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#bc two rows in a box
justthatspiffy · 5 months ago
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for somebody who does printing and also worked housekeeping it is hilarious how much of a baby i am about my hands. they are princess hands and they will never harden to the work required of them and every time i break a nail or get a paper cut or a bunch of microabraisions across my knuckles i WILL get emotional about it
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colliepropaganda · a year ago
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Anyone else's Barkbox just suck lately
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shotani · 11 months ago
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speaking of fathers, respectfully, if i come across one more papa nylander card i’m gonna cry
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greenorangevioletgrass · 19 days ago
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it's classified | b.r.b. (2/2)
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<<<read part 1 here>>>
pairing: bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw x actress!reader
summary: what was supposed to be a simple one-night stand during the training for your upcoming movie turns into an epic strangers-to-lovers-to-enemies-to-friends-lovers adventure… 10,000 feet in the air.
word count: 4.9k
warnings: language, more behind-the-scenes nerdiness, mention of menstrual cramps, La La Land reference lol, mutual pining, idiots in love, fluff, smut [dirty talk, oral (f), fingering, overstimulation, protected sex], rooster is secretly a softboi, reader is so stubborn skjdhfksjdhf
notes: here we are, part 2! they're my new precious baby can't you tell? please join me in this dumpster fire. reblog, send me asks, talk to me bc a bitch is horny, okay???? happy reading!
✨ i do not have a taglist. follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass to get notified for my latest words <3 happy reading and please reblog if you liked it! ✨
***
iv. Jimi Hendrix — Purple Haze / John Mayer — Do You Know Me
The first couple of weeks are rough. The flight training is hell —even when the G-Force doesn’t feel as bad and you start to enjoy the view of the mountains and the sea and everything else in between, you’re still locked in the box with Rooster. Day in, day out.
The only reprieve in this pre-production is the filmmaking workshop. Not only will you be flying in the actual jet, but you will also have to handle all the technical aspects while you’re in the air. Sound and makeup and props and cinematography… everything that has to do with filmmaking —and nothing with Rooster. At least on those days, you get a break from his insufferable mug.
“Morning.” The man in question walks into the classroom in his khakis, fitted to his form, taking the empty seat right in front of you.
“Um, what are you doing here?” You lean forward over your desk, whispering quietly. Careful not to raise any attention.
He turns around, resting his elbow on your desk, and answers quite matter-of-factly, “They asked us to come in. Something about making sure everyone’s on the same page to get the lighting and the framing and the… everything right.” 
Like clockwork, the door opens again, and this time Lieutenants Mickey ‘Fanboy’ Garcia and Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin stroll in, deep in conversation with the movie’s leading man John Cho. They take the front row seats, greeting the class with a brief nod.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. “That’s… great. Welcome to filmmaking.”
“Happy to be here.” To everyone, it sounds like ordinary passing niceties. But you know better. You hear the hint of sarcasm in his voice. The pettiness of making your day absolute dogshit with his presence.
The two of you exchange a tight, wry smile as Scott, the first AD, opens up the session. There’s no snarky remark, no quippy comebacks. Not when anyone else is around —or the comm lines are open. Neither of you would risk being less than professional in the workplace. No matter how much you detest each other. No matter if your effort to deter each other from this project only seems to only bring you closer together.
As the old saying goes, you make plans and Kevin laughs and assigns Rooster as your designated pilot.
Which is why you’re now strapped into the cockpit with four cameras in your face, a makeup pouch hidden in your flight suit, and a notebook scribbled with cheat sheets of instructions and technical notes. Hovering above the California mountains, 1,000 feet in the air.
“So what’s our plan here, Houdini?” Rooster says over the comms.
He damn well knows what the plan is. Whether he asks to test you or let you take the wheel as ‘in-flight director’, you have no idea. “I need the sun on my 2 o’clock. When I call ‘action’, we’re gonna head north and floor it while I say my line, and then we do a hammerhead.”
“Up or down?”
So he was testing you. “If we go down, we’ll crash,” you say it like it’s obvious —because it is. But you confirm anyway, “Hammerhead up, Rooster.”
He chuckles. “Copy that. Ready when you are.”
Today, of all days, you’re not gonna let Rooster rain on your parade. You stare at the panel before you, giddy as you press the mic button, “Sound speed…”you announce with a clap to mark the track. “Camera rolling…” you straighten in your seat a little. “Let’s go. First take of the shoot. Scene 49, shot 13, take 1. And…” You take a deep breath, and hear Rooster doing the same. Inhale… exhale…
“Action!”
