves, stretching endlessly into the misty atmosphere above. Precarious rope bridges connected the pseudo-skyscrapers to each other, a gossamer lattice of quiet traffic, faded against the humidity.

Most of the Kannida Hospital was underground - only the foyer and the entrance to the emergency department was visible from the surface. The levels spiraled dangerously close to the core of the planet, the corridors twisting and winding in disorientating coils. The hospital was the most well equipped of that of the whole star system, and had an impressive intensive care division - after all, it was a designated military hospital of the sector. 

The Chief Medical General at the time was Nali Tia, a towering woman with an impressive military career in the Galactic Army, backed by decades of medical experience. She commandeered the intensive care division as if she was at a helm of a warship - her resounding voice calling across the hub, directing casualties to stages, coordinating the tens of levels of the hospital with intangible efficiency. 

Once a month, General Tia held a seminar for the medical students - one hour long, not a minute to either side. The central auditorium of the hospital was always packed, with students sitting on the aisle steps, standing and jostling at the back, the air sticky and humid and filled with anticipatory reverence for the General. 

You are all physicians first, she would say, her voice clear and sonorous, commanding attention. You are trained for the service of others, the pillar against which others lean on. It’s your duty, and you should all understand the sacrifice that follows this profession. 

Every seminar was a performance - a grandstanding presentation of the knowledge the datapads could not teach. General Tia would showcase commonplace procedures, and then explain how each needed to be adjusted according to species, according to climate, according to environment. How a scanner unit and a clean knife could stabilise a collapsed lung if nothing else was available. The names of common medications in at least fifteen galactic languages. The ways to assess fractures hidden under layers of armour on a battlefield.

Seven years after your graduation, General Nali Tia was executed without trial for impersonating an Imperial Officer in an attempt to secure a shipment of ration supplies for Kannida. The planet had been under siege for months, and General Tia’s death was the catalyst that accelerated the Imperial invasion of Kannida. Within a week, eighteen of the twenty levels of the hospital had been shut down, and a third of the Kannida inhabitants had been massacred. With a blaster held to your head, you assumed the position of the Chief Medical General, and acquiesced to begin exclusively treating their Imperial stormtrooper casualties.

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#dev talks #so happy for this to be ready!!! #bit of backstory to set the m o o d #lmk what you think! #the mandalorian #mando #din djarin #mando x reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #mandalorian imagine #mandalorian blurb #din djarin blurb #fluff #mywriting #blurb #medic!au #star wars fic #star wars writing #medic x the mandalorian #kannida

[monstersandmaw]

Male ooze (Tokis) x reader (sfw) - Part Two

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

I’m putting this up a little early because I felt like it. It’s still been up on Patreon since last Monday. Anyway, I really hope you enjoy some soft morning fluff with non-verbal ooze Tokis.

The person who got the 1k word 'thank you story' for filling out the Patreon feedback form chose Tokis, Part Two, and I know a number of people have been excited about it, so here it is!

Contents: Fluff, teeth, general ooze, Sign Language (unspecified), non-verbal character, morning sweetness, mention of dentistry the previous day... Words: 1389

Part One 

Waking with a heavy, solid weight on your chest, which also continued halfway down your body, was absolutely not a normal occurrence for you, and it took you a solid minute to blink yourself awake enough to work out what was going on. Memories of a sluggish and dazed Tokis, with his mouth all puffy and his hands tremulous and anxious at the dentist the previous day flooded back and you looked down at him as he lay now, fast asleep in your bed. On top of you.

The surprisingly warm ooze of Tokis’ utterly black body lay draped across your torso, completely without form.

During the night he’d lost his usual humanoid outline and had slithered out of the pyjamas you’d lent him as well. Wherever they were, they were nowhere in sight. A shaft of morning sunlight fell across one section of the ooze and you let yourself stare at it for a while; neither liquid nor solid, he was fascinatingly beautiful. You’d never seen Tokis quite like this before, despite having had sleepovers at each other’s houses since you were both pretty small. Sure, he’d slipped here and there, momentarily losing his preferred humanoid outline, but he’d never just… melted into a formless puddle. From what you knew of oozes and slimes like him, it was a sign of trust to exist in their simplest state, and it didn't get more trusting than this.

As you lay there beneath the gentle pressure of his body, you began to take stock of the way he had nudged himself against every contour of your chest and torso, firm and warm, yet malleable like very soft clay. It felt as though he were slowly trying to envelop you, folding and creeping across you like slow-flowing lava. You never wanted to move again, and you certainly didn’t want to wake him, but the temptation to touch him grew too much.

How many years had you ached for this? How many times when you'd gone to the park together and lain sprawled on the grass with your small group of friends had you wished to lay your head in his lap and feel him give softly beneath you, or have him spread his strange body out along yours and just luxuriate in the continuous contact?

As you replayed the way his hands had so vaguely and so tiredly shaped out the words ‘I love you’ the previous night, you let your own fingers sink against his smooth, gentle body and watched them disappear a little, as if he was subconsciously rising up to draw you down into him; like the tide answering the draw of the moon. He was particularly malleable like this, and you scooped up a handful of him as it rolled over your other hip and began to slide down onto the sheet like condensation on the outside of a glass. As ever, he was completely self-contained, the outer layer of his body protecting him from passively losing fluid, and as you cupped the weight of him in your hands, you worked it gently between your fingers and palm, as if it were a small ball of dough. He felt so right against you that it almost hurt.

At the touch, he seemed to stir, and his head began to reappear from the mass of self-contained ooze. He blinked his shiny, onyx eyes at you, and you smiled. “Hey.” Your voice was rough with sleep, and his gaze flickered momentarily to your mouth as you spoke.

Next second, his eyes crinkled a little at the edges into what you recognised as his smile. Your stomach flipped over at the sight of it and you stroked that stray part of him idly with your thumb. It was almost as if he’d stretched his arms across you to hug you.

Watching him reconstitute himself was interesting. He pulled back away from you, shyly withdrawing and elongating his body into its usual, if somewhat small, humanoid figure, and he signed something vaguely, his movements too drowsy for you to pick out clearly.

“Tok, my signing is good, but not that good,” you chuckled. “Give me a chance.”

Oddly enough, the first coherent thing he said to you was, “You really didn’t know I had a mouth until yesterday?”

At that, you laughed, shaking your head. “Nope. And all those gorgeous, pointed teeth too,” you added. “Does it hurt?””

“Feels a bit sore,” he admitted, the viscous ooze of his face shifting a bit around it before he began to open his mouth experimentally. His gaze kept darting up to your face, as though he constantly expected you to reel back from him in disgust. Slowly, those sharks’ teeth of his came into view, arranged in a double row above and below, an endearing little strand of slime still connecting his top and bottom lips in one place, and your heart leapt at the sight of him. Hesitantly, you brought your fingertip to his mouth and traced the edge of one of his teeth.

“You’re extraordinary,” you whispered.

Tokis melted again at that, completely losing his form and forming a large black puddle on the bed beside you. You had to laugh fondly; he’d always been shy, but this was just too adorable.

It took him a while to reform, and this time when he did, he was facing away from you. You ran your fingertips down his newly-formed shoulders, the black ooze gleaming like living glass beneath your touch. He shivered.

Continuing to touch him, you asked, “Tok, when you said you loved me yesterday… how did you mean it? Did you mean just as friends, or…”

He shook his head.

“More?”

Without turning to you, he nodded minutely.

You leaned forwards and hesitated, mere inches from his body. “Can I kiss you?” you asked, and received a second tiny nod, though he didn’t move. Leaving a chaste kiss on his shoulder, you stroked him once more and then you pressed yourself close to his warm body and hugged him.

With you as the big spoon, the two of you lay there for a lot longer, the morning dragging on late and neither of you wanting to break the strange, wonderful new spell that had woven itself between you since the previous day. It took him a while to move at all, but when he did, you felt the enticing ooze of his body sliding up around the fingers of the hand that was softly draped across his waist. He began to stroke and play with your hand, paying attention to your knuckles, apparently fascinated by the bones beneath.  At that, you nuzzled the back of his neck and he melted a little bit, his touch slipping off your hand altogether as his hand disappeared back inside him.

“I love that I can make you do that,” you chuckled against his neck, and he vanished into his amorphous lump again, refusing to come out, no matter how much you scooped him up and cuddled him.

Eventually you lay back and sighed happily, with one arm still outstretched on his pillow. “You want some breakfast?” you eventually asked. He didn’t need to eat, but he did enjoy tea. He didn’t drink it through his mouth, but rather usually trailed one finger in it and absorbed it that way. You wondered if, now that you knew of his mouth, he’d actually drink it.

He shuffled, his familiar form rearing up out of the shapeless ooze beside you and immediately began to sign something to you. You missed the beginning, but caught the gist of the sentence. “And thank you for letting me sleep here in your bed too,” he added after expressing his bashful gratitude at your taking care of him the previous day.

“If you’d like, you’re welcome to sleep here any time, Tok,” you smile.

As he rolled over to face you properly, he pulled his slime back off his teeth and gave you the widest and most playful grin you could ever have imagined from him. It was glorious, all fangs and dripping ooze and your heart swooped in your chest at the sight of it.

“Take that as a yes,” you chuckled, and he surged forwards and swamped you in a huge hug, still grinning.

—

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[mimiplaysgames]

Terra Week Day 7 (Bonds/Fave Scene)

Summary: Terra lets his friends love him. | Word Count: 3,462

Read on AO3

A/N: For Terra Week 2021! You can find that account on Twitter!

~*~*~*~*~

At the end of the day, your chains weigh a burden. Share them. At the end of the night, your Bonds make you free. Mend them.

The stars wink sometimes, if you stare at them long enough.

Terra’s been lying on his back at the roof of the residential tower, where the slats are at a gentle slope so he’s not doomed to fall off. A small, square window behind him gives him easy access; he and Aqua used to waste many nights at this spot for years. Here, they can watch the sun rise behind the mountains, so they get the best of night and day. 

The sound of the window slipping open means she’s here—he just wasn’t expecting the plop of an open book landing in his face.

“Look what I found,” she says, and he pulls darkness out of his eyes to see detailed drawings of a fox with a bow and arrow, talking to a large bear who is spying from behind a bush. Robin Hood and his sidekick, Little John. They used to role play as these characters when they were children for hours. Aqua lies down on the space next to him, careful not to slide too close to the edge.

“Thanks, I was looking for this earlier.”

“It was in the potions section. Do you remember putting it there?” He doesn’t, and she shrugs and rolls over to her side. “I forgot there was a part where he dressed up as a blind beggar to sneak into the prison.”

Terra flips pages. Many of them have multiple bends, bookmarks to areas of the story that the two of them enjoyed to play with. That is one of his favorite scenes, Robin Hood dressing in a long cloak and dark sunglasses to hide the fact that he is a fox (despite that it’s still obvious), shaking a beer jug for coins. Those goons he fooled are so dumb.

“It’s still kind of funny after all these years.”

“You would do something like that.” She hides her smile behind her fingers. “Dress up to trick the enemy so you could sneak in and save the hungry.”

“You’re making fun of me.” 

She slaps his bicep. “I am not.”

It’s the greatest compliment he could receive but it’s also the greatest cringe. He’s always wanted to be compared to his hero... yet it’s still something he can’t quite believe, like there’s a twist to the joke, even though Aqua would never. She’d speak from the heart.

“Dress like this with me”—he shows a drawing of Robin Hood and Little John in their signature thief green tunics and hats—“and I’ll believe you.”

She rolls her eyes. “They don’t have any pants on.”

“That’s the point. We’d be wild.” Terra hides a smirk behind his finger.

“Only if you pay me a thousand munny.”

“... You know, that’s not going to be hard to collect.”

“A bold claim.”

“Okay, but if I end up collecting it all—”

“You’re seeing nothing.”

He laughs and she joins him, warm and painful in the stomach, something that hasn’t happened so sincerely since they have come back. Nights so far have been tight and insecure, as though laughing would expose them to an enemy hiding around the corner. 

Out here, graced with the breath of fresh air, they’re safe under the guidance of the stars. It feels like a young night when their dreams for the future come uninhibited. 

“I talked to Yen Sid,” she says once she’s able to slow down. 

“And?” Terra swallows air down the wrong pipe and coughs.

She wipes a tear from her cheek. “I convinced him to change the standards of your Mark of Mastery.” Picking herself up by the elbows, she sighs. “Though I still think it’s unnecessary, if you want my opinion.”

Terra doesn’t agree, flipping towards the end of the book where Robin Hood and his love are sent off by a carriage, free from persecution. “What are the new terms?”

“Everyone is splitting up to look for Sora and… I proposed searching for him in the Realm of Darkness.”

Terra rolls to his side, dropping the book, all joy that stayed with them minutes before now drained away. He speaks softly. “You want to go through that again?”

She purses her lips. “I don’t want to, but if it helps with finding Sora, then what other choice do I have?”

Terra hums. “I understand. It’s just… you’ve been through so much already, Aqua.”

“It’s crazy it’s been twelve years,” she mutters before perking up and pretending it’s not a heavy subject. “If you survive the Realm of Darkness, then Yen Sid will name you Master.”

Terra sputters. “Are you serious?”

She giggles. “Partially, but that did come out of my mouth in the meeting. Ven would want to come with us of course, but Yen Sid is most concerned about your affinity to Darkness… which isn’t fair.” She brings her knees to her chin. “We all carry Darkness, and you have already shown, twice now, that you are able to face yours and defeat it. So, I suggested you come with me and face the Master of Darkness yourself.”

“What do they look like?”

“Whatever you think it looks like.” She shrugs. “Yourself.”

Terra doesn’t know what to say. He traces the ridges of the slats in front of him. The Realm of Darkness is a different plane of existence entirely, one where the rules of Light don’t apply, where logic makes no sense and there’s only the constant pressure of regret and succumbing, based on what he’s read from the books. From what he’s heard from her, Darkness is the never-ending fight of giving yourself reasons to keep waking up the next day—when there’s no reason to.  

“Twelve years,” he muses. “I couldn’t have survived if that were me.”

Aqua sombers, watching the horizon for the outlines of mountains that you can only see in the night if you squint. “It’s not so different from what you have told me.” She looks at him. “About Nowhere and not knowing when it would end. If it would ever.”

Terra rolls back to look up at the stars. Darkness gives them room to shine. “So all I have to do is survive while we search for Sora?”

“When you say it like that,” she says with a mock-wave. “You know, twelve years isn’t that long. How about we make it twelve days? Survive twelve days and you’re Master. That sounds fair.”

He does a double-take. “That’s not funny. What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m taking a page out of your book and making inappropriate jokes.”

He groans. “This is why you’re not funny.”

“I am, you just won’t admit it.”

He shakes his head, but he can admit it brings a smirk to his face.

The window slips open again with a thud, Ven’s golden head of hair sticking out but not joining them. “You two are the most predictable ever. It was easy to find you.”

“You’re predictable for looking for us,” Terra reminds him.

“Did you find the thing?” Aqua asks, her head leaning back to address him.

“We did.”

That’s right. We. They accepted another member to the family the day of the Master’s memorial, when a talking cat-thing appeared out of nowhere and crashed the end of the eulogy. Terra and Aqua haven’t found a trace of its breed in any of the books in the library (five floors of it). They call it Cheers (because “Chirithy” is a ridiculous name; how in any star can anyone pronounce such a thing?), and every time they ask it questions about its past and how it knows Ven, it responds with more vague questions. Otherwise, it doesn’t offer much opinion. Much like that stupid book, Affairs of the Heart. 

But Ven inexplicably has a bond to it, and they are simply going to have to trust his heart. 

“What thing are we talking about?” Terra asks.

“Can’t tell you,” Ven quips. “Sworn to secrecy.”

“To who?”

“Come with us, Terra.” Aqua stands up, brushing dust off of her drapes and bending to squeeze through the window. 

Just when he was getting comfortable.

Lanterns light the way. Aqua likes to be in charge of how bright they get, and tonight they shine for a feast, bright with a cheery kick, glistening the golden halls of the castle as though it’s sitting in daylight. She marches to the entrance hall where they held their Mark of Mastery years ago. Cheers is already here with two books and a bouquet of flowers on one throne and more knick-knacks on another that Terra doesn’t have a reference for.

“What’s this about?”

“An honorary title ritual.” Ven cranes back into his own arms, proud of himself. “We found a couple of books on how they did it in the Age of Fairytales. A lot of it we can’t translate, but it’s pretty cool.”

“A title ritual?” Terra asks Aqua, who is stroking the middle throne where the Master used to sit, eyes closed in prayer.

“An honorary one.” She brings her hands to her heart. “I believe the Master really wanted to name you Master. And I agree. Riku does, too. I know you want to prove yourself and do it traditionally, but we wanted to do a little something special for you. A title that only we know of so you can keep it to yourself and no one else has to find out.” She steps down. “Until you want them to.”

“Aqua…”

“This is my thanks for what you’ve given me.” She summons Rainfell, and it springs in her hand among glowing petals and a swirl of waves, a second quicker to respond than the aged and wise Defender. She’s whole.

“It looks like so much fun, too,” Ven says with puppy-dog eyes. 

“You deserve it,” Aqua says.

“Pfft,” goes Cheers. 

“We’re supposed to be equals,” Aqua continues, twirling her Keyblade like it’s as natural as wiggling her fingers. “The Master said so that day.”

“Just say yes.” Ven nudges his elbow. “Roxas already calls you Master.”

Terra coughs on a snort. “Does he?”

“He calls all of us Master for some reason.”

“Maybe it’s because he thinks you’re all old,” Cheers mutters but Ven continues—

“When I tell him there has to be official recognition and an exam, he just shrugs.” He raises his shoulders too high to his ears for a good imitation. “He says, What difference does a dumb test make?” Ven is trying to act voguish, but it makes him look dorky instead. “Master Ventus sounds pret-ty cool if I say so myself.”

“Ahem,” Cheers announces, broadening its arms to command attention. All it needs is a conductor’s baton. “Shall we begin?”

“Do it with us?” Aqua pouts and raises her eyebrows, joining Ven in the ridiculous charade of coaxing Terra into playing along.

Terra huffs. “Okay.”

Both of their faces beam, Aqua throwing a sheepish high-five to Ven’s enthusiastic holler, giggling like they’ve won a game. It’s touching. 

“I’ll need your Keyblade,” Aqua says, handing over Rainfell. “Trade?”

“Huh?”

“Standing Masters must accept the Blade of the candidate. To bless it,” Cheers says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“If you say so,” Terra says, straining a chuckle from pouring out in case Cheers gives him a death glare. He summons Earthshaker and lends it to Aqua by the hilt. Rainfell is as light as a feather, as it has always been—he held it when she first called it at the age of thirteen, surprised by the paper-lightness of its weight, wondering How in the stars do you expect to hit anything with this? when he’ll learn the truth later that she hits just as hard as he does. 

It doesn’t feel arrogant and big like a Master’s Keyblade. It just feels like Aqua’s, the longest friend he’s ever had. 

“Terra. How on earth—?” Aqua grunts and pulls. Earthshaker screeches across the floor, and she takes breaks before inhaling and dragging it more. “So impractical.” She cries a sigh of relief when she reaches the throne. 

“Now the masks, in accordance with tradition,” says Cheers, peeking into one of the books.

“Oh.” Ven hurries over to the other throne, grabbing thin, plastic masks Terra’s seen in amusement parks, with the rubber strings that cut into your circulation. “Masks apparently were really fancy in the old days.”

“Yes,” Cheers says. “Made of porcelain and leather. Very tasteful.” 

“This is what we got.” Ven showcases three tacky half-face masks of a pig, a bee, and a frog like a deck of cards. “Which one do you want to be?”