You’ve played characters which transformed your appearance and mannerisms in small, intense dramas set in Butt Fuck Midwest. You’ve acted opposite tennis balls and green screens in those movies with more money than sense. You’ve been through the wringer. But never in your life would you have imagined playing a pilot on the back of an actual, accelerating F-18 over real terrain.
And everything else falls away. There’s just you and the sky and the story.
No more airsickness. No more nerves. No more games with Rooster. 
Even he seems to understand that. Since that day, he’s gotten off of your back a little bit when you’re in the air. Things aren’t in great terms, by any means, but at least there’s no backhanded remarks. None of the usual unease. The two of you just stayed in your own lanes.
“We got you, Trickshot. I got the bandit on my sight. Locking target…” your voice is calm, even at top speed. “Oh, shit, shit, shit!” The aircraft does an aileron roll, maneuvering a full 360-degree. You let the cameras roll for a moment, taking off your mask as you breathe a sigh of relief as the jet goes upright again. 
“Nice,” you hear Rooster say under his breath as soon as you call ‘cut.’
“What?” 
“Nothing.” There’s a slight pause, and you can imagine the side-eye he always does. “Reset?”
“Yeah. Let’s… do it again.”
The butterflies in your stomach are pleasant, and you’re sure it’s the adrenaline from pulling sustained G’s on low terrain. Not so much from things… easing up between you and Rooster.
Never from Rooster. 
But things do ease up. You’re not quite friends, and at this point you’re not expecting to be, but things dissipate into a more… civil acquaintance. A working professional relationship. The kind where you give each other opinions about the work.
“I like the previous one better,” he casually comments during a quiet lull one day.
You’re in the middle of adjusting your helmet for continuity, and you stop dead in your tracks. “You were paying attention?”
“‘Course. I had to.”
You’re not sure which one is more surprising; that he’s listening in on all the takes you’ve done, or that he’s right. Come to think of it, it’s probably the first time you’ve actually agreed on something. And it’s… not too shabby. 
Not too shabby at all. 
But of course, not every day is a good day. Some days, like today, you’re filming an intense dogfighting scene while having the most excruciating period cramps. You’ve taken some ibuprofen earlier, but either it has worn off or the cramps multiply with the G-Force, but it doesn’t seem to be working —if any, you seem to be in even more pain.
“So, from the top?”
If you weren’t in so much pain, you would’ve pointed out how he’s using performance lingo now. “Yeah, yeah. Give me a sec.” A deep breath as you brace yourself. And another. “Alright, let me just set it up real quick —” a squeezing pain shoots up your spine and you let out a strangled grunt.
“All good back there?”
“Mm-hm. Just… just cramps is all.”
“Stretch your legs. Try wiggling your toes.”
You chuckle ruefully. “It’s not that kind of cramps.”
“What —oh. Oh. Shit. Um… Do we —do we need medic? Do we need to land?”
“What, and leave your boy Hangman hanging?” you chuckle wryly, throwing a two-finger salute at the pilot in the jet hovering next to yours. Behind you is Kevin in the Cinejet, ready to shoot the dogfight sequence from a bird’s eye view. There’s no way in hell you’re tapping out now. “Nah, it’s cool. Let’s do it again.”
“Right…” the hesitation is palpable in his response, but he goes along anyway. “But you head over to the infirmary when we’re done, okay?”
You almost forget how caring he can be, even amidst the chaos and the simmering animosity. He doesn’t pull back on the aerobatics, although he’s a lot steadier in between takes—even more so than usual. He follows up on that promise as soon as you hop out, and tightly offers to help you. You wave him off, saying it’s fine I’m fine, gritting your teeth as the muscles inside you contract painfully. He notices, undoubtedly, but he gives you space and lets you walk yourself to the med bay. It’s… sweet.
What you don’t expect is seeing him in the basecamp hangar just an hour later. Sitting in a quiet corner, out of the crew’s way —a bottle of water in one hand and his phone in the other. Hair mussed up from the helmet, a furrow between his eyebrows as he focuses on his screen.
You’re on the way to the video village, but you can’t help making a beeline towards him. “What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to fly John out.”
“I let Fanboy take the wheel,” he looks up at you and immediately scoots over, and you try not to think about the row of empty seats around him. It’s only polite to take the seat he’s inadvertently offering you. “It’s not everyday he gets to fly Hikaru Sulu himself.”
“Oh, that’s right. He’s a Star Trek fan.” You fondly recall the unmistakable font on the pilot’s helmet.
He nods. “You, uh, you good?”