Cheers wrinkles its snout in disgust.

“The pig is kind of cute,” Terra says. It’s bright pink, with holes cut out in the eye sockets and a tout nose. The string squeezes him around the temples, so he hopes the ceremony will be quick.

“You be the frog, Aqua.” Ven hands over her mask and dons the bee, complete with springy pom-poms for the antennae. 

“Don’t forget the robes,” Aqua says as she slips the frog on, lumpy and shiny, bracing herself so that Earthshaker leans on her hip. 

Ven comes back with three of the Master’s hand-me-downs. They smell like dust from a damp dresser. The one given to Terra is too short, and the one Ven is wearing drags on the floor. Aqua’s hangs off the shoulder (We’re going to need to hire a seamstress, she mutters).

“Now we shall truly start,” Cheers says.

“Why does Cheers get to lead this?” Terra asks.

“Because Aqua is the one to honor you and Ven is the witness,” Cheers says. Duh. “Master Aqua, you understand what you must do.” 

Aqua holds Earthshaker by the hilt like one of those knights in the attic, its point at the floor. It’s bigger than Rainfell, reaching up to her chest. She gestures for one of the books and Cheers is too eager to turn to the right page and hand it over.

“That book?” Terra rolls his eyes, remembering that no one else can see.

“Yep.” She brings Affairs of the Heart closer to her face, frowning before checking her attitude and reciting:

Thus a wield'r and a cousin, so longeth as thy heart stayeth true, and thy duty vows to who, a mast'r to the endeth, so longeth as thee behold not backeth.

She sniffs and double checks the passage, her chin wrinkling. 

“That’s it?” Ven asks. “What the stars does that even mean?”

“You shall also honor your bonds,” Aqua says, whipping her nose out of the book.

“You’re improvising,” Terra says. 

“And never scare me again.” 

“Mmm—”

She slams the book on his head with enough pressure to make him nod. “Say yes.”

“Yes, Master.”

She chuckles.

“Now we shower the room with flowers,” Cheers says.

Ven gathers up the flowers he plucked—a mix of withering vanity plants, such as tulips, and weeds, such as dandelions late into their development, where they spit white fuzz. 

“That’s all you have?” Aqua says. 

“It’s late into the season,” Ven says, defensive. “And you didn’t want to wait too long for me to get more.”

He throws them and they droop down to the ground, crinkling on the floor in an unceremonious finish and lack of climax. Terra brushes two petals off of his shoulder. 

Cheers stares in contempt. “Well… it is done.” 

“Now I call you,” Aqua says, licking her lips as they tremble, and she stops to cup her cheek and compose herself. “Master Terra.”

Master Terra. 

He doesn’t know how to feel when she leans his Keyblade toward him. Earthshaker feels the same–not more powerful, not more wise, but a friend patting his back. But what for? 

“Has a nice ring to it,” Ven says. “Master Terra.”

“How do you feel?” Aqua says, slipping fingers under her mask to wipe her eyes. 

“I don’t know, I guess I expected to feel… something that justifies it all. But I’m still me.”

“Isn’t ‘me’ the person who spent all these years studying for Mastery?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t make sense in my head.”

“I felt the same way,” Aqua says quietly. Cheers is closing books and picking up dry flower petals, urging Ven to help. “Without you by my side, it just felt… a little empty and confusing.”

“I never congratulated you.”

“I’ll do it first. Congratulations.” She smirks, her cheek wet under the frog mask. 

Terra pulls off his mask—ignoring Cheers when it squeaks, Excuse me, but that must stay on for the rest of the night out of respect for your appearance—and studies her. “What’s that look for?”

Aqua pulls hers off as well, her eyes red but soft and happy. “I want to see Yen Sid’s face when he names you Master and I get to tell him that I already did.” 

He snorts. “What if he objects?”

“What if he’s too stuck up in past grievances and can’t appreciate you for who you are or what you’ve accomplished?” Cradling Rainfell in the grip of her hand, she nods to herself. “Who gives him a say? I spent twelve years in the Realm of Darkness. Not him. There were some things the Master was wrong about. Do you know why that is?”

Terra wants to say it’s because the Master was afraid, but he won’t speak over her. “Why?”

She looks away at a wall, blinking too much. “I’ll never use it again. It makes me feel like I’m not thinking straight, that I’m too close in making a fatal mistake I can’t take back. But I can’t help but feel there’s a purpose for it. Darkness exists not to put us astray on our path but to help us understand ourselves and our needs better.” When she speaks with this much conviction, Aqua seems the tallest in the group. “Within us, it needs comfort as much as the Light needs faith.”

“That’s what makes the heart strong enough to protect what matters.”

Aqua smiles. “That’s why.” When he’s about to object, she places a hand on his shoulder. “The Master is no longer with us. If you continue like this, who’s to say you’ll be okay with Yen Sid accepting you as well?”

She’s right. “I just think I need to do more to atone.”

“Atone?” 

“I faced the Darkness, and maybe I’ve won. Sure.” Terra shrugs, and the change in tone catches Ven attention, who ignores his immediate chores to come close and remove his mask. “But I’m still missing the same Light you have, Aqua. The one that made you, Master, as you deserve. Mine is not that strong.”

Ven sighs.

Aqua opens her mouth to say something but stops herself, searching his eyes with a gentle mix of love and skepticism. “There’s something I never told you.” She rubs her palms together. “In the Dark Realm, I… there were many moments where I wanted to give up. 

“I saw you once, a bright light standing in front of me. You talked to me. You protected me from Xehanort, and you told me to never give up.” She breaks, swiping her eyes and sniffling loudly, willing her body to breathe normally.

Terra stares at her. “I thought I made that up.”

“No,” she says, smiling and shaking. “You never stopped lighting me back, either.”

Ven holds her hand, silently crying with her. He looks up at Terra, as he’s done for years, worshipping the ground Terra walks in, thinking he is a prime example of what a Keybearer should be. They did this because they believe in him. 

“Thanks for doing this for us,” Ven says quietly, and Aqua nods in agreement. And Terra takes them in his arms, Aqua under his right and Ven under his left, letting them sink their faces into his chest and wraps their arms around his waist.

“Thank you for always being there.” Terra doesn’t know what else to say that would measure what they mean to him. Forgiveness is not a real friend, and they don’t have reasons to give it to him, but he hugs them close without going too tight, his tears falling on their crowns.

“We still have things to clean up,” Cheers mutters.

“Come here.” Ven opens an arm to which Cheers happily accepts, nuzzling its nose into Ven’s neck. It’s only cheerful with him. Terra is most cheerful with all of them. A broken home renovated, a hearth revived, a clear sunrise over the mountains. 

Those who know him as Master Terra hold onto him dearly, under a night sky that waits behind stained glass in a moment they keep to themselves, where the future is irrelevant and the past goes to sleep.

#terra #kh terra #kingdom hearts fanfiction #kh fanfic #aqua #ventus #AHHHH it's finally done OMG #i'm so burnt out and tired hahaha #my fic

[spoon-writes]

Ends of the Earth | Chapter 25

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Pairing: Mando x OC

Read on FFN or AO3

Summary: When Sinead's husband is ripped from her, she escapes the Hutt Empire and goes on a quest to find him. Since being a runaway slave in the Outer Rim isn't exactly easy, she makes the Mandalorian an offer he can't refuse, and soon they travel across the galaxy looking for her missing husband.

Chapter index

Chapter 25 - Family

First they had to get rid of all the bodies before the moon's entire bird population descended on the farm. The ones that hadn't disintegrated got piled onto a hovercart that Jami drove into the forest, where Sinead helped him throw the remains into a hollow and cover it up with mud. The forest was too wet for anything to burn, so a shallow grave became their final resting place.

Now they stood around a makeshift table outside the house, where Jami had drawn a vague outline of the mining station with some charcoal. The sun had reached the apex of the sky and was nearing the treeline. The barn creaked in the wind, sounding like strange echoes from the fight. Elia played in a patch of coarse grass.

"If we go in through the gas giant, we can get close without them noticing," Jami said, drawing a squiggly line under the station.

"The area around the station is filled with sensors. We'll never get close even if we go through the giant." Mando cocked his head to the side and studied the slapdash battle plan.

"Won't be a problem if we time it right; the gas giant overheats and throws out a frequency that scrambles the sensors. They won't see us unless they look out the window. And the best part is, they don’t even know about it. I found it when I was snooping through some files left over by the previous occupants."

"Still means we have to get through the hangar. The second we breach the magnetic field, they know we're there," said Mando.

Jami made an X over the column that made up the lower part of the station. "I found an old emergency exit down by the loading bay. The escape pods are long gone, but the magnetic field is still functional. It’ll be a tight squeeze but I’m sure your ship can make it."

"You sure he doesn't know about it?"

Jami scratched the side of his face, leaving behind a streak of coal dust. "I was the only one who bothered learning the layout when we first found the place. Doubt anyone's even thought about it since I left."

"Do I want to know what happened to the last owners?" Sinead asked. Her focus kept shifting from the battle plan to the ship where the child slept.

Laar stood between the house and the temporary war council, arms folded tightly across his chest.

"Place was abandoned when we found it." Jami drew a line through the station. "There's an access tunnel that runs all the way through the station. It was originally made for Ugnaughts, so it's too narrow for you-" he looked up at Mando- "but we can get to the control room and activate the blast shields, it'll lock every section of the station. Nothing's getting through those. The gas they extracted from the giant was apparently so unstable they needed it in case of explosions."

Sinead held up a hand. "Question: isn't that the gas giant we have to fly through?"

"From what I gathered, the gas only becomes unstable under very specific circumstances."

"Which are?"

Jami sighed. "The gas reacts to oxygen, so unless you open the ship in the middle of the cloud, we'll be fine."

Mando tapped on the table, drawing their attention to him. "What about when we get inside? Even if we activate the blast doors, we still don't know where Vekkass is or how many pirates there are. I counted eighteen last time."

"Hmm. Back when I left, there were around forty and I doubt he's been downsizing in my absence."

"Well, we killed eight of them." Sinead gestured in the general direction of the shallow grave.

"Eleven," Mando said. "There were three trying to break into the ship."

"Oh, good," Laar broke in, glancing darkly at the table. "So the place is crawling with anywhere between eighteen to forty pirates, you don't know where the one you're specifically looking for is, and the whole plan hinges on you timing your attack with a flare from a gas giant."

"I know where Vekkass is," Jami said. "He always stays in the same rooms close to the control room, place looks like a kriffin' throne room."

"We've been." Sinead tore her eyes away from the ship once again. "I told you Vekkass has something I need. Once I get it, I don’t really care what you do with him."

"Good."

"We should leave now," Mando said. "Before Vekkass realizes his men are dead."

Laar stepped up to the table and took Jami’s hand in both his own, giving him such an imploring look that Sinead had to avert her eyes.

"I can’t go yet." Jami’s jaw was set. "I need a couple of hours."

"We don’t have time for that; we’re gonna lose the element of surprise."

"A couple of hours won’t change anything."

"Your family isn't safe here. The faster we finish this, the faster you can come home."

"Give me until nightfall. That’s all I’m asking."

It occurred to Sinead that he needed time to say goodbye; there was no guarantee they were coming back despite what Jami said. If she died, all that would be left of her was vague recollections in a few slaves’ memories.

"Fine," she said before Mando had a chance to reply. "Just make sure you’re ready."

Laar squeezed Jami’s hand. "Thank you."

The voice modulator rustled as Mando breathed out a deep sigh, then stalked over to a small pile of weapons taken off the pirates.

Sinead was about to leave when she noticed the Togruta boy watching from the farmhouse door. "Seems like we got an audience."

Laar and Jami whirled around as the boy jumped down the steps. "You're going after that pirate-"

"Vyll-"

"I can help!"

Laar grabbed the boy by his bony shoulder.

"I heard everything you said! You need me to-"

"I need you to stay here-" Jami began, and Sinead took it as her cue to leave. Watching Jami and Laar's argument had been quite enough embarrassment for one day, and besides, she had seen enough of rebellious kids wanting to prove themselves. She perched on top of the fence surrounding the pasture and focused intently on the sad-looking weathervane on top of the house. A gust of wind swept across the ground, sending a shiver through her.

She was brought back by the sound of a slamming door. Jami and Laar were left standing by the table, and she watched Jami interlace his fingers with Laar, pulling him closer and murmuring something that only he could hear. Sinead looked away, a sudden sharp twinge in her chest.

After a little while, Jami appeared before her and leaned against the fence. "You okay?"

"Yeah. It's just that storming a pirate base based on a couple lines of charcoal is a first for me."

"Don't worry. I know the station inside out."

"Why? Doesn't sound like you did much mining."

He looked at his hands for some time, his lekku twitching. "Force of habit, I guess. Always needed to keep my eyes on the exits."

"Makes sense." She pulled absentmindedly at her jacket sleeve. "How'd you get away? From the Hutts, I mean."

He glanced at her, face carefully neutral but there was something fierce in his purple eyes.

The sky was slowly darkening. If he wanted to say goodbye, he was running out of time. She took a deep breath. "I ... I used to live on Sriluur. In the palace."

Once the words were out in the open it sounded almost unreal. In the span of a day, she had used her real name and told a near-stranger about her past; she hadn't even told Mando back when they first teamed up, instead letting him connect the dots himself. Her last defence mechanism was slipping out of reach.

Over by the pile of weapons, Mando seized moving.

"Oh." Jami was quiet for a long time. "You know Slezza’s dead?"

She pressed her lips together to stop a smile from breaking through. "Yeah, I heard. Happened after I escaped." It felt good retreating to the safety of the grey area between truth and lie.

"What's the story with the Mandalorian?" Jami turned to lean against the fence.

"’He’s helping me track someone. Feels like we’ve trawled through half of the Outer Rim."

"Who’re you looking for?"

She bit her lower lip and tapped an erratic rhythm against the wooden fence. "My husband."

"I see." The wind picked up again, and Jami crossed his arms across his chest. "I'm sorry, by the way, for taking you hostage."

"And threatening to paralyze me, don’t forget about that." Now that they weren’t at odds, she quite liked Jami. "Consider us even. We were here to drag you back to Vekkass."

"I’m glad you didn’t." A shadow crossed his eyes. "I want to end this, one way or another."

"We will."

Laar’s face appeared in one of the grimy windows and waved at Jami to come inside.

Jami pushed off the fence. "I better go inside." He called for Elia, who skipped across the muddy ground and practically launched herself into Jami's arms, making Sinead smile at the sight. The little girl ogled her over Jami's shoulder, and Sinead waved at her before they disappeared into the house.

Then it was just Sinead and Mando left, and she jumped down from the fence and made her way to the pile of weapons. "Find anything good?"

"Nothing worth keeping." Mando tossed a blaster back onto the stack.

"Shame." Sinead crouched down, picking up a vibro-blade and examined it in the golden light. She waited for him to start, but he seemed determined to make her ask. "You gonna tell me what happened back there?"

Mando examined a blaster carbine, running a thumb along the smudged barrel. The pause stretched into an awkward silence.

She clicked her tongue. "I feel like we've been through too much for you not to trust me."

With a start, he looked up. "I do ... trust you. That's not why ..." he stared down at the carbine again. "He’s done it before."

"Makes sense. You didn't seem that surprised."

"He saved my life, back when I first found him. I was about to be trampled by a mudhorn."

"A mudhorn?"

"He's strong."

The blade slipped out of her hand as she looked to the ship. How could such a little body hide so much power? "I guess we know why the Empire wants him. But why didn't you tell me before?"

"There wasn't any reason to. And you didn't tell me you had the whip the whole time."

She rolled her eyes, but he did have a point. Sort of. "You could have given me a heads up, a little clue so I knew what I was getting into."

"Would it have changed anything?"

"Of course not!" She glanced at him over the pile of weapons. The old carbine shouldn’t have been that interesting, but he kept turning it over in his hands, and for a long time the only sound was the creaking barn and wind rustling through the trees.

Mando cleared his throat. "Sinead?"

"Yeah?"

His hand found the rifle’s energy pack and pulled it out. "How did you escape the Hutts?" He spoke slowly like every word stuck in his throat.

The question caught her off guard and she chewed on the inside of her cheek. She rarely thought about it. "It's kind of a long story."

"You don't have to-"

"No, it's fine. I trust you, too." The tip of her tongue poked out between her lips as she thought. "Slezza and his coterie met the Empire on a yacht above Dennogra, something about meeting on neutral ground. They took me and a couple other palace slaves with them; you can’t expect the eminent Slezza to pour his own drinks, can you." She bared her teeth in a smile. "We weren’t told what we were there for, of course. I was there when they demonstrated the nau’orar. Slezza loved collecting all sorts of beautiful things."

While she spoke, Mando grew more and more still, looking down at the rifle in his hands.

"You’ve seen it in action. I don’t think there was a single person in that room not totally entranced. I’m sure Slezza would’ve given up his seat on the Hutt Council just to get his slimy hands on it."

After the demonstration, Jusgra had ordered her to fetch refreshments from the galley. Instead, her feet had taken her to the room where they kept the whip. She watched, out of sight, as one stormtrooper was called away, leaving only one left. The whip was lying on a pedestal, glittering in the light, and she had reached out to touch it.

"Kyen was already gone. Even if I failed, it wouldn’t really matter." She felt Mando’s eyes on her and a sudden warmth crept up her neck. "When I touched the whip, it was like … it was the first time in years I had held anything more deadly than a butter knife."

She killed the stormtrooper, strangled him with the whip, and then the clear memories went hazy like a damaged hologram. Colors and sounds melded together until she found herself in an escape pod hurtling towards Dennogra.

"I managed to stow away on a freighter heading away from Hutt space. And that's it." Her words faded into the cold air. Mando didn't say anything. She wished he would. He was the first person she'd told about her great escape, and it surprised her how easy it had come. It felt ... safe.

Before Mando had a chance to speak, the door to the farmhouse opened and spilled warm light across the ground. Laar took a lingering step outside, looked back into the house, then, with a resolute shake of the head, he approached them.

"Jami’s making dinner. It’s not much, but there should be enough for you if you want it." He crossed his arms over his chest and spoke to the ground.

"Thank you," Mando said.

"That’s very kind." Sinead got to her feet, wincing as her legs protested. A sudden twinge in her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten all day, and it was even longer since she’d had a meal consisting of more than expired ration packets or watery soup.

Laar’s mouth pinched into a frown. "Quite." It was clear the little offering hadn't been his idea. He kept standing there, gaze firmly locked onto the tips of his worn boots.

Mando stood and threw the blaster carbine back onto the pile; the resulting sound shook Laar out of whatever funk he’d been in. "Jami saved us, you know. He doesn’t like me saying it but it’s true. We would’ve died out here if it wasn’t for him. Please-" he finally looked up- "keep him safe."

Mando was unwilling or unable to move, so Sinead took a step forward. "We’ll do our best, but this isn’t a quick trip down the Corellian Run; It's gonna be dangerous."

"I know that," Laar snapped. "Just … watch his back, okay? I'll send Jami out with your food." With that he turned and marched back into the house.

Sinead stared after him. "That was … odd. As if we wouldn’t have Jami’s back."

"He doesn’t trust us."

"Can’t really blame him for that."

Mando made a disgruntled noise. "We should’ve been on our way by now."

"Jami needs to say goodbye. And even if Vekkass knew that his crew had failed, he wouldn't have time to send another one. It's only a couple of hours."

"Hm. I hope you’re right." He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I’ll go sweep the forest before we leave."

She cast a look around the silent forest. If they had overlooked any pirates hidden in the undergrowth, they would probably have struck by now. "Sure. I’ll go check on the kid. Don’t get lost."