“Better now.” You lean back against the chair, and tilt your head to the side like you’re letting him in on a secret. “I don’t know if you’ve ever pulled 7 G’s while you’re bleeding from your core and your insides are tearing itself apart, but that’s… an experience.”
You swear you hear him smile a little. “I don’t think I have. But you held up really well.”
“Thank you,” as soon as it comes out of your mouth, you realize it’s not just for his compliment. Or for caring.
For everything. 
“Nah, it’s cool.” He seems to get it, if the pensive looks on his face was any indication.
“I know things weren’t always easy between us. We got off on the wrong foot —”
“Oh, I think we got off on the right foot,” he corrects you, somewhat amused, “until you stepped on it, steel-toed boots and all, broke the bones.”
You see the mischievous glint in his hazel eyes—the one that goes along with his corny one-liners— and you laugh. “Come on, will you let me have my moment here? Shit.”
He laughs with you, quiet but warm. It’s probably the first time you shared anything more than a gruff hmph in months, and it feels… nice.
“Okay, okay. You were saying?”
You turn to look at him —really look— and suddenly you’re overcome with the need to hold his hand. You don’t, of course, but you settle for the next best thing. “It’s just… I’m glad that we work well together. Despite everything.”
“Hey, don’t sweat it, it’s…” he brushes it off. “I mean, I’ve never done anything like this before either, and it wouldn’t have been the same without you.” His eyes find yours, and you question, is he still talking about flying? “You’re really good up there —I mean, I wouldn’t know shit about acting or directing, but you’re… tough. And efficient.”
It’s a funny compliment, but you take it. It puts you at ease, knowing that neither of you has a good enough grasp of the situation to act cool. “Thanks, Roo-Roo.”
He scrunches his nose, but his smile is palpable. “Don’t call me that.”
“Okay,” you chuckle.
“I’m serious, Houdini. It’s bad for my rep.”
“Sure it is.”
There’s no edge to his warning, just as there’s no stiffness in your answer. It’s a light, familiar banter that the two of you so easily fall back into. For a second, you wonder how you’ve gone this long without it. It’s one of the best things about him. This light, affable air around him, whether you’re tumbling in his sheets or flying in his jet.
(Never the former. Not anymore.)
A jet taxis back into the tarmac, fresh from a flight, and the two of you watch John and Fanboy hop out of the plane, talking animatedly as they walk back into the hangar. It warms your heart to see that, knowing full well the buzz, the adrenaline of a flight well done yourself.
“You were right, by the way.” you nudge Rooster’s knee with yours.
“Hm?” He makes no effort to move his leg, and for a nice, quiet moment, you’re just sitting knee-to-knee. Comfortable. As intimate as it can be. 
And with the orange sky sprawling outside, you’re ready to admit it,
“It is so much more than clouds and oceans from a tiny window.”
***
v. Melt — Stupid in Love / Taylor Swift — Cornelia Street
Rooster is a friend.
He works well with you at rehearsals in the wooden aircraft mockup, clear as precise as he is on the field. In the air, he stays in his lane —although his dry, off-the-cuff remarks are always a nice addition to your flights.
And in between all of that, you learn new things about him everyday; where his callsign came from, why he thinks tea is just brown garbage water, how he likes musicals and old romcoms —a fact he’s embarrassed about, until you unabashedly admit that you like the same thing.
If that revelation turns into a movie night at your place, and said movie night becomes a regular thing, you try not to think about it too much. In fact, you try your damnedest not to think about it at all. Rooster is a friend, and friends hang out and watch movies together… right? The fluttery feeling in your stomach is completely baseless.
Completely without any valid reason.
“I still think his character is an insufferable fuckhead who takes jazz too seriously,” Rooster turns up his nose, looking at Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone on your TV screen, “But when they started floating and dancing and shit… ugh!”
“I still can’t believe you’re a sucker for this kind of movie,” you shake your head at him with an amused grin.
“Look. With everything that goes down everyday at work, I need something light, low-stake, and as far from my job as possible. And seeing people dance among the stars and all that… it’s like a massage for my brain,” he hums in satisfaction, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “What about you?”
“Hm? What about me?”
“You do movies, you’re watching a movie. Doesn’t this still feel like work to you?”
“Well, yes and no. There are times where I watch movies to study, but I also like doing it just for kicks, you know?” you answer thoughtfully. “Besides, I’ve gone through all the stages of grief with La La Land.”
“Why?”
You take your time to craft your next words delicately, without sounding like a pathetic humblebrag. “The, uh… director wrote it with me in mind.”
“What?!”