Wind blew through the treetops, and Sinead pulled her jacket closer as she watched him disappear into the semi-permanent darkness.

It was about an hour before sunset. Sinead sat cross-legged on the floor of the Crest, the child before her, who was watching her every move with his big, bottomless eyes. Mando hadn’t returned yet but he was undoubtedly the most dangerous thing in the forest.

"Okay, pay attention." She held a pebble in her outstretched hand. "I’m gonna let this go, and you’re gonna make it float. Got it?"

He blinked up at her.

"That’s right. One, two, three!"

The pebble clattered to the floor.

"Okay, that’s fine, we’ll just try again."

On the fourth try, the pebble bounced away. The kid tilted his head to the side with a small coo.

"That’s not gonna work."

She gave a start and looked up at the open entrance where Mando stood watching. How long had he been there? He could move almost silently when he wanted. "How do you know?"

"He's only done it once before with the mudhorn. I don't think he can do ... whatever it is unless there’s danger." He stepped into the ship and kicked the pebble down the ramp.

"Huh." Lifting the kid to eye height, she peered at him. "You just keep getting more and more intriguing. We really don't know anything about you."

A pleasant smell spread all through the hull as Mando came into view and placed a steaming plate piled high with roasted meat and freshly baked bread. The kid let out a loud babble, and Sinead struggled to her feet.

"I met Jami on my way back," Mando said as a way of explaining.

"I can’t remember the last time I ate a vegetable that hadn’t been rehydrated." She watched Mando pull out two chipped bowls. "At least I think it’s vegetables. Or maybe Laar is trying to poison us."

"Mhm. If I was trying to kill you, I wouldn’t do it with poisoned food."

"Remind me to never accept any food from you."

"I just said I wouldn’t poison you."

She let out a snort of laughter, and a moment of comfortable silence passed over them.

"You seem a lot happier."

"There was something about his voice, so deep and calm, which sent a prickle along the back of her neck, and she averted her eyes from what she wasn't entirely sure. Was he smiling underneath the helmet?

"We finally have an actual plan to take down a gang of pirates."

"Barely."

"Not like it’s stopped us before. Loovria was rushed at best."

"It was your plan."

Sinead was about to shoot back when her knees went weak as Mando tore the loaf of bread in two, releasing a puff of steam.

The kid made a shrill noise and reached for the food with stubby hands.

"I can take him."

"It’s fine. Go eat while it’s still hot. I can take it from here." The wriggling kid nearly slipped out of her hold.

"You sure?"

"I’m sure."

Mando disappeared up the ladder while Sinead sat down with her back against the wall and the kid sitting snugly on her lap. As soon as she placed the food within reach, he grabbed some meat and tore into it with surprising ferocity. She buried her nose in the bread and took a deep breath.

As they ate, Sinead's gaze wandered to the ladder that led to the cockpit. It was strange that Mando was so close and unmasked. He had been before, of course, but now it felt different. How long had it been since he had shared a meal with someone?

The kid cooed around a mouthful of bread.

It had to be very lonely.

... ... ... ... ...

It was time to leave.

The sun had dipped below the horizon and darkness descended on the forest moon in a flash, turning the trees into pitch black shadows. The farmhouse was an island of light in the middle of a deep void.

Sinead grunted and shifted her grip on the water tank before it slipped. The Crest was running low, and if there was one thing the moon had in abundance it was water. With a final wince, she twisted the canister into its spot on the underbelly of the ship and pushed the covering back into place.

The farmhouse door banged open and Jami came stalking out with Vyll hot on his heels.

"This discussion is over!"

"We haven't discussed anything! You just said no!" Vyll’s voice shook with indignation.

"Exactly. You're staying here and that is final."

"You can't keep me here!"

Mando was watching the scene from the bottom of the ramp, the child in his arms. She sidled up next to him. "Hey."

"Hey."

Jami rounded on Vyll and poked him in the chest punctuating every word. "You. Stay. Right. Here." Laar stood in the doorway, lips pinched into an anxious frown, carrying a sleepy Elia who pressed her face against his collar.

Sinead bumped her shoulder against Mando. "Remember to check the ship for stowaways before takeoff," she whispered with a faint smile.

He let out a dry chuckle, and she looked away, her smile growing.

"That ... thing gets to come!" Vyll yelled and gestured wildly at the child in Mando's arms. Beside her, Mando tensed. He did sort of have a point, even though Sinead wanted to disagree just on principle, but the kid would be safer staying at the farm. She didn't think Mando would see it that way.

"That's on them. Your safety is on me." Jami tried to put his hand on Vyll's shoulders, who wrenched out of his grip and stormed back into the house, nearly falling over his own feet. Laar made his way down the steps, and Jami pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes.

"We said sundown. The sun is down," Mando mumbled.

"A few minutes won't make a difference."

Jami pressed a kiss to Elia’s forehead, and she was sent back inside the house, staggering with fatigue. Reaching out, he laced his fingers through Laar’s.

That was their cue to leave. Mando left the kid on the bunk bed and disappeared into the cockpit, while Sinead started pushing around a couple of boxes to make room for their newest addition. The ship hadn’t been built for one person, let alone three, so it was going to be an uncomfortable ride no matter what.

Jami and Laar were visible through the open gate, standing close together. Behind them, the farmhouse spilled warm light out of every window. Her hands stilled as Jami leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Laar’s lips, and it suddenly felt like a weight had dropped on her chest.

A soft coo made her tear her eyes away. The kid was watching her from her bunk, ears drooping.

"It's okay," she murmured, picking him up. He nestled into the crook of her arm. "I'm okay."

"I'm ready to go." The voice made her jump. Jami stood in the opening with a pack slung over his shoulder and a resolute look in his eyes but his lekku betrayed him with every twitch of agitation.

"I’ll give Mando the go ahead."

The last glimpse before the ramp went up was Laar standing by the fence, hands clutching the railing like he would crumble to the ground without it.

Jami had thrown his pack into a corner and was sitting on a box of ammunition, staring desolately into the air.

"You'll be back with them in no time," Sinead said, sitting on the edge of the bunk. The kid babbled in agreement.

"Yeah."

"What's the story with them? The kids, I mean."

For a long time Jami watched her with an unreadable look in his eyes before they fell to the kid who had crawled onto Sinead’s lap. He pulled a loose thread off his jacket and rolled it between his hands. "I met them after leaving Vekkass and his gang. They were running from something too. And don’t even bother asking, it’s not my story to tell. We agreed it might be safer to stick together. Laar doesn’t have a lot of experience with the Outer Rim."

"He did look like he was afraid his rifle might come alive and shoot him instead."

Jami let out a short bark of laughter. "I’ve tried teaching him but at this point I don’t think it’ll ever take. It was meant to be temporary but you know how it is." There was a faint smile on his lips.

"Seems like you built quite a home for yourself."

"I did. Well …" his smile grew. "Neither me or Laar are big farmers, really. It’s more a necessity than anything else. Maybe when all this is over, we can find a real home."

The hum from the engine filled the silence, and there was a hollow feeling in the pit of Sinead's stomach. A small hand tugged on her sleeve, and she looked down at the kid whose little face was wrinkled in concern. She smoothed a thumb across his forehead.

"Never seen anything like it." Jami had stopped fidgeting with the string. "What is he?"

"I honestly have no idea."

"So he's not yours?"

"You see any resemblance between us?" This felt like safer ground, and she gave him a wry smile.

"Hey, resemblance has nothing to do with it. Neither Vyll or Elia looks like me, but they’re still my kids." Jami kicked his legs out and leaned back on his makeshift chair.

"You're right. But no, he isn't mine." She helped the kid down from the bunk and watched as he toddled across the floor, stopping briefly to examine Jami's shoe before moving on.

"So he's the Mandalorian's? Does that mean he's all ..." Jami gestured vaguely to his face.

Sinead let out a snort of laughter, and the child cooed from the other side of the ship. "No, no, he's ... he's not ..."

"You’ve seen him without the helmet?"

"No. It’s, uh- it’s a long story."

Jami shrugged and shifted on the box, trying to get comfortable.

"I’m sorry the accommodations are less than stellar. As you can see, this isn’t exactly the lap of luxury."

"I’ve stayed in worse places. It’s fine."

The ship shook as it entered hyperspace, and Sinead imagined she could feel the weight of the dimension pressing in all around them. The thought was comforting in a way. For a while she was locked in a tiny metal box plucked out of reality. Once they reached the end of the line, she would have to fight and worry and run and hope, and it might all be for nothing.

She leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes.

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#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x oc #mando x oc #din x oc #din djarin x oc #din djarin #fanfiction #ends of the earth #oc: Sinead

[livesincerely]

you render me in a thousand details

Also on Ao3

00000

“Hey, Davey, can you grab me another can of paint outta the closet?”

Davey looks up at the sound of Jack’s voice. The man in question is perched precariously on top of a ladder, the latest backdrop for Ms. Medda’s new show set up in front of him

He places the book he’d been reading while Jack worked to the side. “What is it I’m looking for?” Davey asks, clambering to his feet.

Jack’s head turns in his direction but he doesn’t take his eyes off his painting, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he carefully adds a series of fluffy white clouds to a cheerful skyline. “The extras should be just inside the closet on the right⁠—I need the dented can with the red stripe on the lid.”

Davey makes his way over to the tiny supply cupboard that Jack has claimed as his art closet. It’s a floor-to-ceiling collection of paint cans, canvases, brushes, and other supplies, and it never fails to amuse Davey how Jack can take one look at the mess and immediately unearth whatever item he needs for a particular project. Most of it belongs to the theater⁠—requested by Jack but paid for by Ms. Medda⁠—but Davey knows that Jack sometimes stores his personal pieces and supplies in there as well, if only to keep them safe from the daily mayhem of the Lodging House.

He reaches for the pull chain and a lone light bulb flickers to life. Davey takes a couple of tentative steps, squinting his eyes against the dust in the air as he scans the shelves for the can Jack had asked for, then lets out a squawk as he immediately trips over an unopened box of paint thinner.

His elbow knocks against something as he fumbles for balance and there’s a loud thunk and the flutter of paper as he sends a sketchbook full of drawings careening to the floor. Davey lets out a quiet curse, crouching down to pick up the scattered pages and tuck them back into place. 

His movements slow as he suddenly understands what he’s looking at⁠—what he’s discovered. Because this is one of Jack’s sketchbooks, but it’s not one that Davey’s ever seen before. And the drawings inside...

Dazed, Davey wanders back into the larger room.

Jack glances back at him, one eyebrow raised. “What, did ya get lost in there? What took so long?”

Davey swallows. When he finds his voice, it comes out tremulous. “Jack, what is this?”

“What is what?” Jack wipes his hands on a spare rag, then comes over for a closer look. He gets within a couple feet of Davey, then staggers to a stop, his face going alarmingly pale. “Where did you get that?”

“I, uh, I knocked it off the shelf by accident,” Davey says. “Why do you have⁠⁠— What is this?”

Jack lurches forward as if to snatch the sketchbook away from him, but stops himself mid reach—like he can’t bring himself to actually tear the pages out of Davey’s hands. He paces in place for a moment, then takes a step back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What, that?” Jack says, and it’d be a passable attempt at nonchalance if not for the nervous waiver in his voice. “That’s nothing, really. Just practice sketches, and, uh, doodles and stuff.”

Davey looks at him. Then he carefully opens the sketchbook to the first page. There’s an inhaled breath, the tiniest twitch of the hand, but Jack makes no move to stop him and Davey takes that as permission.

He’s quiet as he flips through the assortment of pages. Or maybe it’s that he’s stunned into silence. 

There are all types of drawings. Some are only outlines, vague sketches with just enough detail to be identifiable. Others are fully-worked—entire pages of careful shading and texture and blending. He’d caught a few glimpses in the dim light of the closet, and this closer look only confirms his suspicion: these are all drawings of Davey.

There’s one of him from the other day, where he’d gotten caught in a storm and came back to the Lodging House sopping wet, his clothes dripping and his hair curling up at the ends from the rain. There’s another of him on his building’s fire escape, hands curled around the railing and head tilted towards the stars. There’s a series of drawings that are just of his eyes, all done in various shades of blue and in a couple of different mediums, which are the only bursts of color in any of the drawings so far. Davey asleep at the table in the mess hall with his head pillowed in his arms, a pencil starting to slip from his fingers. Davey sitting on the corner of Jack’s desk at Pulitzer’s, studying his latest political cartoon. Davey with the other Newsies, their bodies drawn in hazy silhouette, Davey standing at various street corners, hawking newspapers to faceless passersby.

A few of the scenes depicted are things Davey recognizes, distinct instances that he can place in his memory. Others are more nebulous, ordinary moments in an ordinary life. He turns to a new page, this time finding a sketch of him reading an unlabeled novel, curled up in the corner of one of the dorm beds. Davey frowns, a little perplexed. Although it’s beautiful, as all of Jack’s artwork is, he can’t begin to imagine what inspired Jack to draw this particular scene. He’s not even really doing anything in it⁠—it’s just Davey being Davey.

He turns to another page and his breath catches in his throat.

It’s a drawing of him⁠ caught mid-laugh with his head thrown back⁠, the morning sun shining brightly behind him and a slew of crisscrossing lines in the background⁠. Davey recognizes it as a moment from a couple weeks ago, when he and Jack had made the trek across the Brooklyn Bridge for a meeting with Spot. 

Davey traces a finger gently along the broad strokes of charcoal. Jack had remembered this moment, had kept the image in his mind until he’d had a chance to commit it to paper, then rendered it in astounding detail. And Davey’s no artist, but even he can tell that this drawing must have taken Jack hours. Days even.

“This is what you think of me?” The question falls out of his mouth, so unexpected that not even Davey had realized he was about to ask it. “This is how you see me?”

“Whaddya mean?” Jack responds, shifting uneasily, his voice a little gruff in his discomfort. “‘S how you look.”

“Jack…” Davey trails off helplessly, unable to elaborate, unable to explain the fragile hope that’s blooming in his chest. He starts flipping through the pages again.

It’s a wash of ink and charcoal and lead, the occasional flash of blue, but all of him. Davey pauses on one particular page, which features a drawing of him from the shoulders up with his eyes rendered in vivid color.

Colored pencils are expensive. Paint even more so. Davey imagines Jack in an art shop, imagines him hunting through the rows of supplies for just the right shade of blue with the same determination that made him start up a strike, deciding that this color is worth handing over some precious amount of his hard-earned paycheck… Davey’s heart starts beating frantically in his ears.

“These are beautiful,” Davey whispers hoarsely. “The way you’ve drawn me… you’ve made me look beautiful.”

Jack’s eyes dart here and there. Davey gets the sense that he’s looking for the ‘right’ way to respond to this statement.

“...I don’t hafta make you look beautiful, Davey,” Jack eventually says, scrubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “You already are⁠—I just draw what I see.”

Davey calmly sets the sketchbook down on the nearest bit of clean, flat surface. Then he steps forward, grabs Jack by the straps of his paint smock, and kisses him.

There’s a split-second where Jack freezes, startled. Then he groans somewhere deep in his chest, wrapping his arms around Davey’s waist to draw him even closer, and the press of his lips against Davey’s is deep and soft and wonderful.

It’s Jack who pulls away first, moving back all of a hair’s breadth, his eyes flitting across Davey’s face like he’s savoring every detail of his expression⁠⁠—like he’s perfectly content to just look at him.

It’s only now that Davey realizes the significance of that gaze: Jack looks at him like he can’t believe his eyes, like he’s something out of his wildest dreams, and he cups Davey’s face between his hands with aching tenderness, like he’s something to be cherished. Davey can only press up into that embrace, can only hold Jack close and hope that he understands, that Jack sees the emotion in his eyes the way he sees so much of Davey’s everything. 

But there’s one question he needs answered. “Why?”

Jack leans in and presses a kiss to Davey’s temple. “It’s just… you have so much to you, Davey. No drawin’ could ever be all of you. But that didn’t stop me from tryin’.”

A kiss on the high point of his cheek. “And once I got started, I couldn’t stop. I would see you sittin’ somewhere, anywhere, laughing or sleeping or shouting and⁠— and you just buzz behind my eyes and I can’t get it to stop unless I grab a pen and some paper and sketch out whatever picture of you I got in my head.”

A kiss right at the corner of Davey’s mouth. “And I couldn’t never show ‘em to nobody, couldn’t risk anyone seeing ‘cause there’s too much of my heart in ‘em and I couldn’t⁠—”

Davey lifts up and kisses him again: slowly, reverently. He whispers into the seam of Jack’s lips, “I love you too.”

#newsies #javid #Jack Kelly #davey jacobs #*the writing desk #*editor's note #*final cut #this is so soft y’all #self-indulgent fluff for the win #(and now back to the smut...) #;)

[matildashoney]

Loving You’s the Antidote: Chapter Nine

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TAG LIST: @ihearthemcallingforyou​​, @cock-a-doodely-do, @detroitkiwis, @goldenfeelin​​, @wherearethewatermelons​

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this chapter contains themes of anxiety, depression, and sexual content. please read with caution.

Harry had never contemplated asking a pilot to fly faster before today. His appearance was masked by a sweatshirt, sunglasses, and a beanie – the one that his girlfriend despises – and his suitcase was left on the tour bus in a hurry, only his knapsack tucked under his feet. His foot tapped incessantly on the floor of the plane, an embarrassed smile creeping on his lips to the man sitting in the seat next to him. Opting for a commercial flight, Harry was taking a risk, especially with the concern that paparazzi seem to take towards the band now that the hiatus is only a few months away. Harry didn’t need anyone bombarding him about his sudden reappearance in California, especially when his relationship will still under the radar.

All Harry needed was Amelie, to be with her.

Harry called Jenny as soon as Amelie declined his call for the third time. Offering to pick him up from the airport, Jenny was waiting outside LAX at promptly nine in the morning. Coffee in hand, Harry rushes into her car, greeting her with a kiss to the cheek and a pat to her growing tummy, the awkwardness lingering in the air as the traffic begins.

“Have you spoken to her?” Harry wonders hopefully, his thumb tracing the circumference of the cap and taking large sips of the burning coffee to bring the energy. “None of my texts are going through.”

“Amelie usually turns her phone off when she’s spiralling,” Jenny explains, her knuckles rubbing at her eyes as the car pulls to a stop at a red light. “Do you know what happened? Everything was going so well. I hadn’t seen her that happy in a long time, Harry. I mean, Los Angeles Art Project and you and Paris. Thought everything was fine.”

“Nothing you could’ve done, Jenny,” Harry says, squeezing her shoulder comfortingly and forcing a smile. “On her way to San Diego, they went to the café and Jack was there.”

“Oh my god, for fuck’s sake. Can’t he just leave her alone? God, tell me what the hell is gotten out of harassing her, at this point!”

“God, the things Jack said to Ames,” Harry trails, shaking his head at the thought of how foully she was spoken to – about him – nonetheless. “Bastard had the audacity to use me to get under her skin. He’s lucky I don’t go to him, right now.”

“You can’t,” Jenny sterns, shaking her head and taking the exit into the Hollywood Hills. “That’s what Amelie is talking about. There’s too much repercussion that’ll come of it. Go and be there for her. Amelie needs you more than Jack needs to be knocked in the mouth.”

“Amelie has never, like,” Harry gulps, pursing his lips together and willing himself not to cry at the thought. He has his – Amelie’s original – copy of their novel tucked in his knapsack with his phone and his wallet, his keys sitting nervously in his palm. His hands are sweating with the idea, unsure if he truly wants to know the answer.

“No,” Jenny interrupts. “Amelie has never done that. Never really took to the path of hurting herself. Hurt a lot of canvasses, though. Fay used to have to go into her room at night and throw out the slashed ones.”

“Amelie slashed canvasses,” Harry whispers, his sight fading into the sunrise on his street, his house vaguely in the view.

“Amelie’s art used to showcase her, believe it or not,” Jenny mutters, running her fingers through her hair and having her mind take her to the memories that reminisced of their early adolescence. “God, Harry, you should have seen it. Used to have drawings of her body and decorate it in flowers and trees. Amelie was basically the Goddess of Spring if there ever was one. Once that happened, she started slashing all the paintings that were a resemblance of her with one of the knives she used for opening her tools and marking out outlines.”

“Christ,” Harry mumbles, his heart breaking in his chest. “Wonder if she’ll ever get back to that, to making that.”

“One of her pieces for the exhibit is,” Jenny smiles earnestly, her eyes etched in pain and upset. Her features adorned concerned and worry, and there is an unspoken sentiment that Harry must tell her that everything is alright when they are together. “Don’t doubt that you’ve been helping. This is just a setback. Amelie is a strong girl. Always gets back on her feet.”

“Am I going to make things worse?”

“Absolutely not,” Jenny reassures, squeezing Harry’s knee comfortingly. Unlocking the car, she soothingly rubs Harry’s back, encouraging him to step out and make his way inside. Her soft smile is slightly assuring as her vehicle pulls away. “Bring her back to us, Harry.”

Harry nods understandingly, walking to the front door and heaving a breath at the scent wafting through the foyer, undeniably her. There was something comforting about Amelie’s scent filling his home, simply knowing that her presence was there, that her eyes would meet his and he would kiss her lips and hold her in his arms making the tightness in his chest alleviate slightly.

His lungs feel tight walking up the stairs, too much pressure in his chest with unknowing. He isn’t quite sure what he’s walking into, and there hasn’t been any time to really prepare himself. The only thing that Harry has done is read the ending of their novel, and all that that did was make his anxiety heighten. Truth be told, Harry had accepted that he couldn’t live without Amelie.

Amelie is the sun, the stars, the moon, the alignment of Jupiter and Pluto and all of the colours all at once. She is his safe place, the love of his life, the person that makes him feel at home. And the idea of never seeing her again made him feel as though he would fall apart at the seams.

That’s how you feel when you love someone. And, fuck, Harry loves her.

Opening the door, Harry’s lip quivers when he sees her. Curtains are drawn, lights darkened, the duvet pulled tightly over her body that seemed much too small to inhabit the bed alone. There is a breath of fresh air wafting through his nose at the draining sight, although he could barely see her chest rise and fall with a breath, that was enough to make a tear fall down his cheek. Her body nudges into the centre of the mattress, and Harry nearly sobs knowing that she is making room for him, that she wants him.

Kicking his shoes on the carpet, Harry yanks his dirtied sweats away from his hips and leaves his shirt trailing behind. Clambering beneath the duvet, his arms immediately wrap tightly around her waist, hugging her so tight that she nearly can’t breathe against him. His hand gently slips up her shirt, and she knows what he’s reaching for. His palm lays against her heart, physically feeling her heart beat against his skin. His face hides into her neck, a choked out sob breaking into her skin. He breathes her in, soaking in the feeling of her breathing, beating, warm in his arms.

His breath is shaky as he sighs, Amelie lifting his hand to have her lips touch his knuckles, her fingers wrapping around his, his grip around her hips holding her to his chest. “Hi,” Amelie mutters shyly, his fingertips touching her lips, his forehead laying against the back of her neck, the feeling of her warm lips on his skin making his chest deflate.

“You,” Harry stutters, gulping back the sob that sits at the base of his throat, “you can’t turn your phone off and decline m’calls when I’m thousands of miles away.” His breath is hot on her skin as he holds her as close as physically possible, almost impossible to breathe. “You can’t scare me like that.”

There are so many unspoken words lingering uncomfortably in the air. All that Harry is afraid to say. All that Amelie doesn’t want to admit.

“I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry,” she apologises, pressing his hand tighter against her heart. “You should know that I would never leave you.”

Amelie knows what Harry feared most, and the thought tears her apart.

Harry chokes out a sob, his fingertips pinching the bridge of his nose as he attempts to will back the tears. He can barely look at Amelie without the thoughts running through his head. Gently taking his hand away from her heart, his grip loosens reluctantly as she rolls to her side, her hand cupping his cheek, brushing away a tear. “I really thought I was going to come home, and I would have lost you.”

“Why would you think that?” she questions, kissing the corner of his lips delicately, desperately trying to show that she is there and coax him to look at her, to see her. Amelie never meant to scare him this badly.

Anxiety, depression – it’s never gone. On occasion, the spirals will return and there are days where she can’t answer her phone. There are days where she simply cannot get out of bed. That’s why her flight to see him was missed. Amelie should have called; she should have told him. She knew that, but knowing Harry, he would have cancelled everything, backed out of the show, to fly home to be with her, and she couldn’t live with herself knowing he would be on edge at all times if he knew.

“On the flight, I reread the end of the book.” Harry doesn’t have to elaborate for Amelie to know what he’s talking about. “Wanted to hear you, hear your voice, and all the highlighted parts I can always hear you read to me. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that there are times that you’re in pain and I can’t do anything about it. Feel so helpless.” Another tear falls down his cheek. “Genuinely scared the shit out of me.”

“I’m really sorry I scared you,” Amelie breathes, her voice barely above a whisper, speaking as though not another person could hear what she is saying to him. “Harry, you’re here, always here, when I need you. That’s enough.”

Is that enough, though? Is it really? Harry desperately wants to say.

“Don’t make me lose you like that.” Harry squeezes his eyes shut; remaining tears caught on Amelie’s thumbs. “There are so many people that love you, that adore you. I am fucking obsessed with you. There’s absolutely no one that could be you. I’ll do anything to make sure you’re alright.” His words are a mixture of pleading and a demand for her, and she can feel her heart shattering into pieces. “’m begging you to not leave me like that, to do that.”

“Swear to you, I won’t.” For the first time in a very long time, she makes a promise, a swear, that she wants to keep. “Look at me, baby. I’m here.”

Amelie can see the tears welling in Harry’s eyes, the way their eye contact is bittersweet. He isn’t angry with her – he really couldn’t ever be – there was simply a sadness washing over him. Harry wants Amelie to be alright, and the idea that he isn’t able to make that happen is devastating. He rotates slightly, lying on his back, staring mindlessly at the ceiling for a moment. Harry should feel better, knowing all that she’s said to him, and yet there is a nagging in his mind that needs him to know that Amelie is okay, that she loves him.

“Can you kiss me, please? Bisous, s’il vous plait.” Harry knows in their kiss, in the way Amelie holds his cheeks and her heart beats a little faster, the way her lips are seemingly made to be slanted on his, that everything would be okay. There wasn’t a word to describe the feeling.

Amelie nods, manoeuvring her body to her knees, her breath fanning over his lips. Holding his cheeks in her hands, her mouth mends with him, their lips perfectly aligned, tasting each other in the most desperate way, feeling the way their hearts beats against their chests at the same rhythm. His hands delicately hold her fingers on his face, her eyes fluttered closed and every part of her skin ignites. Harry’s love radiates through Amelie, his fear closely behind. There wasn’t a way to take back the way she made him feel, but every part of her wanted to assure him that she would be alright. Amelie wants – needs – Harry to know that she loves him unconditionally, that he is the reason she is finding everything in herself to feel better, to be better.

“You are everything to me; I need you to know that,” Amelie says breathlessly, her mouth pulling away from his reluctantly and meeting his stare, his lips parted and pink from the way her touch ignited him. Harry’s hand caresses her cheek, his thumb tracing over her lips and taking in the sight, almost in disbelief that she is real and in front of him. “Harry, you are the reason I want to be better. You remind me I can feel better, baby.”

His heart warms at the name, the way it falls perfectly from her lips. “Come here,” he whispers, sighing as he sits against the headboard, his lips curving into a sad smile as he takes in the sight of her in his shirt, the material clinging to her thighs. His hands gently coast along her skin, his thumbs rubbing over her hips and taking in the way her hands lightly cup his neck. “Mon ange, you know if you need me, ‘m on the first flight home, right? Sur le premier vol de départ.”

“Know that,” she sighs, her fingers brushing the stray curls away from his face. “Hope you know that when you’re here, I don’t feel any pain, I don’t feel any hurt. You are everything that is good.” Amelie cards her fingertips through Harry’s hair, bringing her lips to his, his hands splaying across her back, holding her as tightly to him as physically possible.

“Missed you, and your lips, and your hugs,” Harry murmurs, his thumb dragging along her lips, smiling slightly at the way she kisses his fingertip. “Might have freaked Niall out. Left this morning without telling anyone.” His lips touch Amelie’s hair as she circles her arms around his shoulders and lay her cheek on his shoulder. “Want you to come with me when I have to leave.”

“Alright,” Amelie agrees, chastely kissing his cheek, her lips sponging kisses along his face. “Need you to stop feeling guilty – you couldn’t have done anything to prevent the spiral.”

“Could have been with you.”

“Baby,” she whispers, taking her face from his shoulder and gently coaxing his eyes to meet hers, “I think you would have had a harder time seeing me this way and having to accept that you can’t fix it.”

Harry nods understandingly. “Are you okay, now? Feeling slightly better, I mean.”

“Much better,” Amelie smiles, her fingertips wiping the stray tear from his skin. “Could never tell you in words how much it means to me that you’re here.”

“Ames, I’d give up everything for you. All you have to do is ask.”

Amelie’s lip wobbles, her eyes welling with tears as she stares at Harry, this man that loves her more than she could possibly understand. More than anything, she wants to tell him that she loves him, that her heart is beating entirely to be in love with him. Harry smiles, kissing the corner of her mouth and combing his fingers through her hair. His eyes take in the coated pink, the pastel colour fading at the curls that circle at her shoulders.

“Need a shower,” Amelie breathes, pouting her lips as she slips out of his warm embrace. Holding her hands out for him, she interlocks their fingers and leads the way into ensuite. “Come with me.”

“Already dragging me in there, aren’t you?” Harry smirks, his heart warm at the giggle that slips from her lips. “You have me properly whipped, I’d do whatever you asked me to.”

Cheeks blushing pink, Amelie turns away from Harry’s stare and steps awkwardly into the shower to turn the faucet on. Harry leans against the wall, his eyes travelling across the expanse of her body, taking in every inch of skin, undeniably staring and searching for any distressed marks on her skin.

Quickly stripping from his briefs, Harry follows Amelie, stepping into the steam and sighing as the warm water hits his skin. His lips touch her forehead, his heart swelling in his chest as she wraps her arms around his waist and hugs him tightly. His hands smoothed her damp hair, squeezing a light amount of shampoo and beginning to massage her scalp as she lays her cheek against his chest and thinks quietly to herself.

As much as Amelie wanted, Harry was not the cure to anything. Although it felt like an easier option, love could never cure the depression or anxiety. That was simple to know. Over the years, she has learnt that it was her choice, her will to find a way to live and breathe and cope. However, Harry has surely become a reason to do all of those things.

Amelie met and fell in love with a person willing and wanting to understand her. She found a person that made her feel safe and loved and cared for. She found a best friend, a lover, a partner that would adore her. And more than anything, she wants to be able to love him fully, irrevocably. As much as she has been told that you can only love someone if you love yourself, she finds that to be incorrect. Harry shows so much love, that it makes much more sense for Amelie love herself, to love him in return.

Harry gently tips her head under the sputtering water, smiling at the way her lips purse into a tight line at the feeling of the water falling in her eyes. Kissing her nose, he soaks in the way her mouth is turned in a smile and her eyes meet his. “Do you mind if I jump out? Have an idea and I want to write it down before I lose it.”

“Alright,” Amelie smiles, kissing his cheek lightly. “I’ll be over here.”

“And where else would you go?” Harry laughs, shaking his head and bringing his sponge to his skin, cleaning the grime on him and rinsing beneath the water.

“I don’t know, Mr Styles,” she smirks, giggling as his eyes roll at the name. “Maybe I’ll disappear to Narnia, who knows?”

“Thought we gave up that name,” he grumbles, his eyes squinting at her as she grins, the crinkles at the corner of her eyes on display. His lips hurriedly make their way to her, as if the moment was too much to not be ended with a kiss. “Love when you smile like that.”

“Go write down your ideas before you forget,” she insists, her palms laying against his tummy, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as fingertips comb through her hair. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Harry grabs a towel from the hook, his towel slightly to the side of hers, the sight making butterflies swirl in his stomach. Amelie was everywhere – her toothbrush near the sink, her makeup under the counter, her towel and her robe tucked away neatly – and the thought of her ever going anywhere makes the air knocked out of his lungs. He walks into the wardrobe, slipping on briefs and his jeans, a patterned shirt buttoned on his torso and left slightly open to reveal the swallows on his chest.

Going into the bedroom, the bathroom door closes slightly to give her a moment of peace. He settles at the vanity in the corner of the room – the one he bought for her when she started staying over more often – taking the journal out of his knapsack and opening to a fresh page. His fingertips work quickly, writing down the words lingering in his brain from their conversation and emotions overflowing in his chest.

Think I might give up everything just ask me to. I’ve got scars, even though they can’t always be seen, and pain gets hard, but now you’re here and I don’t feel a thing. I can feel your heart inside of mine.

Amelie is quiet leaving the ensuite, careful to not disturb Harry and interrupt his train of thought. Her hair tucked into a towel, an oversized shirt clinging to her torso, loose jeans sitting on her hips, there is a feeling of comfort overwhelming her. Never would she have imagined that she would meet someone willing to fly seven hours to be with her. Harry has every ounce of love that Amelie could ever give anyone.

Harry smiles widely as Amelie wraps her arms around his shoulders, her lips touching his cheek and squeezing him tightly. “Hi, angel,” he says, turning his head to kiss her cheek, one hand holding her arms around him and the other splayed across the page.

“Hi, baby,” Amelie smiles, tucking her face into his neck and breathing him in. Her eyes fall to the lyrics written on the page, her lips sponging a kiss to the skin. He always talks about writing a song for her, but the sight of him actually writing one makes her heart soar. “Get all the ideas down?”

“Mhm,” Harry hums, squeezing her hand and turning in the chair, patting his thigh and encouraging her to sit with him. “Feel better?”

“Now that you’re here,” she grins, her fingertips scratching at the nape of his neck soothingly, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks at the sensation. “Want to go for a drive to the beach? The one in Malibu that we like.”

“That sounds nice.” Harry plants his lips on Amelie’s cheek. “Want to go pack a picnic for us? I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Going to be lunchtime soon and there will be loads of traffic,” Amelie reasons, pursing her lips together and staring at the time on Harry’s phone on the counter. “We should probably pick something up on the way.”

“Alright,” he says, pinching his lip between his fingertips nervously and tearing his eyes away from her. “Um, there’s a voicemail on your phone. Have you listened to it?”

Harry didn’t want Amelie to have to hear him say those words in a panicked voicemail. Originally, there was an elaborate plan to say it over dinner and dessert and cherish the memory in a way that neither of them had ever experienced before. Harry didn’t want her to feel forced to say it to him. He was perfectly alright with her saying it on her own time, in her own way. He knows that she loves him. He can feel it – feel it in the way they kiss, the way they make love, the way their hearts are always beating in the same time – and he is positive that she can feel it, too.

He wanted it to be more than a voicemail.

“Haven’t looked at my phone in days.”

“Okay,” Harry breathes, forcing a smile on his lips to ease the tension in her chest, his thumb smoothing over the crease in her brows. “Hey, I adore you.”

“I adore you, too,” Amelie says, pecking his lips, her hands planting on the vanity to stand. Her head nods towards her shoes and pointing towards his boots in the corner by the door. “Get your shoes on, Mr Styles. We have a beach to go to.”

Harry closes his notebook, a soft smile on his mouth as Amelie pokes her tongue between her lips, tying her shoes and smoothing the oversized sweatshirt covering her torso. Looking at his love, his heart beating fast and likely in the same rhythm as hers, Harry knows that he’s never written a truer lyric than what is scribbled on the dotted line.

~

Harry’s hand is clasped around Amelie’s, settled on her thighs, his thumb rubbing her skin lightly as she stares out the window. Her window is open, the wind hitting her cheeks and the sunlight piercing against her sunglasses, soaking in all that she missed. Pacific Coast Highway is crowded, everyone rushing to Malibu to take in the hot days and the bright sun and the cool waves before September comes and the weather begins to change. Sonny and the Sunsets is playing in the background, Fleetwood Mac ending right before they took the exit into the more secluded beaches.

“Know that ‘Golden Hour’ isn’t until sunset, but everything looks so pretty under the sun, today,” Amelie says, drawing Harry’s attention away from the directions and onto the pouring sunlight in front of them. Her eye for art never faded, even when she wasn’t intentionally finding something to create.

“Could say that you’re prettier,” Harry smirks, shaking his head at the puffed breath leaving his girlfriend’s lips. “Doll, you walked right into that one.”

Her cheeks flush with the compliment, squeezing his hand and breathing in the salt lingering in the air. “Never listened to the voicemail, like you asked,” she mentions, turning her head and bringing his hand to her lips persuasively. “Will you tell me what you said? Unless it’s bad, then I don’t want to hear it.”

“Promise not to jump out of the car,” Harry says, a breathy laugh leaving his lips at the way her jaw drops at the comment.

“Harry, that’s a bit dramatic,” she reasons, her fingertips drawing on his palm. Harry was right, that is something she would threaten, but there was no way Amelie would tell him that.

Harry’s eyebrows quirk upward as he turns to stare at her, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as a smirk pulls at his lips. He knows her. “Ames.”

“Okay, okay. We get it, I’m dramatic. Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“Going to tell you something I should’ve told you months ago,” Harry confesses, swiftly rolling up her window and quieting the volume on the radio. “Find it quite fitting that I’m telling you as we’re driving in the sun and our song is playing.”

“Our song.”

“Come on,” he teases, his thumb and his index finger loosening from their interlocked hands and squeezing her thigh playfully. “Too Young to Burn was the very first song you ever played me, the first song on a playlist we have. Feels like it was destined to be for us. Jupiter and Pluto aligning and all that.”

“All that, yeah,” she muses, poking his tummy and turning the volume even lower, nearly silent. “Can you please tell me what you were going to say?”

“Fine! Stop pestering me,” Harry groans, a smirk tugging at his lips with the way Amelie’s eyes roll at the comment. “Learnt a new phrase in French. Can you tell me if I’m saying it right?”

“That’s the big reveal,” Amelie says, her voice etched in sarcasm and dry humour. Her heart was warm with the sentiment, but that wouldn’t prevent the teasing that would ensue. “Baby, I’ve been teaching you French for nearly five months, I’m sure you’re fine.”

“No,” Harry draws, his voice hanging on every syllable clinging to his lips. His heart is pounding in his eardrums, his chest tight and his stomach turning with nerves. “You haven’t taught me this one.”

“Okay.”

He knows that this is where he should tell Amelie. Having her hand clasped in his, all of her attention set on him, the crashing waves and the sunlight and the beach in front of them, Harry doesn’t think he could have found a more perfect moment to tell her that he loves her.

“Je suis amoureux de toi.”

Amelie’s eyes gloss over, pushing her sunglasses into her hair, all of her attention set on the man squeezing her hand, professing his love to her in a language he’s learning for her. “Harry,” she whispers, tears stinging her eyes and her lip wobbling.

“Je suis amoureux de toi,” he repeats, turning his head slightly to see her. He kisses her hand lightly, holding his lips to her skin. “Je t'aime. I love you.” Her cheeks stain with tears, her lips spread into a grin, her attention so deeply focused that her mind clings to every word he says. “Don’t have to say it back, right now. Know that it’s a lot for you to say and you shouldn’t feel any pressure. I just, I couldn’t keep walking around feeling like I was scratching my throat by not telling you.”