“Yeah…” you wince. “Damien approached me before he even had a script. We workshopped drafts after drafts after drafts… and then the studio decided I wasn’t a big enough name to sell the movie, so.” You shrug lightly. It’s not so much the memory that makes your heart twist, but rather the quiet look of guilt washing over him. It was his choice of movie, after all. 
“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have —you know.”
“Nah, it’s cool. The movie turned out great. And I turned out fine. I mean, look at me, I’m in Top Gun, for fuck’s sake.”
He puts his arm around your shoulders comfortingly, although you feel your pulse picking up from the contact. “And you’re killing it.”
“Thanks, Roo.” You allow yourself to lean on his shoulder. The smell of sunscreen and aftershave is faint this time, but it’s still the same embrace. Same warmth.
Same man.
The featherlight patterns he draws on your bare arm feels so loud in the silence. You can almost see the buzzing heat emanating from your skin. Time slows down, and opportunity presents itself the more you try to repress it. And at this point, you’re not sure you have any strength left to fight it.
Instead, you bury your face deeper into him, pressing kisses along the broad plane of his shoulder. Up his neck. Along his jaw. Chaste. Tender. You half-expect him to pounce on you —to take the reins on this drawn-out affair— but he… doesn’t. He just melts into you. Letting you close the distance to his lips.
It feels like a fever dream. Your body moves on its own accord —deepening the kiss, straddling his lap, touching him everywhere— but your mind… There’s so many thoughts, one conflicting with the other, that you don’t even know where to start.
“God, I want you so bad…” he mutters under his breath, mouthing your breasts over your clothes.
And honestly, why would you deal with the chaos in your head when you can enjoy this?
Roo hikes up your shirt, his rough callused hands gentle against your skin as he tugs it over your head. He unclasps your bra with one hand, mouth hot against your soft flesh and diamond-hard nipples. It’s easy —too fucking easy to fall into this… routine, if you could even call it that. You’ve only been here twice, but he touches you like he knows you. 
“Can I taste you?“ Bradley quietly whispers, and you realize, this is the only thing he hasn’t done. “Please?” He tugs at your lower lip with his teeth, teasing. Pleading. “Been thinking about it for ages…”
Jesus. This man is gonna be the death of you. 
His tongue slips into your mouth again, filthy and messy and you’d laugh at how much this screams ‘cheesy 80s romance’ if you hadn’t forgotten how words work. “Well?”
You look at him like it’s obvious—because it is.
“Need you to say it.” There’s a smirk in his sing-songy voice.
“Roo…” You blink heavily at him. “Eat my fucking pussy, please.”
His hands are on your waist and the next thing you know, you softly land on your back on the couch. He finds the waistband of your shorts and pulls everything down in one go, yanking them off and throwing it over his shoulder. His mustache tickles you as he kisses your ankle, along your calf, the inside of your knee. Teeth grazing as he makes his way up your inner thighs. Tongue licking up the dripping arousal on your cunt. And just like that, he renders you speechless.
Scratch that. He renders you entranced.
There’s something so sinful about the way he eats you out. You really shouldn’t be surprised —you know he’s a good fuck— and yet here you are. Clutching the back of his head, fingers tangled in his sun-kissed hair, hips chasing —dancing with his tongue as he drinks you in, from your opening to your clit.
The words are lost. There’s just hot breath and the strongest desire to taste him on your lips. And as his hand plays with your tits, you grab him by the wrist, taking it up to your mouth. Kissing his knuckles.
Sucking his finger.
“Holy fuck…” he moans into your pussy, and you swear you nearly come on the spot.
But he takes his hand away, gently, heavily, and brings it down to where he’s ruining you. All wet and ready, his fingers slip inside you, coaxing pleasure with every curling motion. From there, it’s a losing game for you. Then again, if making you come is victory, being struck with aftershocks of overstimulation is not a bad consolation prize. Not at all.
“Fuck. Please…”
“Please what? Please stop?” He kisses your cheek, slowing down the torture of his hand but not quite stopping. You can’t see his face, but you can hear the coy smirk in his voice. “Or keep going?”
Fuck him, you think to yourself. But instead, what comes out of your mouth is a plea. “Fuck me, Roo…”
Your eyes meet in a fleeting moment of wanting, and for a moment, the two of you move in a frenzy of lascivious kisses and hands groping and discarding whatever articles of clothing he has left. You unbutton his jeans, taking in his strained groan when you palm his hard-on through the offending material, when he suddenly stops.
“Wait. Shit, I don’t have a —”
“I do,” you quickly cut off. Then, pulling him up to his feet, you lead him down the hallway, “Bedroom.”
“Show me the way, honey.”