Amelie swallows the anxiety in her throat, the nerves that make would prevent her from saying the words that have been sitting on her chest for months. Harry looks at her, and Amelie knows that he doesn’t expect anything from her. All he wants is to hold her hand and make her feel loved. And that is more than enough for her. “Harry, je t’aime.”

“You love me,” Harry says, the grin on his lips making the dimple in his cheek sink. His heart is pushing against his ribs with how swollen it feels, so much love pouring into him and into his lungs and the butterflies swirling in his tummy and all of the emotions that are overwhelming to his brain.

“Yeah, I do.”

Knowing he shouldn’t, Harry turns to look at Amelie, and there is something in his eyes that she has never seen before. He’s sparkling, emerald pupils shining beneath the sunlight, his lips pressing kissing into her hand and his smile wider than she’s ever seen. Outside the windshield is a beach filled to the brim with adults and children, laughter and talking and the crashing of waves, their corner space seemingly secluded and open only to them. Harry’s foot feels a bit heavier on the gas as he hurriedly pulls the car into park, his eyes carefully watching the camera to ensure he doesn’t drive too far, backing into the space to open the boot and leave them to picnic in the open air, uninterrupted.

“Harry,” she says suspiciously, narrowing her eyes as he jumps out of his seat, her words barely tumbling past her lips before the door was being shut behind him. Amelie is barely able to roll the window down, the glass only opening an inch before Harry is opening her door and swiftly unbuckling her seatbelt, her eyebrows furrowing together in confusion as he takes her hand and gently coaxes her out of the passenger seat. “Qu'est-ce que tu fais?”

“Ames,” Harry laughs, gently holding her neck, “you just told me you loved me, and your lips aren’t on mine. And, honestly, I fucking hate it.” Amelie leans onto her toes, pressing her lips against his, her hands gripping his shirt. Their mouths move rhythmically like they were created to only kiss each other. His breath is hot against her lips as he lightly pulls away, whispering against the plump flesh ready to capture his mouth in another kiss, “Je t'aime, je t'aime.”

~

Golden hour shines over the ocean, families reapplying their sun cream and drying toddlers under the umbrellas, lifeguards beginning to end their shifts and the young adolescents crowding the sand starting to leave before curfew. Harry is laid out on blanket they brought, biting into the apple that Amelie bought at the nearest market when they entered Malibu. Her hair is splayed over his thighs, her head in his lap, her knees propped up as she sketches the scenery before them. His head knocks back against the backseat, taking in the quiet landscape and the privacy that they found in the hidden spot. Harry loves touring, it’s his favourite part of the job, but he wouldn’t deny that he loves being home – more so the company that makes a home.

“Hey,” Amelie whispers, her eyes travelling from her sketch to her boyfriend, who is staring at her so intently that her cheeks tinge with a blush.

“Hi,” Harry smiles, brushing his fingers through her hair.

“Know that you said it’s alright,” she mutters, anxiety heavy in her chest with her thoughts, “but I’m sorry I can’t say the words, right now.”

“Mon ange, you said, je t’aime, that’s enough for me.” His tone is serious and firm, giving no space to question him. “Swear by it.”

Amelie nods, her lips in a tight line and a shy smile on her lips as she soaks in all of his words. Harry is silent for a minute, not wanting to rush her to speak, again. “I may or may not have a proposition for you.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

Her lips purse together in thought, unsure how Harry would react to such a daring request. Amelie was impulsive, yes, however that doesn’t mean she hadn’t entirely thought this through. “I think you should give me my next tattoo,” she says, pulling her sweatshirt up her torso to reveal the bare skin on her sternum. “My moon.”

“Me,” Harry chuckles breathlessly, wrongfully assuming that Amelie wasn’t entirely serious. “Me, as in Harry Styles, your boyfriend, that’s a musician.”

“You, as in Harry Styles, my boyfriend, that’s a musician, who has a tattoo kit in his house, yes.”

Harry takes a deep breath, thinking about his words before opening his mouth. “Are you being impulsive? Have you been thinking about this?”

“Thanks, Harry,” she grumbles, rolling her eyes at the comment, taking her pencil and returning to her sketchbook.

“C’mon, I didn’t mean it like that,” he sighs, gently prying the pencil away from her and moving the sketchbook to sit on the opposite end of the blanket. “Meant that I don’t want you to regret me doing it. Have big on m’big toe, like a fuckin’ idiot.”

“Quite like that tattoo. Definitely shows who you are as a person,” she teases, smirking at him, his head shifting to plant a kiss on her forehead. “I’m not being impulsive, and I don’t think I’m going to regret my decision. I want you to give me my next tattoo.” Amelie drags her thumb along Harry’s bottom lip in the way he loves, knowing exactly how to get her way. “My moon. Ma lune.”

“Mon ange,” Harry breathes, his lips hovering over her mouth, thumbs tracing over her cheekbones, “you are positively crazy.”

“You know, that’s not you saying no.”

“Fine.”

Amelie’s lips spread into a grin, her hands reaching forward to shut the trunk, closing Harry inside with her. Her legs manoeuvre around the blanket and the sketchbook and the makeshift picnic, her thighs straddling his as her arms circle around his shoulders. Her mouth sponges light kisses along his jaw, the way her hips subtly grind against his making his knees jerk, bringing her body as physically close as possible. His tongue is warm as it drags along her bottom lip, his hands kneading into her bum and drawing a moan from her throat. Her hands tangle in his curls, her lips slanted rhythmically over his and their breath lost between kisses.

Harry gently lays her on the blanket, his hands quickly making work on her jeans, her hips lifting to meet his. His fingertips hold her waist in place, smirking against her mouth as she whines for his touch. He loves her. He loves her so much, that they are about to make love for the first time where they can say the three words in the most intimate setting.

Don’t want to make love to you in my car, Ames.

Harry reluctantly pulls away, squeezing his eyes together and pursing his lips, willing the tent in his jeans to ease enough that he could drive the hour home. His heart deflates when Amelie’s lips pout, knowing exactly why he’s pulled away. “I really don’t want to make love to you for the first time in m’car, Ames.”

“Didn’t know how corny you get when you’re in love,” Amelie teases, heaving a dramatic sigh and buttoning her jeans, laying her head back against the blanket and staring at him with tired eyes.

“Well, you’ve never complained before, so I take it you’ll get over it pretty quick.”

“I’m complaining, now, aren’t I?” Harry snorts at the remark, leaning in and making an attempt to kiss her cheek, feigning a gasp when she turns her face away. “Nope. Now, you’re going to have to wait an hour to touch me, because you want to be romantic,” Amelie smirks, opening the trunk once more and hopping onto the pavement. “Isn’t it a shame that you teased your girlfriend?”

Harry could agree, perhaps this decision was a rightful shame because one hour has never felt more like a pain to him. Maybe Amelie was right, on this one.

His hand managed to sneak onto her thigh about halfway through, feeling the heat radiating from between her legs, only to have her interlock their fingers and move their connected arms to the centre console. Her legs were crossed, one hand tucked between the tight thighs to soothe the ache that tingled through her nerves. Harry uncomfortably wiggled in his seat, trying desperately to have the zipper on his jeans not bust from the tightness that filled his briefs. Merely the thought of having her undress him was making him want to burst.

“Doing alright over there?” Amelie giggles, squeezing his hand, nodding to where his zipper was beginning to fold against his groin.

Harry rolls his eyes, shaking his head and looking at the directions once more. “Don’t think you would have liked the rug burn on your back had we stayed at the beach.”

“And if you were the one getting rug burn on your back,” she teases, enjoying the satisfaction that encompasses riling him up. “How would you feel about that?” Her lips wrap around his thumb, sucking his finger in the way that turns him on the most.

“You’re the devil, you know that? Quite actually think you were put on the earth to torture me.” He whines when his thumb leaves the warmth of her mouth with a pop. “Don’t think, I know.”

Amelie laughs, shrugging her shoulders with a smirk and releasing their hands to give him the opportunity to pull into the drive. Harry’s adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he gulps, unbuckling his seatbelt and turning the engine off. There wasn’t a concern for the sex, that really never phased him in the slightest with her. Harry knew her body as though he’s never touched another soul. More so the idea that they were going to make love to each other, to hold each other tightly and say their love in a way that they can only do with each other.

Harry decidedly leaves the basket in the backseat, dangling his keys on the hook near the entryway and waiting for Amelie to walk inside the house before closing and locking the door. He wipes his hands on his jeans, his heart beating against his chest as she turns around and meets his stare. Her eyes are ones that Harry could surely get lost in, staring at her for hours on end.

Her hand takes his, their shoes kicked near the platform of the stairwell, their ascension towards his bedroom slower-paced and drawn out. Harry’s had enough, though, and as soon as they reach the hallway, his lips are on hers and his hands are holding her cheeks, her figure trapped between him and the wall. Her lips taste of their usual strawberry and apple, the desperate nature to have their skin touching leaving her hands to fumble with the button and zipper on his jeans, a sigh of relief leaving his lips when the tight waistband slinks down his thighs.

Harry’s hands reach beneath her thighs and tap, a smirk painted on his lips as her arms tightly wrap around his shoulders and her legs circle around his waist. His jeans are kicked somewhere down the hallway, his shoulder pushing the bedroom door open hurriedly, his foot shoving it closed behind him. Amelie squeezes him, breaking apart their lips to settle on the ground, quickly pulling her sweatshirt over her torso as Harry’s fingers unbutton her jeans once again.

“Christ,” Harry murmurs, yanking his shirt over his head and laying it on the carpet behind them, his eyes trailing over the lace barely covering her skin. His arms slink around her waist, his mouth sponging kisses along her neck. “Forget how short you are sometimes, Ames.”

“Don’t even, Mr Styles,” Amelie says, the name teasing on her tongue, gently grabbing his face in her hand and pulling his mouth to meet her lips. “You love me.”

“Definitely right about that one.” Harry gently nudges Amelie backwards, his lips chasing to be kissing her, her mouth seemingly too far away once her knees budge against the mattress. His eyes soften as she lays in the centre of the bed, shoving the duvet to the edge where Harry could pull it over their bodies later.

“Considering how much sex we have, it’s strange to think that saying three words has us stumbling around,” Amelie giggles as Harry clumsily climbs over her, knees set between her open thighs, arms on the pillows under her head. “Thank you for saying the words to me.”

“Thank you for saying the words back.”

“Anytime,” Amelie smiles, wrapping her thighs around his waist and pulling his body closer, her hands shoving his briefs down his thighs and passing her lips across his mouth. “Je t’aime.”

Harry’s heart grows ten sizes in his chest. He knows that saying the words aren’t easy, yet there she is, doing everything to say it back. His hands delicately move under her to unclasp the lace adorning her chest, his fingertips dragging along her skin, his lips sponging kisses along her hips, her panties slipping down her thighs and getting carelessly tossed with the clothes on the ground – they wouldn’t be needed, after all.

Her fingers curl through his hair, bringing his face to hers, their lips sinking into a kiss. Melting into her arms, Harry’s chest lays flat against hers, his mouth fully encased in the way she tastes, the way her touch lingers on his skin. Her nails drag along his back, barely long enough to leave a scratch but the sensation tickling his nerves, his hips tight on hers as his cock slips between the heat of her thighs.

His hand trails along her chest, his thumb brushing across her nipples and his mouth leaving a chaste kiss to her sternum, his fingertips dipping into her heats and taking her arousal onto his shaft. Her thighs slowly release around his waist, spreading for him, his hand gently pumping his cock, his entirety slowly sinking into her core. Her warmth swallows him, and Harry swears that he’s never felt deeper, tighter, warmer inside of her.

His hips rock rhythmically, one hand holding her thigh around his waist, his hand tangled in her hair as his lips messily slot over hers, their teeth gnashing and mouths messily gliding over each other, his lips suckling on her cupid’s bow and her fingertips scratching at the base of his neck to have him closer.

“I love you; I am so in love with you,” Harry whispers against her lips, his features holding all sincerity as she stares at him with tears in her eyes. “Je t’aime, mon ange.”

“Je t’aime, je t’aime,” Amelie breathes, a tear slipping down her cheek, a gasp leaving her lips as his cock reaches the sweetest spot. “You’re the only one I’ve ever loved.”

And that ruins any control that Harry has on his emotions.

His thrusts come harder yet sweeter, his whole body on hers, the heat on their skin burning to the touch, yet neither seems to mind. Her fingers pinch at the pudge on his waist, her eyes squeezing shut and her lips parting as his hand releases her thigh to circle at the nerves centred between her heat. Her kisses are languid and far between, all of her thoughts centring around the man that she loves and the way that he is showing his love for her, so deeply, so intimately.

Neither are quite sure when their orgasms spilt onto each other. Amelie was writhing beneath him, kissing his neck, fingernails dipping into his skin. Harry was grinding his hips in the way she loves, his cock squeezed tightly inside of her, reaching a warmth he never knew existed. Quite possibly it only existed when you love someone.

He is reluctant to pull out, to leave her embrace around him. He tugs the duvet over their naked bodies, reaching for one of her favourite oversized shirts and his favourite underwear – sure, maybe that was a bit selfish on his part – for when she’s ready. His arms stay above her head, her fingers interlocking with his as he lays lazy kisses on her cheeks. He grumbles when Amelie reaches for her shirt and panties, walking into the bathroom and shouting at him from the toilet. Harry knows that they’ve reached peak comfortability, at that point.

His eyes light up when she walks into the room, his hands reaching out for her to take as she closes the curtains and settles into the makeshift routine for the evening. Her domesticity sticks out in that moment, and there is nothing more that he wants than to have this every day for the rest of his life. He wants to live with her, wake up to her, go to sleep with her. Harry wants to make breakfast and lunch and dinner when they’re home because he knows that Amelie couldn’t cook to save her life. He wants to have her clothes near his in the wardrobe, share a dresser. He wants to say, bisous, s’il vous plait, a million times a day, knowing that she would never deny a kiss. He wants it all.

Amelie slips beneath the duvet and chastely kisses his cheek. Her face is laying comfortably on his arm, turned on her side, the running episode of her favourite program drawing her attention away from the perfect man holding her.

Harry’s fingertips drag along her side, dipping at the curves of her waist and skimming over the lace panties that she put on in the bathroom. Amelie’s thumbs trace the outline of the butterfly on his abdomen as her palms splay against his chest, the quiet hum of the television that Harry turned on playing in the background. Her chest is rising and falling rhythmically with his, the smell of sex and vanilla still lingering in the air above them. Dimming sunlight is shining through the curtains, and she knows that if they were taking the time to break their silence, Harry would be saying something about how the sun is complimenting her by fading over her skin in the way it does.

One thought sits at the forefront of her mind, a thought that she couldn’t stop contemplating and going over, that never seemed to fade away. Her eyes fell on the dresser behind Harry, the one with six drawers that make up his clothes - only, three of the drawers are already hers. Her mind traces to the bathroom, where her toothbrush and her makeup and her favourite robe are settled in spots that Harry made just for her. Her forehead falls to his chest, his fingertips brushing her hair behind her shoulder softly and pressing a kiss to her skin.

“Baby?” Amelie whispers, a shy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she moves her face from the confines of his neck and stares directly into Harry’s eyes.

“Hm?” Harry is staring at her like she is his whole world, the entire universe and the sun and the moon and the stars all wrapped up into one being, and there are butterflies swirling in her stomach.

“Does that offer to move in with you still stand?”

Harry’s lips spread into the widest grin Amelie has ever seen, nodding and pressing a hard kiss to her cheek. “Stands until the end of time.”

“Think I might need to get some things from the apartment, then.”

“Mean that? Not just saying it?” His eyes search for confirmation in her face, and the goofy smile that plants on her lips and the brightness in her eyes are saying everything that her lips aren’t. “God, I fucking love you.”

“You do?” Amelie grins, mimicking Harry’s comment in the car, laughing loudly as his fingertips tickle her side, their bodies rolling to have her settled beneath him. “Could you leave me alone, Mr Styles?”

“More than anything in the world, I do. And no, I can’t,” Harry murmured against her lips, ignoring her secondary comment, slanting his mouth on hers and smiling at the way her thighs lock around his hips, dragging him to lay completely on her. “I’m going to crush you if you have me lay like this.”

“Doubtful,” she giggles, carding her fingertips through his hair and scratching his scalp soothingly. “Think we should try out that cafe near here, tomorrow. The Beachwood, right?”

Harry can’t hide the smile on his face, nodding and sponging kisses along her cheeks, her laughter making his heart nearly burst out of his chest. He might give her his heart to keep safe. He breathes her in, knowing that there wouldn’t be a day in his life that he could go without her. Amelie was all at once his love, his muse, his best friend. He wanted what’s best for her and moving away from that cafe and all that it encompasses is going to change everything. “Mhm. Heard it’s pretty good. There’s a florist nearby there, too. We can pick up some plants for the garden.”

“And do you expect me to be the homely girlfriend and water them all? This is a team effort, y’know.”

Harry laughs breathlessly, shaking his head and taking in the way the sunset falls over her golden skin and illuminates her features. “You and I make a pretty good team, don’t we?” Amelie nods instantly. “And no, I only expect painting around the house. Want you to paint the walls like you did when you were younger. Whatever you feel fits. Want you to be all over this place.” Harry pauses. “And the honeybee jar that has all of our wine corks. Need that.”

“Am I able to keep the studio?” Amelie nods towards the bedroom door, the open rooms down the hall being their connected offices. Over the last few months, they’ve had their fair share of intimate moments between the spaces. One fond memory includes a linen cloth, Harry’s painted back, and a messy Starry Night recreation over their naked bodies.

“As long as I still get to bother you in there,” Harry smirks, pressing a chase kiss to her lips before rolling onto his back and reaching for his phone.

“Hey,” she whines, turning over and laying her head against his chest, kissing the swallow at the top of his collar bone and sinking into his warmth as his arm wraps around her and his fingers type quickly on his screen. “Our ‘no phones in bed’ rule still applies.”

“Hold on one minute, mon ange.” Harry kisses her hairline, smirking as he presses his thumb against the screen and turns the phone to face her, her lips spreading into a grin at the sight. “Need a new bookshelf to hold on your books, don’t we?”

Amelie swings her leg over Harry’s hip, straddling his thighs, her hands spread over his chest and her eyes taking in the perfect man before her. Harry has his moments, as everyone does, but there is never a doubt in her mind that no one has loved anyone as much as he loves her, and she loves him. Her eyes meet his and there is a comfortable silence that hangs over them, the sensation of his hands rubbing her skin as a stretched-out shirt of his hangs loosely over her torso.

Harry purses his lips, his thoughts scattered around as he takes in what happened in the last fifteen minutes. He stares at the girl - the woman - that he loves, completely in awe of her. All that she’s been through, all that she’s overcome, all that she has the strength for. He wants to protect Amelie, love her, and care for her for all of his life, for as long as she would ever let him. He would do absolutely anything for her.

“Earth to Harry,” Amelie teases, pulling Harry out of his daydream and his attention back to her. “Asked you what you’re thinking about.”

“Could I ask you a question?” Harry asks nervously, biting his lip between his teeth and taking a second to properly form the question in his brain before asking.

“Anything.”

“Know that it’s different, now, but why did you keep going back to the café?” Harry sits against the headboard, pulling Amelie tighter into his chest and brushing the hair away from her neck. “All that time not going after it happened, and then you decided to go back. Why?”

Amelie purses her lips together, thinking carefully about how to word all that could possibly be said. “Think that nothing ever went ‘back to normal’ after it happened, you know? Mama treated me differently, Jenny and Phoebe, as much as they all tried not to. Never really bothered with school since it was so close to the end and I had some of the girls. Then I moved out and felt like I didn’t have anything familiar, even if I went home every weekend. Everything was so different. I was alone. Unfortunately, that was what seemed comfortable,” Amelie explains, taking a breath and focusing on tracing the outlines of the tattoos situated on his bicep. “And then I met you,” she says, pausing for a moment and staring directly into his eyes, “and you were a threat because you make me happy. Must not be very fun seeing someone realise they deserve better than you.”

Harry nods, softly smiling and gently rubbing his thumbs into her thigh, encouraging her to continue.

“And it’s not your fault that he started saying those things to me, once you came around, and it’s clear to me, now, that they’re not true, but simply being here the last week, whether you were here or not, made me realise something,” she says, her eyes lifting to meet his and a smile tugging at her lips. “Kept going because I was scared of really letting go of it all because for so long I felt like it made up my whole life. And then you came into my life and showed me how much more is out there for me. Of course, I wish that it didn’t take a spiral to realise that, but sometimes that’s just how it has to be.” Amelie gently coaxes Harry’s chin up, having his eyes stare into hers, a sigh leaving her lips as she says, “Harry, even though change scares me more than anything, there is nothing that scares me away when we go through changes because we always do them together. I think that’s something I needed more than anything.”

“Together,” Harry says, repeating the word and wrapping his arms around her middle, pulling her into him. “Je t’aime,” he grins, his lips pressing against hers as she smiles the most genuine smile he’s ever seen on her face. “To Jupiter, Pluto, the moon, the stars, and all the way back to wherever you are.”

“Je t’aime. More than you know.”

Amelie isn’t sure how long they stay tangled in each other’s arms, Harry’s lips occasionally sponging kisses into her neck or her shoulders where the tee slips on her skin. His languid kiss on her lips allowed him to sneakily turn on their playlist, their favourite songs echoing through what would soon be their bedroom. Her arms are draped over his shoulders, her fingertips brushing through the curls at the nape of his neck, her lips pursed together in concentration. Her mind is occupied with dozens of thoughts, many of which are making traces of the artistry that could be displayed on the walls of the living room and the dining room, but there is one, in particular, that is inching its way to her lips.

“Do you remember the quote that says, ‘they were all perfect days’?” Amelie wonders, her eyes peeking over to his bedside table and contemplating reaching over to find the exact page. Harry nods against her, pursing his lips as her hands cup his cheeks and gently pull his face away from her neck. “Despite how today started, I think this has been a perfect day.”

Harry smiles, his green eyes soft under her gaze, the quietness that hummed in the background of the bedroom beyond the music making the moment much softer than either of them had intended. “Ames, every day I spend with you is a perfect day.”

Something inside of Amelie is changing, and Harry is happy to be around to see it.

/ / /

Harry woke up earlier than Amelie.

Maybe, it’s because the time zones were nearly nine hours apart. Maybe, it’s because she tends to only sleep soundly when Harry’s arms are around her. Amelie wasn’t one to curl into anyone as she fell asleep, needing to have her own space and always feeling too hot. And yet, Harry found that since that moment they were tucked into the comforter together – promising to never go away – every night they sleep together – which is often since they moved in together – she is tucked into his arms. Her height only posed as a problem when Harry wanted to be the little spoon, his feet nearly dangling off the bed unless he slots his legs between hers, his curls tickling her neck.

Harry wished Amelie ‘Happy Birthday’ at midnight, pressing his mouth to her plush lips and devouring her taste, one leg between her thighs, his arms around her head. ‘Have to thank your parents for giving me you’, Harry whispered against her lips, her ankles tucked around his hips, his fingertips bruising her thighs by gripping them tightly. Amelie’s fingers caressed his cheeks as he kissed her, smiling against his mouth and soaking in the love that radiated through his touch. He made love to her, slow and steady and meaningful, muttering his love for her in the language they shared in private. Tu es l'amour de ma vie.

Harry knew that Amelie was exhausted. Her hand splayed flat across his chest, her lilac hair fanning over his arm. He never really thought about waking her up by kissing between her legs, until now, until she was laying on him naked with the exception of his favourite knickers – he really did love seeing her in lace. His hand gently coasts along her spine, curving over her bum, his fingertips dipping beneath the waistband and slowly dragging along her core, nearly moaning at the wetness that pooled between her thighs – likely from a dream about the night before. He lifted his fingers to his mouth, groaning at the taste. Amelie was sweet like honey, sticky like a peach.

“Can’t tease me,” Amelie whisper, nearly inaudible to Harry’s ears. “Not fair to me, ‘m the birthday girl.”

“Happy Birthday, mon ange,” Harry smiles, his lips languidly meeting hers, his arms gently rolling their bodies to have her beneath him. “My whole world is twenty-one today. How do you feel?”

“Could feel better ‘f my boyfriend didn’t wake me up by sticking his hands in my knickers and then quitting the job.”

“Look at m’confident girl,” Harry muses, sponging kisses along her neck and suckling a bruise at the curve of her breast. “Tellin’ me exactly what she wants.”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” she smirks, taking the hair tie on her wrist and gently pulling the hair away from his face, yet leaving the curls loose enough to tangle in her fingertips. “Told me that m’birthday was the most important day of the year and you’ll give me anything m’heart desires. Think that I want you.”

Harry spreads the biggest grin in his face, his hands gently parting her thighs and his fingers dragging her panties down her legs, his lips pressing a kiss to where her thighs meet her core. Amelie squirms beneath him, her breathing coming through parted lips, her hand gripping the silk sheets on the mattress and his wrist that is holding her hips. His hand moves her thigh over his shoulder, spreading her open, a moan leaving his lips as he immerses his tongue, his lips, his face in her.

Amelie’s whimpers and moans are a melody, making the sweetest song Harry has ever heard. He whines when her hand tugs at his hair, bringing him to her lips, her hand travelling dangerously slow along his chest and reaching for his cock, lifting her hips to have him inch into her. Her warmth encompasses him, tight and velvet and squeezing him as his pelvis lays on hers and his tip reaches the spongy wall that makes her toes curl. He knows her body – her curves, her stretch marks, her dimples, her thighs, her breasts – the most beautiful body his hands have ever had the privilege to touch, and he has memorised every inch of skin. His lips are soft and wet against her mouth, the taste of her lingering on his tongue, her whimpers purely of pleasure echoing around his bedroom.

“Je suis à toi,” he whispers, moaning as their orgasms spill around each other, her nails scratching his skin. “Could love you forever, you know that?”

“Je suis à toi, ma lune,” she smiles, humming contently. Harry doesn’t bother moving, his lips pressing to her healed tattoo that was inked by him. His lips touch the moon, smiling at the way the name comes to easily to her. For Amelie, Harry would be the moon, the sun, the stars, the planets – whatever she needed him to be. “Je t’aime.”

“Love you more. Bisous, s’il vous plait,” Harry grins, reluctantly moving away, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips before walking towards the wardrobe in the corner of the bedroom. His hands rummage through a box situated behind her suitcase, sticking a stray shirt that smelt like him under his arm for her to wear.

His second to last show with One Direction is tonight, and they would have to leave soon to make it to soundcheck on time. Amelie’s family and Jenny are flying into Manchester, Anne grabbing them from the airport and bringing them to the venue when it was time for the show. He didn’t want to spoil the surprise party early, yet there is a feeling in his stomach that she is suspicious, especially since there was the mention about wearing her favourite jumpsuit for the night.

“Get lost looking at your reflection, Mr Styles?” Amelie teases, the duvet tucked under her arms to cover her chest, fresh knickers clinging to her hips. Her hair smelt of sweat and sex and Harry, and she knew that they would end their time alone with a shower and desperate touches.

Amelie never felt better. Anxiety was seemingly under control, panic attacks few and far between since coming into her final semester and having the opportunity to travel through the online courses. Going to Paris was the best thing for her, especially having Harry by her side. Nightmares are gone. Only dreams of her and the man she’s in love with and their house and their future. Harry was changing her. Changing her for the better.

“Didn’t get lost, thank you very much,” Harry scoffs, a breathless laugh leaving his lips as his arms hold something behind his back. “Made you something, because you have every book known to man and I thought this was better. Don’t laugh at me for my lack of skills.”

Amelie shakes her head, rolling her eyes at his comment and giggling as his hand tosses the clean shirt over her face. Her hands tug his shirt over her torso, the smell of him lingering on her skin – vanilla and a musty scent that only he could manage to make attractive. “You’re good at everything.”

Harry wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, taking a seat on the bed and tucking his legs in a comfortable position. “Everything, huh?”

“God, you’re annoying,” she says, the smirk on her lips betraying the serious tone she desperately wanted to portray. “Can I see?”

Harry lays the photo album out on her thighs, his chosen cover picture one of her favourites – the photo from the Fourth of July at her parent’s house where she’s holding his face and kissing his cheek. He squeezes her knee, encouraging her to open the book and begin to look inside, ten months of pictures filling the pages.

“Have enough pages to fill out until our anniversary, I looked,” Harry says, his smile indenting the dimple in his cheek. “Figured we might want to make one once a year, you know, to remember all the things we’ve done.”

“Harry,” Amelie whispers, her eyes welling with tears as her fingertips trace over the neatly printed pages, his handwriting scattered across the patterns to accompany their pictures.

Harry’s handwriting is scribbled in a thick font, centred under the photograph taken at his birthday, her hands cupping his face and planting a kiss on his cheek, a quote from their novel – it was a love language in their relationship, now – accompanying a note that was nearly falling off the page.

“The great thing about this life of ours is that you can be someone different to everybody.”

The great thing about this life of ours is that I get to be in love with you and there is never a person I want to be more than the one that you love. I could be someone different to everybody, but I always want to be the one that you’re in love with, that you laugh with, that you adore, that you call ‘baby’. Maybe you are the greatest thing about this life. I would certainly believe so.

Amelie runs her fingertips over the decorated page, polaroids of their first month together neatly stuck inside. Lyrics from their favourite songs are written in script, places they went together. One picture from the night Jenny and Dan met Harry is in the corner, their smiles one that she would always remember.

On the next page, Amelie recognises the photo instantly. One polaroid from the night of Valentine’s Day – their makeshift one – with Harry kissing her cheek and the moon shining in the background. She knew that night meant more to their relationship than words could ever say, because who in their right mind flies to Australia for a man they met a month ago? But Harry was different, made her feel something for the first time in what felt like forever, and she would do anything to be with him.

Had the biggest crush on you and you didn’t even know it. Flying to Sydney to spend Valentine’s day with me. I knew I was falling in love when that happened. This is my favourite dress you own, by the way. Oh, and I still have the biggest crush on you.

Amelie smiles, her bright eyes meeting his, her fingertips tracing over his handwriting and the polaroids that have become a staple of their relationship. Everywhere they went, a polaroid was in tow. Harry didn’t really understand the love of it, at first, and then as his mind wracked through ideas for her birthday, the tiny box of photos became more important than ever. “Have a crush on you, too.”

Harry grins, his teeth digging into his bottom lip nervously as he stares at her reaction, his heart swelling in his chest as her lips spread into the smile that he adores.

Amelie’s heart drops at the three pictures on the next page. One polaroid – the one that one of the security guards took before soundcheck – and two photos that a photographer grabbed of them hugging and kissing before the show. March seemed like the longest month of their lives, apart for nearly two months for the first time and then the uproar. Harry could never thank Amelie enough for all that she did for him during that time, and there wasn’t another picture that could properly describe how he feels about her.

Know that neither of us slept much that night, but it was then that I realised that when I’m with you, I feel safe. You’re my safe place.

“Forgot that that picture was taken of us,” Harry confesses, nodding to the polaroid. “Found it in the box that I have of all our pictures. The only one that I have from March.”

“Forgot about this one, too. Think you’re the only person I would ever do long-distance with, you know. You’re the only one that would ever make it worth it.” Amelie turns the page, reflecting on the moment that Harry walked in on her panic attack and managed to calm her down. Harry is her safe place. He is home.

All of the pictures on the next page make her smile. One picture of Harry kissing her cheek that her mother took. One picture of Harry with Phoebe and Amelie. One picture that Fay insisted on that included everyone. Having Harry meet her family was one of her favourite nights – with the exception of the panic attack the next morning – because there had never been anyone that had fit in so perfectly, that her parents enjoyed the company of as soon as they stepped foot in the door.

You have no idea how much I loved seeing pictures of you, hearing stories about you. I wanted to know everything, and I’ll continue to learn every single day I’m with you. Thank you to Fay and Luca for giving me the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

“Love this picture,” Amelie says, turning the photo album slightly for Harry to see the picture that she’s talking about. “Mama texted me that night and asked me when you were coming back.”

“Mama has been rooting for me since Day One,” Harry smirks, his heart warm at the name. He was welcomed into their family with open arms and more acceptance than he could dream of. He loves everyone all the same.

Amelie’s eyes sting with tears as she takes in the pictures on the very next page. Harry printed three pictures. One picture stands out, one that was taken without her knowing. Her hair tucked inside her sweatshirt as she searches through the aisle. Harry must’ve taken it when he was telling her ingredients or what they needed to buy. Her fingers were pinching her lips, and there was a glow in her skin that she recognised in all the photos. Amelie looks happy.

This is the night I knew I loved you.

And then Amelie sees it – the picture that Harry took of her in the art studio. Her mouth is slightly parted, likely because she was singing a Sonny and the Sunsets song, and her paintbrush hard at work at one of the many paintings the would be included in the exhibit in less than two months. Amelie complained about Harry taking the picture, to which he adamantly denied. On the edge of the page, a smaller photograph of her smiling at him is pasted. And there is no denying that Harry makes her smile that big.

“You are all the colours in one, at full brightness.”

I have way too many pictures of you singing in the studio. And no, I’ll never stop taking them.

Continuing to the next page, there is a polaroid of the beach and their legs and the sketchbook. Malibu is so special, there is no way she could mistake the picture. Harry must’ve taken it whilst they were eating lunch at the beach, the day they said the three words that mean the most.

In my eyes, this was a perfect day. Thank you for saying ‘I love you’ back.

Amelie’s eyes fall to the picture laying directly beside it. Harry’s angle is less than ideal, a view of their faces staring at each other, her lips spread into a smile, their eyes gazing into each other’s. On any other day, she would have expected to hate the photo, to hate the way she looks, to hate the way she was laying or that it was unflattering. But, staring at this photograph, the way Harry is looking at her as she is the sun, Amelie’s heart couldn’t feel more swollen with love.

I wrote my first song about you, today. I also know that I don’t ever want to be without you.

Amelie can see that there are only two filled pages left. There is a bittersweet feeling, knowing that she’s coming to the end of the pictures that Harry loves most, that reminded him of the best moments of their relationship throughout the year. There is something really special about knowing that every picture in this photo album is his favourites. Amelie is seeing herself through his perspective.

And without a doubt, Amelie has never felt more beautiful.

“Don’t cry, angel,” Harry whispers, his thumb drying a tear falling down her cheek, her eyes shading a new colour with the emotions. “Doll, you can’t stop, now. There are too many pictures to see.”

“There’s more?” Amelie whines, taking a deep breath and trying to gather her emotions. Her family was always so considerate with her birthday, buying the gifts that she asked, her mother writing a ‘Book about Amelie’ on her tenth birthday, writing out special cards to her. Jenny always spent the day doing what she loved most – painting. Harry is the only one to ever make something like this, a collection of his favourite moments that only they have shared. “Don’t tell me you printed out all the pictures.” Her eyes fall to the pictures from France in August, the week they spent with her family, Harry’s first time meeting her grandfather, the photographs taken in the tulip gardens and under the tree in her favourite park. “Baby.”

“Think that Paris was the best week of m’life,” he says, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear and kissing her forehead. “Meeting your grandfather, seeing all of your favourite places, kissing you in the garden.” Harry squeezes her knee, flattening out the pages and pointing to the photograph that he loved most. “Needed all of that in here.”

Amelie’s eyes water at Harry’s favourite photograph – the one in front of her grandfather’s flower shop. Her grandfather, Henry – yes, she very much noted the irony of their names – inherited the flower shop from his father in the heart of Neuilly-sur-Seine, where their home was built for generations and their children went to school. Her favourite place in the world was her grandfather’s house, the garden that embraced rose bushes and tulips and sunflowers blooming in at the best time of year. Her dream as a young girl was to work in the flower shop, Ma Petite Fleur, to paint the vases and decorate the store with her suns and moons and stars.

Harry’s first time in the shop was his favourite moment of the holiday, the way her grandfather welcomed him with open arms and a kiss to the cheek to share his acceptance into the family. Harry could see how much that meant to Amelie. Henry was the one that asked Harry to join the family photo, insisting that he would add it to the collection of photographs that he collected in the shop over the years. One was taken for her grandfather, one for Harry and Amelie. Harry evidently stole it from their suitcase on the way home.

“Even when we weren’t wandering, even from the floor of your closet, you showed the world to me.”

Thank you for showing me your favourite part of the world. My favourite part is you, wherever you are and wherever you decide to be, I will follow you. I would follow you to Jupiter. Never have I ever seen you smile as big as you did the minute we landed in France. One day, I hope we have a house there, where you and I can live like little French florists and spend our days in a café, sorting through flower arrangements, me writing songs and you painting, like it was our greatest calling. How does that sound to you, mon ange? Sounds like a good plan to me.

Her favourite picture from the London shows is centred on the final page. Harry is holding Amelie on his back, her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, her lips kissing his cheek as they laugh. They’re in front of the stage at The O2 Arena, the opening title beginning to play as a run-through for their final shows in London. Her first true month on tour with Harry was certainly a learning curve, quietly disagreeing in private about where to have everything and having time apart to decompress and sketch – which Harry was not particularly a fan of. They were happy, though, and anyone that saw their smiles could see it. Harry was happiest with her, and she was happiest with him.

Never knew how much I wanted someone to travel the world with me until you were by my side.

Harry grins, leaning forward and kissing her hairline, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing in the quietness of the moment. Only them, Amelie and Harry. Her cheeks are wet with tears, a smile wide on her lips, her heart pounding so hard against her chest that she swears she could dislocate her ribs. He is so thoughtful, so kind. Harry loves her, and Amelie swears that they love each other more than anyone has ever loved.

“Je t’aime, Harry,” Amelie whimpers, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“You deserve it, angel,” Harry whispers, his thumb rubbing over her cheek gently and kissing her temple. He wanted to stay in their tiny world forever. Amelie and Harry in London, without any interruptions or troubles. He could see himself being content that way. “Have to leave in a few hours.”

“Do you have the tea I like downstairs?”

“Always.” He swings his legs over the mattress, standing on the ground and kissing her hair, turning his body towards the bedroom door and beginning to shuffle out. He nods towards the end page in the album, “Let me go make some. There’s a note in there for you.”

“Harry,” she sighs, pursing her lips together as her eyes begin to well with tears.

“Just read it,” Harry smiles, opening the door and stepping into the corridor, turning over his shoulder to whisper to her. “Je t’aime.”

Ames,

If someone would have told me that I’d meet the love of my life at twenty, I would have laughed at them. I would have said that’s impossible. I would have said that I haven’t seen what I wanted to see, that I haven’t experienced what I want to experience. I would have said that there is no way I would find someone who understood me, that wanted me for me. Mum will tell you that I wasn’t worried about dating, that I just wanted to live in the moment. That’s what I thought I wanted, to live in the moment.

And then I met you.