Maybe it’s the post-nut clarity, or maybe it’s what he called you, but something sobers you up. Not completely, but just enough that the nagging voice in the back of your head starts sounding off.
He seizes you from behind when you get to the foot of the bed, turning you around and kissing you. “Hi,” Roo smiles into your lips. It would’ve given you sweet butterflies, if your stomach wasn’t already twisting all of a sudden.
“Where is it?” he asks, and it takes you a second to remember what he was referring to.
“Um. Top drawer on the left.”
You’re sure he’s taking off his pants, finding the condom and putting it on in record time. But even then, it’s plenty of time for your mind to spiral. What does this mean? Are we gonna go through that awkward phase again? What are we?
He pulls you into his lap, and you hardly notice him settling on the side of the bed. His cock is lined up at your entrance and his lust-blown eyes gazing up at you. “Ready?”
Ready for what? 
You barely sink down on his cock, when the words somehow just come out. The words that you didn’t even know were in the back of your mind. “We should wait.”
“What?” His voice is airy, like he’s not entirely here with you, but it’s immediate —as is the way he stops moving into you.
“We should wait before we decide if we really wanna do this.”
“As in fucking?” he looks at you, hazy. Confused.
“As in… whatever arrangement we’re getting ourselves into here!”
“Oh.” He pauses, thoughtful. And then, “Okay.”
“Okay?” you echo. It can’t be that easy, right?
“Yeah.”
“And you’re not just saying that because you wanna fuck?”
“No. I mean, I do, but…” he swallows heavily, “I like you. A lot. But… Jesus, can we not do it while I’m halfway inside you? It’s really hard to focus.”
A chuckle escapes you as he drops his forehead onto the crook of your neck. Your hand caresses the back of his neck gently. “Okay, okay, okay.”
But he lifts his head again —concern written all over his face as he asks you tentatively, “Unless you don’t wanna do this?”
“No, I do. I do.” And you mean it. His length stretches your inner walls and flexes inside you so invitingly. But the more you try to brush it off, the more persistent it stays in the forefront of your thought.
He lifts you just enough to pull himself out, and then he sits you back down again on his lap. Hands secure around your waist. “Talk to me, Houdini.”
There’s no perfect time to have this conversation. But that night, sitting naked in your bed, joined together but not quite, is probably as good as it gets. You take a heavy breath to brace yourself before you ask the ultimate question.
“What do you want out of this?”
He smiles simply, and it terrifies you that there’s hardly any hesitation in his answer. “I just want you. In every way I can get. I don’t think you ever knew that.”
And the fucked up thing is, you do. You would never admit it —not even to yourself— but part of you always knew. It’s just easier not to acknowledge it, considering everything at stake.
“This is too important to me. Relationships are complicated and messy and… what if we fuck up along the way? We’re just gonna get stuck in the cockpit in shitty silence for the rest of the shoot? We have six months left, Roo. I can’t—we can’t. We shouldn't.”
“Okay.” If he’s disappointed, he doesn’t show it. He simply remains thoughtful, careful. “But don’t you think sex will make things complicated and messy, too?”
“Possibly. But at this point, I don’t think I can stay away from you anymore,” you quietly admit. Then, as soon as it comes out of your mouth, it hits you. “Bleargh, that’s so corny.”
“It rolls off the tongue really nicely, though, right?”
“Yeah, it really does.”
You share a quiet chuckle together, a small moment of reprieve amidst the tension. It’s nice to know that, even stripped down in all senses of the word, things haven’t changed that much. You’re still… you.
“So how do you wanna do this?”
You straighten up, switching back to serious mode. “If we fuck, we fuck. But that’s it. This is not a relationship. We’ll decide if we still want that by the time we’re done filming, or if we wanna just…” you make a motion of parting ways. “But we wait until the end of the shoot, you hear me?”
“Okay.”
It’s too easy, and as honest as he seems, you almost don’t want to trust it. “Promise me. Not a moment sooner.” You cup his face, so he’ll look you in the eye and give it to you straight. “Roo-Roo.”
But then his eyes pierce through you, so sweet and tender, and you hope to God he’ll keep his words because you sure will. “You need to stop calling me that.” he gently, harmlessly chides you. “But yes,” he sighs, tucking your hair behind your ear and leaning into your lips, 
“I promise.”
***
vi. Zoo Culture — Sundress
It’s been three years in the making, with COVID delaying the release multiple times, but you’re finally sitting alongside your co-stars in front of the live audience of Graham Norton, promoting the movie before the London premiere tonight.
“So Y/N, we’ve talked about pushing the boundaries of cinema and the insane stunts you did in this movie —but that’s not all. Your husband is actually the real pilot flying your plane in those aerial sequences.”
“Well, he wasn’t my husband yet at the time. But yeah, that’s how we met.” Your eyes flicker towards the audience, knowing the person in question is sitting in the back row.
Graham gapes at you. “That’s amazing.”
“Love was literally in the air,” your co-star Jordan Fisher comments, earning a laugh from the studio audience.
“So, how did it happen? Did you guys just cozy it up in the jet or what?”
“There’s no room to cozy up in the jet.” You chuckle. “I mean, we spent about a year, training and rehearsing the sequences on the ground and filming the actual thing, so we’d gotten to know each other a bit.” It’s a gross understatement, but a necessary paraphrase. “But on my last day, we were in the air and —I just finished my very last take— and right after I turned off my camera and mic, he said through the comms,” you put your hand over your mouth, mimicking the static over your best Rooster impression. “‘Hey Houdini. How ‘bout I take you out for dinner when we get back on the ground?’”
“And what did you say?”
“‘You smooth motherfucker!’”
The whole studio erupts into laughter and applause. That line is true, and Roo still rolls his eyes playfully whenever you reach this part of the story.
“That is a Hollywood romance plot right there,” Graham gushes excitedly.
“Listen, he’s seen me puke my guts out, pull myself together, and then go back to pretending to do his job for a living. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is,” you say matter-of-factly, “He was like, ‘Yep, she’s the one.’”
Graham turns to your co-stars Jordan and John Cho. “And did you guys know about this? Did you see sparks flying?”
“Oh, yeah. For sure,” Jordan replies without missing a beat. “I don’t know if they knew what was going on at that point, but we knew it was gonna be a thing,” he says, as John nods vigorously in agreement.
“That’s not entirely true,” Roo casually comments as he turns off the TV, striding into the ensuite hotel bathroom.
“What?” You look up and meet his gaze through the mirror, as you take off all your jewelries —the earrings, the bracelets, everything save for the 
He strides closer to you, bow tie undone, sans blazer, helping you take off the many necklaces you’re wearing. God, he looks good. “What you said earlier.”
“What did I say earlier?”
“You never threw up in the cockpit, ever. And we weren’t technically just friends when I asked you out that day,” he points out. “I distinctly remember you calling it a ‘situationship’ back then.”
It makes you smile and turn around, wrapping your arms around his neck while he holds you by the waist. “Let the public have those funny anecdotes.” Toying with the soft strands on the back of his head, “The real version, our version, is… classified.”
He pulls a face. “Bleargh. Who taught you to be so corny?”
You scoff, swatting his chest for ruining the moment. “You did, asshole!”
“I know, sweetheart. I know.” Rooster giggles, kissing your face all over. “No take-backs now. You’ve told the world that I’m your guy. You’re stuck with me forever.”
He may put on a smug grin as much as you roll your eyes in feigned annoyance, but you both know two things: that you are stuck with each other forever, and that you wouldn’t have it any other way.
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hollandcrush · a year ago
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don’t hold back
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college!peter parker x reader
summary: two hormonal students wander into a room during a frat party, what could possibly happen? maybe you discover that under his heart made of pure gold lurks a hidden powerful, dominant side.
word count: 4,685
warnings: alcohol mention, drug mention, but pure pwp smut minors dni (18+) extended warnings below bc i am not trying ruin the innocent :)
a/n: i would like to state that this is much longer than i anticipated.. but anyways, i am just gonna be honest, i have a major size/power kink. so this fic is my ~fucked~ up mind laying it all out for my fellow lil nasties ;) fair warning, this is pure filth. sorry for any mistakes and bad writing. but i hope you enjoy it x and let me know what you think ?!!
taglist || masterlist
extended warnings: thigh riding, body worship, oral (f.rec), dry humping, marking, peter being a boob guy, lil hints of soft!peter, unprotected sex, dirty talk, overstimulation, major power kink, manhandling, size kink, pain kink, praise kink, dom!peter, sadist!peter, squirting, cum play, handjob, body painting/facial, cum eating. think that is it? idk sorry !!
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College was scary for the majority of people. New social circles, new surroundings. It took time for people to adjust. But Peter Parker wasn’t the majority.
The newfound freedom appealed to him. He was used to be a quote on quote loner, a nerd. It was never a desire of his to have big groups of friends or to be popular. He simply liked being by himself. It was fewer people in his life he had to lie to.