All I want is to have every moment with you. I want to be with you, to see everything the world has to offer with you, to experience everything in life with you. I am a much better person than I was ten months ago. I understand more. I try harder. I love a little bit deeper. I am inspired by your courage and your bravery and the way you love other people, the way you love me. I love your love for art, for music, and for books, and for anything that makes you feel something. You are the biggest and best inspiration, and the reason why I do anything. Thank you for showing me what it means to grow, to bloom. Growing with you has been the best experience of my life, and I’ll never take it for granted.

Finch said, “You make me love you, and that could be the greatest thing my heart was ever fit to do.”

Loving you is the best thing my heart was ever fit to do, that it will ever do. All of my days, my heart has just been waiting for you.

Thank you, Mon Ange, for loving me, and for giving me the privilege of loving you.

Je t’aime times a million.

Harry x

Harry walks into the bedroom as Amelie reads the note over for the third time, laying her cuppa on the bedside table with his coffee, his mouth tugging into a soft smile as a tear falls down her cheek. “Don’t cry, angel. Didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“Too late,” Amelie whimpers, tears staining her skin. Harry takes a seat on the mattress, his lips parted through a puffed breath as her hands lay flat on his chest and push him lightly against the comforter, the album set aside on the table. “Do you know how much love you deserve for that? A whole lot, like more than you’ve ever received in your entire life.”

“Are you going to love me?”

“Forever,” Amelie whispers, kissing him deeply, her fingers tangled in his hair. Harry moans into her mouth, his hands splayed over her back and having her as physically close as he could.

And they make love until their alarms sound and calls are made, the promise of forever lingering in the air.

~

Harry grinned as they pulled into the venue, their overnight bags in the backseat, Amelie’s eyes squinting suspiciously at her boyfriend as he squeezed her hand and smirked at the congregation of people crowded around the backstage entrance waiting.

“Told you I don’t like celebrating my birthday in a big way, Harry,” Amelie says, sighing as Harry walks around the car and opens her door, holding his hand out for her to take and begin to walk towards the gathering near the entryway. “Baby.”

“Can you let me celebrate you being alive? Do it for me. One time, that’s it,” Harry persuades, kissing her temple and squeezing her hand as they walk closer to the entrance and the gathering.

Niall walks up first, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her tightly, “Happy Birthday, Ames.”

“Thank you,” Amelie smiles, squeezing him in their embrace and soaking in the moment. Harry smiles and leaves her be for a moment, walking further into the entrance and making his way past the door. “Can you tell me what Harry’s planning?” she whispers in his ear, rolling her eyes as he laughs loudly.

“Do you want him to kill me? You’ll never find another best friend like me, Ames,” Niall snorts, releasing her from his embrace and shaking his head. “You’ll have to wait!”

“That offer sounds pretty good, right now, Niall,” Amelie smirks, opening her arms wide for Lux and sinking into the embrace of Lou and Caroline. “Hi, missy.”

“Ames,” Lux smiles, grabbing her hand and beginning to walk her inside to where everyone has slowly started to begin their work for the day to ready for the concert later in the evening, “do you miss your family when you’re with us?”

“I adore you all very much,” Amelie says sweetly, kneeling beside her on the concrete and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “but I do miss my family, yeah. Uncle Harry is good company, though.” Amelie’s family is a very big part of her life and is very important to her, and there is a sense of longing to have them with her when she is celebrating her birthday as the happiest that she’s ever been. Harry was the best company she could be keeping, though. “And you, too, little miss.”

“Don’t miss us too much, Cherry.”

Amelie’s jaw drops, tears welling in her eyes as she snaps her head and takes in her entire family standing before her, Harry right at their side. “Oh my god,” she whispers, walking towards her younger sister in shock, her voice barely above a whisper as whistles and howls sound through the corridor. “How are you, what are you?”

“Big head, over there, thought you should spend your birthday with your favourite people,” Phoebe smiles, wrapping her arms tightly around Amelie’s waist and bringing her into an embrace. “And since Harry will be on stage, we’re second best.” Hugging tightly, Phoebe is the first to let go, to move and give her sister a moment with their mother.

“Hi, Mama,” Amelie whispers, tears staining her cheeks as her arms wrap around her mother’s waist, hugging her tightly and nearly not being able to breathe. “Comment allez-vous? Comment s'est passé le vol?”

“Flight went well. Happy Birthday, mon chéri,” Fay grins, wiping the tears from her daughter’s cheeks and giving her a moment to greet her father and brother. Her daughter’s grin is enough to tell her that there has never been a better birthday than the one she’s having, right now. “There’s another person here for you.”

“Make way for Shamu,” Jenny smirks, Dan shaking his head with a laugh, Fay moving slightly to the side to give the two a moment. “Hi.”

Amelie shakes her head, staring between Jenny and Harry, trying to understand how he managed to coordinate any of this while on tour. “No fucking way.”

“Fucking way,” Harry laughs, leaning against the wall and admiring the scene in front of him.

“Came all the way here for me,” Amelie whispers, circling her arms around her shoulders and squeezing her into a hug, her baby bump breaking apart their embrace.

Jenny squeezes her shoulders encouragingly, taking in the sight of her best friend. Jenny swears Amelie has never been this happy. “Did you really think you’d have to spend your birthday alone with that one?”

“Hey,” Harry teases, every syllable is drawn out. “I’m a dream, I’ll have you know!”

“Mhm,” Jenny laughs, shaking her head and grabbing Amelie’s hands, stepping slightly away to take in her appearance. Her figure is adorning a jumpsuit – her favourite one – with daisies and a light purple hue to match her hair, her favourite boots on her feet. Harry undoubtedly has tried to undress her more than once since she got ready this morning. “Look at you! Guess someone is getting laid, later.”

“Only if I’m lucky, J,” Harry sighs, shaking his head and smirking at his girlfriend.

“Harry,” Amelie warns, her voice lowering to a near whisper, the embarrassment caught in her throat. Harry laughs, kissing her hair and walking away, getting his in-ears settled and ready for the soundcheck. “God, I’m so happy you’re here.”

“Missed you,” Jenny smiles, kissing her cheek and squeezing her tightly in her arms. Having been best friends since the early ages of nine and seven, there was something to be said about seeing Jenny and Amelie both genuinely happy.

“Missed you, too,” Amelie smiles, returning the kiss to her cheek, smirking as Harry winks at her across the way, his hands manoeuvring his microphone pack to his jeans. “Have to go thank Harry. I’ll be back.”

“Don’t go have sex in the bathroom or something.”

Amelie’s jaw drops, her cheeks flushing as she shakes her head, turning away from her best friend and walking towards her boyfriend talking with Niall and Louis in the corner. Her arms wrap around his waist, his ring covered fingers holding her hands around his tummy and squeezing. He turns around in her embrace, grabbing her cheeks and planting a kiss on her lips.

“Did I surprise you?”

“More than anyone has ever surprised me before,” Amelie grins, inching closer to Harry’s lips and kissing him. “Can’t express what this means to me.” Her lips sponge light kisses along his jaw, her hands squeezing his hips as she whispers into his ear, “Je t’aime, baby.”

“Je t’aime, angel,” Harry grins, kissing her hairline and holding her tightly to his chest. “Mean everything to me, and I’d do anything for you.”

“Tu as mon coeur,” she says sweetly, licking her lips, her eyes meeting his expectantly. “Bisous.”

“Anytime you ask.” Harry kisses Amelie, his hands holding her cheeks, his eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as his lips press chaste kisses on her lips. “And I’ll keep your heart safe, I promise.”

And the night seems to go smoothly after that.

Harry and Niall hurry to soundcheck, always running late, leaving everyone to settle into their routine before the show begins. Lou plaits Amelie’s hair, Phoebe entertaining Lux, Anne and Robin and Des speaking to Fay and Luca, Brandon and Autumn talking quietly with Dan as Jenny updates on all things babies that they’ve missed since being away. Amelie soaks in the moments with her family, with her friends, with her boyfriend clinging to her before the show begins.

And then, the show starts.

Amelie is as close to Harry’s microphone as she could get – as per his request, she could have stood anywhere and been happy – and she is well aware that there is no way there won’t be pictures online with how much they are flirting with each other. Her hand is tugged just before ‘Fireproof’ – her favourite song – and Phoebe drags her to the centre of the barricade where Harry has brought himself, Niall, Louis and Liam together.

And Amelie knows.

“Our very good friend is in the audience, tonight,” Harry smirks, walking goofily around the stage and using his best voice to have everyone’s attention – not that it took very much, “and she explicitly asked us not to sing her a happy birthday, which means that we have to.”

“Harry, you really don’t have to,” she shouts, shaking her head and hiding her face in her hands.

“Her name is Ames,” Niall grins, pointing his finger at her and smiling as she swears at him. “We need you all to sing the loudest happy birthday you’ve ever sung in your whole life.”

Before Amelie could recognise what was happening, there were nearly forty thousand people singing her ‘Happy Birthday’.

“Happy birthday, love. We all appreciate you more than you know,” Louis smiles, nodding and blowing her a kiss before setting his microphone on his designated stand.

“Going to give Ames a heart attack if we don’t sing something else soon,” Harry teases, brushing his fingers through his hair and situating his microphone. “This is ‘Fireproof’.”

Amelie is so obsessed with Harry that the concert passes in a blur, all of their laughter and singing and the jokes and the screaming echoing around them. On the dining table, a large cake is laid out with, Happy Birthday Ames, written across in icing. Harry is waiting with a smile as everyone gathers into the makeshift kitchen and dining hall, too many people trying to cram into the room to wish her a happy birthday, once again.

Harry stands in front of the table, holding his hand out for Amelie to take. “Come here,” he says, waving his hand towards her and wiggling his fingers. “On this day, twenty-one years ago, this wonderful creature was born. Thank you, Fay, for that,” Harry smiles, winking at her mother and slinging his arm over her shoulder, laughing as she tries to hide her face in his chest. “There is so much to say about Ames. Can talk about her creativity, her sense of humour, the way she fits in with all of us, or her ability to outsmart us without trying. Have a pretty big crush on her and could talk about her for hours, if ’m honest.”

Niall laughs loudly, his arm set on Louis’ shoulder, “We know.”

Harry rolls his eyes, breathing out a laugh. “And I had an entire speech prepared, but it doesn’t feel right, and I think all of us are about feeling, nowadays.” His eyes look across the group gathered in the room, a sentimental feeling looming over the room. Harry felt lucky to have Amelie by his side, knowing how his emotions would be in the coming days. “But I’ll say this,” he sighs, his lips curving into a soft smile, his eyes meeting hers. “Ames, you are undoubtedly the very best person in my life, and ‘m sure many others agree. Out of everything you give to people, your kindness, your creativity, your compassion, and your love shines in how you treat others, how you treat me. All of these people are here because they love you. And whether you believe it or not, you have changed their lives in one way or another.” Harry waves his arms towards every person that has tears in their eyes and a smile on their face. “More than anything, you have changed me, you changed my life for the better. I adore you, angel. Je t’aime. Happy Birthday.”

Harry is caught by surprise as Amelie grabs his cheeks, kissing him sweetly, his smile breaking their mouths apart. “Je t’aime, baby,” Amelie whispers, a tear slipping on her cheek as she clings to him. He wraps his arms around her, squeezing her into his chest and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Amelie’s attention is taken away by a faint yelling from Niall in the corner, “Get a room! Give us the cake.”

Harry chuckles as he touches his lips to her hairline, her arms tucked around his waist and holding him tight. Fay and Luca walk to them, a smile spread widely on their lips. “Think you’re going to tell us this is better than the surprise party we threw in your bedroom when you were twelve, huh?” Luca smirks, grabbing his wife’s hand as she playfully smacks his chest.

“Harry, you are not allowed to make us cry, again. Okay?” Fay says wetly, nodding her head towards Anne, Robin handing her a handkerchief to dry her eyes. Harry releases Amelie, smiling as she steps away and his body moves forward to hug her mother. “Merci de rendre notre fille si heureuse.”

“That’s all I want to do,” Harry whispers, smiling as Amelie squeezes his arm, nodding towards Anne in the corner of the room and walking towards her. “All I want is to make her happy.”

“You do, Harry. You really do.”

Harry grins, nodding appreciatively and taking a moment to soak in the moment with Amelie and all that occurred within the day, the last year. His whole life would be changing as of tomorrow, and especially in December. Harry wouldn’t be in a band anymore. He wouldn’t necessarily have a strict schedule and a direction. He thinks about what he could do with the time, what he would do with the moments that aren’t being rushed and scheduled. He wonders if he will feel lost. He wonders if he’ll know who he is without all that’s surrounding him.

All that Harry can think of as a sure thing is being with Amelie and annoying her with ‘bisous’ every few minutes because he knows she won’t resist. He thinks about taking her to Italy and France. Harry thinks about meeting Jenny’s babies for the first time with Amelie. He thinks about being able to live with her, make meals with her, go to bed with her, make love to her. Harry thinks about everything that will make up their lives and how grateful he is to have her.

“Go get cake,” Amelie says, interrupting his thoughts and kissing his cheek. “Niall’s about to grab his third slice.”

“I will in a minute,” Harry smiles, tucking a stray stand of hair behind her ear. “Je t’aime, mon ange. You know that, right?”

“Know you do, baby,” she grins, kissing his lips and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “Je t’aime. Thank you.”

Harry knows that Amelie is thanking him for loving her, for appreciating her, for supporting her. He gently squeezes her into him, his nose tucked in her neck, breathing her in. There will never be enough words for him to thank her for being his light, his reason.

And so, Harry holds Amelie tight, kissing her cheek and smiling and whispering his love, and he prays that is enough.

/ / /

Amelie was out of the house early this morning.

Harry was awake with her at eight, giving her reassuring kisses and making love messily in the shower and making her laugh with butterfly kisses on the back of her neck as she brushed her teeth. He brought all of the paintings over with Luca and Brandon earlier in the week, readying for the exhibit before graduation and the opening night. Harry flew in the day before graduation and is staying until the day after the exhibit – four days across the globe – and then Amelie would be going back to London with him – younger sister in tow – for the final performance. And yet, their only ‘argument’ has been about who forgot to unload the dishes the other day.

Harry was good at soothing through anxiety attacks, and Amelie has selfishly come to rely on his ability to talk her out of the chaotic and destructive thoughts the flood her brain. And standing in the middle of the venue, her family beginning to gather in the centre and guests beginning to file inside, stray art collectors and gallery owners scattered in the audience, Amelie wanted nothing more than to walk away with Harry and hide until the thoughts were gone and her breathing was normal.

Because, right now, Amelie was panicking.

Harry was going to be late. His text message said so about an hour ago. Got stuck in traffic on my way to you. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m so sorry, baby. I love you. Amelie said not to worry, that everything would be okay.

Her teeth nervously bit her bottom lip, her fingers passing through her notecards and trying to memorise her speech. Her eyes lifted to the door, the chimes making another person’s presence known. Her heart warms, Jeff and Glenne walking through with the brightest smiles on their faces. Glenne opens her arms, wrapping her in the tightest hug and swaying side to side.

“Oh my god,” Amelie mutters, her hand covering her mouth as she squeezes Jeff in a hug, oblivious to anyone walking in behind them. “What are you doing here?”

“Tell me you didn’t think we’d miss this,” Glenne smiles, holding her hands out for Amelie to take and squeezing.

“I,” Amelie breathes, her heart warm in her chest and the anxiety in her stomach beginning to soothe with the idea of everyone there to support her. Harry was the one she wanted, but there was comfort in knowing all of their friends were coming to share his presence until he arrived. “Thank you.”

“Hi, sweetheart!” Gemma giggles, pinching her hips and wrapping her arms tightly around her, their laugher echoing around the space.

“Oh mon dieu,” Amelie says, the smile on her lips bright and pinching her cheeks. Gemma could quite possibly be her favourite Styles on a very good day. “How are you here?”

“Couldn’t miss this for you,” Gemma grins, shrugging as she laughs. “Harry might disown me, too.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Think he was running a minute or two behind,” Gemma says, trying to hide the way her vision continuously flickers to where Phoebe is standing against the wall. Amelie is too nervous to notice. “You should start your speech, though. He’ll be here.”

“Um, yeah, okay,” Amelie sighs, biting the inside of her cheek anxiously, her palms beginning to sweat and her stomach turning. Having Harry to focus on would make her less nervous – it always does. Her heart falls to the pit of her stomach as the chimes string through the windows and walls and the sound of her sister’s voice is the one echoing through the venue. As much as Amelie loves Phoebe, loves her family, there was a heavy part of her that was hoping she’d hear his laugh or his greeting or the ‘mon ange’ that he says every time he walks in a room. “Have to give me a minute or two to stall,” Amelie says nervously, drying her palms on her corduroy skirt and straightening her note cards. Harry encouraged her to write them the night before. “Think that the person that should hear this speech is running late.”

Amelie takes a deep breath, tears welling in her eyes at the thought of Harry not being there to hear her speech. His support and love and encouragement over the last year has been unlike anything she has ever felt and knowing that he wouldn’t have the opportunity to hear how he’s changed her life hurts her. Amelie is well aware of the fact that she is the one that has been facing her mental health and working to be better, but there is no denying the fact that Harry has been the first and foremost influence in that.

And Amelie wanted Harry to hear that.

“Art is all subjective. Art is subjective to the experiences that you’ve had, the memories, the skill level, the enjoyment, the passion. Art can be interpreted differently and understood in completely different ways to anyone that sees it,” Amelie says, sighing and pursing her lips together, forcing a smile as her mother and father look at her fondly, Brandon and Autumn tucked in a corner next to Jenny and Dan, Gemma and Jeff and Glenne in the centre, straggling acquaintances and art lovers and interested professionals scattered around. “Many don’t take the time to view art for the meaning that the artist is putting into it, the therapy, the passion, the intention. We do that with a lot of things. We do that with literature, with music, with art, with nature, with relationships.”

Amelie stares at the door, silently praying that Harry will walk in and mouth apologies and insist that she continues, and she wouldn’t be mad at him, because he’s there and he’s going to hear what she has to say. That’s all she wants. “Growing up, I struggled with my mental health a lot, and about four years ago, I went through something that changed my life, that changed me.” Her heart is pounding in her chest and she wants nothing more than to have Harry’s eyes on her saying that she can do this.

Amelie tries to think of what Harry would say to her, at this moment. Likely something along the lines of, You can do this, mon ange. You are doing this. This is all you. There is comfort in the thought, in the sound of his voice.

“I remember trying to understand why it happened to me, why I felt the way I did. I destroyed canvasses and I gave up art. I felt like I wasn’t me.” Amelie takes a moment to look away from her notecards, taking in the sight in front of her.

Every person in this room is here for you, for your art. You did this.

Amelie meets Fay’s adoring stare and smiles, “One day, I was sitting outside, staring at the flowers that were destroyed after an earthquake, and there was one petal blooming. I remember my mother telling us as children, ‘Flowers bloom after bad weather. Be a flower. Remember to bloom.’”

“One year later, there was an opportunity for me to create a mural for a restaurant in Burbank. Opening night was a party that I hadn’t intended on going to, and at the very last minute, my best friend convinced me to,” Amelie says, smiling at Jenny and taking a breath, her lips slightly parted and chapped with her breathing. “Going into this party, my ‘goal’ was to get through without an anxiety attack, to make it through and leave early enough to study for an exam.” Her laugh is quiet, a secret recollection of the way the alcohol in her system gave her the confidence to speak to Harry, to begin with. “And then I met someone who completely changed my life.”

And then Phoebe moves, and Amelie sees who she’s been wanting to see the entire day.

Harry is leaning against the wall, arms folded in front of his chest, a wide smile on his lips. His eyes are bright, meeting her gaze and nodding encouragingly. Amelie can see Harry mouth, je t’aime, baby, and a tear slips down her cheek.