In college, people don’t care. They are too busy trying to find their own place in the world. Find their footing on the new terrain. So, they didn’t look twice at the boy who looked way too young to be attending classes. They didn’t care if he dressed in a flannel and sweater. Or if he washed up some morning with an unexplained bruise.
Peter loved that. He could do what he wanted with no one breathing down his back as if he was an adolescent child. No babysitter, just him. And he was happy with just that.
Peter made a few friends in his engineering classes. But their conversations only ever included the advancement or emergence of new technology. He could finally be that independent man he always claimed he was.
It was unusual for him to attend a party, but after the robotics club won their state final, he was persuaded to join the rest in a night of drunkenness. Peter quickly found out his ability to withstand the effects of alcohol was quite the phenomenon. People passing more and more drinks his way, hoping the next would knock him out cold. His superhuman ways always winning the battle.
The boys had ended up in a frat house, partying with people, who on a regular day, would never give them a second glance. Yet tonight, they were the centerpiece. I mean, whatever excuse a frat house can get to host a party, they would take it.
Peter was standing idle in the corner of the living room, fascinated by the people who were rolling blunts shamelessly on the coffee table. His hand was clutched around a red solo cup, the remains of his eighth drink begging to be chugged.
“Hey, you are Parker? Peter Parker?” The call of his sudden name caused him to perk up, wondering who said it.
Your soft eyes met his. A grin plastered across your face as you stalked closer to him. “Sorry, you are in my chemistry class. You taking it as an elective?”
Peter’s body stiffened, not use to female attention, unless they were asking for help with homework. He cleared his throat, swirling the plastic cup in his shaky hands. “Uh, yeah. I like chemistry.” He mentally wanted to punch himself for how nerdy he must’ve sounded.
His uneasiness was settled when he heard you giggle, the sound causing him to blush. “I like you Peter Parker.”
It was a blunt statement, but you were in no mood for beating around the bush. A light buzz gave you all the confidence you needed. His cheeks were now bright red, face burning up. The room closing in on him, becoming claustrophobic. He was becoming more aware, his senses were overstimulated in the current situation. Every noise, every breath, every movement, he felt it.
You could see him becoming uncomfortable, his jaw clenched, eyes squinted. You barely knew that man, but you wanted to help. “Hey, hey.” You whispered, placing a gentle hand on his forearm. “Wanna go somewhere quieter?”
He nodded immediately, begging to be removed from the troubling environment. Clasping your hands together, you guided out of the crowded room. Some people noticed, wolf whistling and cheering you on as you tried to seek refuge.
As you didn’t live here, you had no clue where you were going. Logically, the only thing that came to your mind was a bedroom. Finding the stairs, you dragged him up them. Luckily the first door you opened was unoccupied. Pulling him inside, you locked it to prevent any unwanted company.
The room was small, but it seemed empty. Only a mattress on the floor with a bunch of cardboard boxes scattered in the corners. Awkwardly, you both stood still at the door, unsure what your next move should be. “Uh, so you get anxious often?”
Peter shook his head, scanning the room trying to distract himself from the tension he was feeling. “No. No. It’s not like an anxiety thing.”
As he didn’t elaborate, you caught onto the message he was silently sending. He wasn’t interested in getting personal. And if you were brutally honest, you weren’t either. Other intentions were invading your mind. Sinful intentions.
Peter had first caught your eye the moment he was late to class one morning. His hair was a mess, scruffy like he just woke up. A cut was sliced into his cheek, but it seemed to be near the end of healing. Clothes were ruffled, pockets hung out of his khakis and shirt poked out from the bottom of his sky blue jumper. He sat a few rows away from you. It was safe to say you couldn’t focus in class that day, or any other day for a matter of fact.
He was mysterious, maybe that’s what attracted you. On the outside, he had that soft, nerdy appearance. For some reason, you believed under that thick skin was a more complex human. One that possessed many deep, dark secrets. You could see it in his hollow eyes; they seemed empty sometimes.
“What are you doing at a party anyways? I have never seen you attend any before. What you celebrating?” You hoped the line of questioning would cool the thick, humid air.
“Robotic club won state.” He mumbled, slightly ashamed and afraid that the hot girl in front of him would think he was pathetic.
“That’s so cool. You can build robots? That’s really cool.”
He sent you a confused look, shocked that robots and cool came out of your mouth without hesitation. “You think robots are cool? Are you secretly a nerd or something?” He huffed, not believing a word you said.
Rolling your eyes, you folded your arms. “Nothing wrong with appreciating talent. Plus, I am a STEM major myself. Nobody ever tell you don’t judge a book by it’s cover?”