Her breath is shaky as she continues, unable to fully comprehend how she missed him being right there. Harry would’ve never missed this. “Our relationship didn’t start stereotypically or conventionally, and it certainly never wound up that way, but there is nothing that I would change. He showed me what it was like to love all of me and to love me unconditionally. He is my best friend and without a doubt my biggest fan. He taught me what it meant, even in bad weather, to bloom,” Amelie smiles brightly at Harry, her eyes meeting his and their stares portraying that they are the only people in the room.

Maybe, to them, they are.

“That’s what this exhibit is. A Year in Bloom. Good weather, bad weather. Always the good and the bad. Quotes from songs and broken branches and dead flowers and fresh blooms are scattered because blooming is also subjective. There’s not one right way to do it.”

Amelie knows what the final lines of her speech say, but her heart knows what she should say. Making the decision in a split second, she tucks the notecards into her palm and slides her hands into her pockets, her eyes solely focused on Harry as she breathes. “To the person that taught me how to bloom,” she says softly, her voice wavering as tears well in her eyes. Amelie has never said these words first, to anyone, and certainly not in front of nearly sixty people. “I love you, to Jupiter and to Pluto and to the moon, around the stars, and all the way back to wherever you are.” Harry pinches his bottom lip, the tears in his eyes glossing over the emerald that she adores. “Enjoy the exhibit, everyone. I hope you find the inspiration that makes you want to bloom.”

Harry waits patiently – impatiently, more so – for everyone to make their introductions and congratulations to Amelie. His lips are spread into the widest smile, replaying the words over and over in his head. Hearing Amelie say, I love you, and say so with their friends and family and strangers there, made Harry’s heart want to burst in his chest. He was happy saying, je t’aime – it was something that was theirs, that only they would say to each other, and it would never lose meaning. Hearing her say, I love you, though, and saying it first. That changes everything.

“Is it my turn to meet the artist? Ms Beneventini, I’m a big fan,” Harry teases, his eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as she presses her lips to his, kissing him deeply. Her arms wrap around his shoulders, her face tucking into his neck, his hands holding her hips and squeezing her tightly. He kisses her hairline, his fingertips running along her spine soothingly. “Can’t believe you just said that.”

“Me either,” Amelie giggles, taking a breath and moving her face away from his neck. Her eyes meet his and her throat is itching to say the words all over again. “I love you.”

“I love you more.” His grin is enough to make her heart melt. His words said back to him, the three words that mean more than anything, the smiles that they’re sharing – there is nothing that could change the way this moment is going to be theirs forever. “That speech was incredible. You are incredible, Amelie.”

“Thought you were going to be late.”

“Never.” Harry tucks a stray curl behind her ear, the baby pink making an appearance in light of the holidays. He would have to say that the pink is his favourite. “Know that you said I taught you,” he sighs, his thumb caressing her cheek as her hands cling to his shoulders. “Hope you know, though, that you taught me what that meant at all.” His hand moves under her chin and coaxes her to meet his stare. “This is all you. None of this is me. This is all Amelie.”

“Thank you,” Amelie smiles, chastely kissing his cheek and hugging him tightly. Having their moment in private is all that she wanted, to say the three words in private, even with saying it in her speech. Having a moment that will be their forever, and no one else’s. “Je t’aime.”

“Je t’aime,” Harry say, interlocking their fingers, and staring at the opening wall and the painting that drawn in front of them, his lips returning the kiss to her cheek. “Always.”

Harry takes in the sight before him, the recreation of the mural that hangs in the restaurant where they met, where they talked about the stars and the façades and the sky. His heart pinches in his chest, knowing the subtleties behind the faux bloom, the painting of a painting because it never actually is what it is proclaimed to be. Amelie taught him that.

Harry remembers the day Amelie was flipping through her textbook, searching for a concept to recreate for one of her digital art courses. Naturally, Amelie decided on “Ceci n’est pas une pipe” by René Magritte. He remembers her explanation going something along the lines of, Because it is a painting, it is not truly a pipe. In order for it to be a pipe, it would have to be a physical object. Therefore, this truly is not a pipe. It’s a painting of a pipe. Harry asked what Amelie would recreate to represent the metaphor, the imagery, and three days later, the recreation of the painting was finished. This is a metaphor to a full bloom. Because it’s a painting, it is not truly a bloom. In order for it to be a bloom, it would have to be the physical flowers and bushes and trees. Therefore, this isn’t a bloom, this is a painting of a bloom.

January was the very first month they met, the first month they got to know each other. Amelie wasn’t blooming yet, she wasn’t even close, and Harry had no idea.

On the next painting, there is a whiskey bottle – much like the soap dispenser in her kitchen – with a single daisy sitting perfectly in the windowsill on the next painting. Harry could identify her apartment for anything, and he remembers the day after his birthday, the night they agreed to date officially, coming back to her apartment and bringing her a single flower from Martha’s flower shop near the café. Amelie nearly jumped out of her broken chair at the dining table because the flower in her vase died earlier in the morning, and the thought of Harry paying that much attention made her want to cry. Harry noticed, then, that it was the little things that made her happy, that meant the most.

Harry assumed that the next painting would be themed through March, and there was a hesitation in his step. Amelie noticed, holding his hand tighter and kissing his knuckles encouragingly.

Her infamous honeybee jar spread across a landscape canvas, bright yellows and greens; the white stumps that sit below the bee’s black belly perfectly portrayed. There are two sprouting flowers, one with a broken stem, one with a falling leaf. Two flowers, a rose and a sunflower. Harry could assume that the rose would represent him, and there was a pang in his chest at the thought that that’s how she could see him, that she saw him. Harry was distraught, broken, and Amelie was there to lift him back up.

Harry didn’t know that Amelie was struggling, too.

His hands are sweaty in hers, yet neither seems to care. Comfortable silence settles over them as they walk slowly, taking the time to soak in every moment and every stroke on the canvas that was worked on for the last five months.

His heart warmed at the sight of her mother’s garden, the bright flowers and bushes and trees, the colours the shades of the rainbow and expressed in the perfect strokes and technique. All of it was bright. Happiness and love radiated through the flowers. And then Harry notices it, the quote scribbled in the pattern of the stems, the quote that Amelie knew only Harry would find.

‘all the colours’ painted in the background of the stems.

Harry wants to say something, yet the words are caught in his throat. Amelie smiles knowingly, kissing his jaw and nodding, not worrying him with speaking just yet. Knowing that a work is about you and your relationship can be very emotional, and Harry was one to feel everything.

Harry could recognise the meadow in the next painting without any prompting. Gemma grins at him across the venue, nodding to where there are tiny words written on the tree. He remembers their very first visit to meet his family, the way the thumb wrestled to decide who would carve their initials into the tree, the kiss they shared privately, the laughter that echoed around the flowers and the grass and the trees without any intrusions. That moment was just Harry and Amelie. Happiness.

‘you and me’ carved into the tree, only for Harry to know what it means.

June portrayed the bouquet of sunflowers and roses that Harry sent from Vienna. Sunflowers standing tall against the crooked chair that Harry hated more than anything, the roses clinging to the light of the sun passing through the window that sat directly next to her bed. Moonlight hung over the vase, and the only thing replaying in Harry’s mind is when Amelie whispered that they’re always staring at the same moon.

Harry gulps stepping to the next painting. Cuts slash against the canvas, the vase of sunflowers that are painted in the middle of her kitchen counter, smashed, glass across the painted marble. Tickets are set beneath one of the dying flowers, the slash nearly taking it out of sight.

Harry’s eyes well with tears, his mind tracing back to what Jenny told him in the car on the way to see her in August. Amelie used to slash her canvases on the bad days. Harry wonders what day this was, to make her feel so low, that he wasn’t there for. His eyes sting as the tears fall down his cheeks, the emotions overwhelming at the thought. His heart broke for his beautiful girl, for the feelings and the memories that he could never take away. He would take all of her pain away if he could, and seeing the heartache set everything in a new perspective.

Amelie lightly tugs on Harry’s hand, nodding towards the next wall. Harry would stay searching for details through July’s painting, and Amelie knew that wouldn’t be healthy for him.

Harry takes in the Malibu beach that they know quite well, the blooming flowers amongst the dunes and the stray grass, one lavender flower growing out of the sand. On the beach, waves are crashing, the sun is shining bright, and Harry knows exactly what day this painting is based on. On the reflection of the water, there is writing to their favourite song across the waves. On the edge of the canvas, there is a polaroid camera and a sketchbook, an outlook on her personality to those that do not know, and an ode to the day they said the three words to Harry.

Crashing among the waves, ‘too young to burn’, is scripted in the deepest blue writing.

Harry takes a minute to recognise the scenery of the next painting. Knowing that it’s a bit unfamiliar but he’s been there before, his mind wracks through their many adventures across Los Angeles for flower shops, trying to remember one moment among the rest. Amelie giggles, nodding to the very evident title at the edge of the canvas. Mon Petit Fleur adorning the edge of the black and white shaded painting, one singular daisy painted white and yellow and baby pink. Harry pointed it out in her grandfather’s shop, the hybrid one he’s never seen. He mentioned that should she colour in her thigh tattoo one day, that if she decided to colour the daisy, she should make it the baby pink theme. Harry said that the colours reminded him of her – lovely.

October is the vase that she teased in the London house, the glass vase that extends nearly to the height of the ceiling light above the island. Harry added irises and aster to the vase before her arrival, only to have a strict talking to about how pairing similar colour flowers aren’t how to accentuate the scene or beauty, that you have to pair complimentary colours and arrange the bouquet in a sweet way. Harry learnt more about flowers and art in the three weeks that they travelled together then the eight months they’d been dating altogether.

November is their garden at their house in Los Angeles. All of the flowers are bloomed, the bright yellows and pastel purples and pinks and the reds and scarlets and oranges and burgundy and violets that are going to scatter their window boxes and the walkway in full bloom. Harry knows that their flowers haven’t bloomed yet, as the season isn’t near, but there is a feeling of hope radiating through the centre of the flowers and the sun and bees neatly swirling around with pollen.

Harry’s eyes sting with tears at the painting on the very last wall, their reactions secluded in a corner, Amelie’s hand squeezing his comfortingly.

December is a vision of a tall rose and a daisy, each painting beautifully under a dark sky, a moon clinging to the canvas and the stars decorating the distance. On the edge of the canvas, there are two distant circles aligned, meeting where the leaves of the rose and the daisy intertwine. Harry blinks away tears, taking a second glance at the painting to see the stars write out a message.

aligned.

Amelie purses her lips together nervously, heaving a heavy breath waiting for Harry’s response, her thumb drying a tear falling down his cheek. Her hand holds his cheek gently, her heart swelling at the way he leans into her touch. Harry kisses her fingertips, her palm, her wrist, his hands inching towards her face and hesitantly taking her cheeks in his hands. His eyes search for permission, asking to kiss her in the deepest way in the private corner of his exhibit, the only way to express how he feels in that moment. Amelie nods quietly, assuring him that he is alright.

Harry kisses Amelie with all of the love that swells in his chest, and there is nothing else to say.

~

Going out together for the very first time, Harry could feel the sweat on Amelie’s palm and the shakiness in her grasp. His hand holds her hips comfortingly, his sweatshirt clinging to her torso, her cheek leaning on his shoulder as their table is set in the corner, quiet and away to have their night alone. Gemma and Michal took to a different restaurant for drinks, Amelie’s family making the drive back to Pasadena, Jeff and Glenne going to their house nearby. Only a few hours left of the day to celebrate themselves, and Harry wanted to celebrate Amelie.

Harry’s ankles locked around Amelie’s foot, her spoon falling to the ice cream coated brownie in the plate so deliciously prepared. Her laughter echoes through the private space, and Harry swears that his heart will give out with how much he loves her.

“Are you trying to play footsie with me?” Amelie giggles, licking her spoon and meeting his stare, oblivious to the young girl staring at her from across the restaurant. “You know we do live together, which means you don’t have to flirt with me; you’ve already got me in your bed.”

“Have since Day One, haven’t I?” Harry smirks, leaning his spoon towards her mouth, only to bring the bite to his lips.

“Day Two, actually,” she says, licking her lips and shrugging her shoulders. “Got you in my bed on the first night.”

“Think I’ll write a whole song just about that night.”

“Think I’m surprised you haven’t already.”

“Excuse me. Who says I haven’t?” Harry scoffs, knocking his spoon against hers for the very last bite. “Thumb wrestle for it?”

“You’re a child,” she sighs, shaking her head and lifting her hand to hold his, their thumbs dancing around each other. “Baby, you do realise you’re going to be twenty-two years old, in two months, and you’re thumb wrestling your girlfriend for the last bite of a brownie.”

“Doll, you do realise you’re twenty-one and thumb wrestling your boyfriend for the last bite of a brownie,” he smirks, holding her thumb and kissing her knuckle, releasing their hands to take the very last bite. He takes the bite, only half of the brownie between his lips, his tongue darting to lick the remaining ice cream. He holds the spoon to her lips, smiling as she wraps her mouth around the spoon and takes the bite. “Couldn’t be prouder of you, you know.”

Amelie’s cheeks blush, the sleeves of the sweatshirt curling around her hands as she smiles at Harry. He pays for their dessert, thanking the staff for their privacy and kindness, holding his hand out for her to take as they walk outside. He found a space around the block, giving them a nice walk before they would settle in and be on their way home.

“Um, excuse me?”

Harry turns around nervously, his hand still holding Amelie’s tightly and her fingers tucked into the pocket of his sweatshirt. Her hand squeezed his reassuringly, silently saying that everything would be okay. Having their relationship under the radar was the best thing for them, especially with the threatening anxiety around the corner and the hate from fans knowingly evil. He releases her hand reluctantly, setting his comfortingly on her back. He isn’t going anywhere; he needs her to know.

“You’re Amelie, right? I went to your exhibit today.” Harry’s lips spread into a grin, gently nudging Amelie forward and taking a step back to let them speak. “I am absolutely obsessed with your work. It’s what made me want to paint, again. I went through something similar with my mental health, and seeing your exhibit really inspired me.”

“Oh my god,” Amelie says, smiling brightly at the young girl who stood in front of her. “I’m so happy that you’re painting, again. Takes a lot of courage, you know that?”

The young girl has tears in her eyes, nodding her head and biting her lip. “Not a lot of people would be so open about it, and I can’t say thank you enough.”

Amelie opens her arms, graciously accepting the hug that she’s given. “Do you have social media or something? I’d love to send you something.”

“Oh my god, yeah.”

“Baby, can I have my phone?” Amelie asks, smiling as Harry takes her phone out of his pocket and hands it to her. Her fingertips type the information into her notes, the girl - no more than fifteen - holding her hands together nervously. “Perfect.”

“My mom said that I shouldn’t bother you because it looked like you were on a date,” Mollie – the girl – says, shaking her head and looking at her feet. “Hope I’m not bothering you.”

“Absolutely not,” Amelie says reassuringly. “We were just leaving. I’m at the exhibit all week.”

“I know! I’m coming again, tomorrow, with my friends!” Amelie grins, handing her phone back to Harry, returning her attention to Mollie gushing about the exhibit. “Before you go, could I take a picture with you?”

“Sure.” Amelie smiles as Mollie hands Harry her phone, completely oblivious to who he is. Mollie tucks her arm around Amelie’s waist as the picture is taken, her smile bright and spread across her lips. “Thank you so much, sweetheart.”

“Thank you for making me want to paint, again,” Mollie says, hearing her mother call her name and quickly rushing away.

Harry grabs Amelie’s cheeks, pressing his lips to her and smiling widely. “God, I am so proud of you.” His hand takes hers, their fingers laced together, and their bodies tucked against each other, walking against the wind to the car and having their cheeks turn a slight shade of red with the chill. He opens the door, mumbling, bisous, before letting her inside.

“Can’t believe someone wanted to talk to me.”

“Told you that you inspire people,” Harry says, kissing her hand and holding it tightly in his lap. “You inspire me, mon ange.”

Amelie’s lips spread into a smile, her head turning to give him the sleepiest grin. Her eyes flutter shut, her body falling into a complete state of calm with the music playing lowly in the background. ���You inspire me, ma lune. Honestly, it would have had a pretty depressing exhibit, if you weren’t in my life.”

“Well, I’m here,” Harry smiles, squeezing her hand and admiring her eyes, the exhaustion beginning to take over the adrenaline, “and I will be for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Think I’ll keep you forever, then.” Quiet settles over their car as they drive the short distance to their house, their favourite songs playing in the background.

“Sounds like a good plan, doll,” Harry agrees, pulling into their garage and turning the engine off, admiring her as she yawns and sleepily climbs out of the car. “Let’s go to bed, yeah?”

“Mhm,” she hums, waiting for Harry to lock the car and the garage door before walking up the stairs and opening their bedroom door. Her feet drag towards the bathroom, stripping out of her clothes before she’s made it inside, Harry’s lips quirking into a smirk at the sight. “Can feel you burning a hole in my ass with your staring.”

“Hey, you look at your art and I’ll look at mine,” he smirks, a bright smile on his lips as she shakes her head, giggling quietly in the mirror. His fingers set the alarm in their wardrobe, shutting the door and following the pattern of their nightly routine as Amelie wipes the makeup off her face.

He walks into the bathroom, his hip knocking into her as he settles against the sink, setting his toothbrush and casting his eyes on her as she swiftly changes out of the blouse and simply into his sweatshirt. Amelie lived in it, the one Harry bought specifically to wear for her, and it made his heart warm to think about it.

“Means a lot that you came,” Amelie says, drying her face on a towel and patting her skin. “Know that you’ve had to fly all over hell and highwater for me. Thanksgiving, then graduation, and then the exhibit. Means the world to me,” she whispers, her words only loud enough for him to hear. “I love you.”

Harry smiles the widest grin; the words sinking into his heart and filled his belly with butterflies. He rinses his mouth with water, the mint coating his lips as he takes her hand and brings her into his chest, kissing her sweetly. “I love you more. To the moon, and Jupiter, and Pluto, around all the stars, and all the way back to wherever you are.”

“That’s a lot of love.”

“And there’s no one on this earth more deserving of it than you.”

Maybe Harry’s right. Maybe that much love is deserved.

Amelie smiles, having her lips on his once more, savouring the sweetness of the moment. Their kiss isn’t hurried or secret – it’s in their bedroom, in their home. Only them. Only their love filling the house and the bedroom and the satin sheets. Harry caresses her cheek, kissing her forehead and turning the bathroom light, surrounding them in only the light centred in their bedroom.

“Maybe I should buy your flight, now,” Harry mentions, untucking his corner on the comforter and climbing under the covers. “Know that we have it and the flights won’t sell out or summat.”

“Alright,” Amelie yawns, bringing the comforter over her shoulders and tucking into Harry’s chest. Her vision is slightly hazy as she stares at the phone, his fingers tapping against the screen and writing in all the information for the flight purchase.

Amelie’s stomach twists with nerves, anxiety making her heartbeat erratic and her breathing uneven. Her thoughts are overwhelming in her mind, and there is a hesitation that has never been there before. All they were doing was buying her a flight. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was something else. Manchester for Boxing Day, then jetting to St. Bart’s for a holiday with Anne and Robin and Harry and one or two others that she wasn’t sure about.

Harry’s fingers draw on her back soothingly, his thumb locking his phone and setting it on the bedside table once he’s finished, the light turning off and the moonlight shining through the curtain. Her fingers are splayed over his abdomen, her breathing slightly unsteady. He doesn’t think much of it, assuming that she’s having a hard time falling asleep. He hums, quietly calling his own sleep forward.

As Amelie lays there, wide awake and unable to catch her breath, there is a feeling in her stomach that something is going to go wrong, very wrong. And she isn’t too sure if she’s ready to handle it.

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