His face became flushed, lips parted ready to apologise for offending you. “Don’t worry Parker. You aren’t the first to undermine me.” You smirked up at him.
Only a short distance separated your hormonal, raging bodies. It wasn’t unusual for two good looking people to want to tear off each other’s clothes. Even if it was just for a night. The college years were the time for experience. For exploration.
Peter inhaled sharply, trying to keep his emotions at bay. Your eyes were like poison, killing him slowly as they stared deeply into his soul through dark, bloomed orbs. Silently begging him to make a move.
His hand rested on your hip, the other slowly lifted to your cheek, cupping your face. Leaning forward his lips lingered over yours, hot breath mixing adding to the thick air that surrounded you. “I never got your name.” He whispered in a low, soft voice, not wanting to ruin the moment.
“Y/N.”
He took a second to process what was about to happen, what was about to ensue. Lips brushed over one another. A tingling feeling surged through your body, breath hitched, legs shaky. They finally touched, latching onto his thin, tender lips. The kiss was soft, gentle as they tried to find the perfect rhythm.
Your body melted, a warmth pulsing through your veins. Peter sensed your weakness, hand hooking around your lower back supporting your trembling frame. It wasn’t your first rodeo, but you were still nervous. He was very cute after all.
Getting over your nerves, your palms sunk into his chest, pushing him against the wall. He groaned, deepening the kiss. His tongue poked at your lips, pleading for entrance. Gladly, you parted your lips allowing him to slip past. Tongues clashed, messy and sloppy as urges began to grow. A fire in the pit of your stomach emerging.
Unable to suppress your desire, your hands wandered south, fisting his iconic sweater as you tried to remove it from his body. He obliged, lifting his arms up as the fabric slipped off his body. As soon as the first layer was gone, your fingers immediately began to unbutton his shirt. Your cold digits that grazed his skin caused him to shiver.
As you tried to finish the task, his hands slipped down to your ass, grabbing a handful. His hands were rough and greedy as they fed their needs. Humming against his lips, you’d lost patience, bursting a few buttons as you ripped his shirt. Peter smirked, as you broke away from his devouring lips. “Impatient?”
Rolling your eyes, you tried to hide the guilt you felt. You were never this eager. His bare chest caught your gaze. A mouth watering, unexpected view greeted you. You had assumed Peter was just a lanky, scrawny man; but you were very wrong. Your hands moved the sleeves down his arms as you scanned his torso.
A sculpture, carefully carved and defined. Every muscle was visible, and tempting. His skin dipped into every dent, the lighting of the room enhancing it. The shadow playing in his favour; like he needed it. As eyes ventured lower, his v-line was deep and sharp causing something to get caught in your throat. He could be a Calvin Klein model in his spare time for all you knew.
Once his arms were free, his lips crashed into yours again, gaining your attention. Hands flung to the sides of your face, holding it still as lips moved with voracious pace. Your fingers looped in around his belt, pulling your bodies close together so that a sliver of air couldn’t even pass through. Peter, craving you, used his power to change positions, slamming you against the wall.
His leg found comfort between your thighs, pressing against your clothed heat. Moving it with precision, he stimulated your clit. Body surrendering to his dominance. Small whimpers were muffled by his wet lips as they continued to feast on yours. His hands glided down your curves, memorising every dip they caressed, stopping at the bottom hem of your dress.
Your body arched off the wall, aiding him as he pulled the dress from your body. You stood beneath his broad figure bare, only underwear shading you. Heart pounded, his glare intense. His tongue darted out from his tight lips, licking them ready to indulge.
He made his first attack, lips attaching to the skin of your chest. Sucking and licking the exposed tops of your mounds as hands found their way back to your ass. His touch was hot, burning your skin. Your hands grasped at his dark hair, pulling at the roots as your fingers laced with the curly locks. His teeth reacted, scrapping your sensitive flesh. “Pete!”
Your voice was high pitched as you cried out his name, the attentive attention he gave your fragile body was overwhelming. He hummed as your voice rang pleasantly in his ears. His brain was in a haze, senses in overdrive. The touch, the sounds, the taste. He was desperate to feel you, all of you.
His hands slid to the back of your thighs, hooking around them as he swept you off the ground. You screamed out his name, shocked at how easily he did it. Like you were the weight of a feather. He laughed against your chest as he carried effortlessly to the bed, only to throw you onto it like a rag doll.
You barely had time to process the strength of the man before his lips returned to your body. Sucking deep marks into your skin, starting at your thighs before he began his ascent up to you. Lips marked your thighs, stomach, chest, and neck before linking with your swollen, abused lips. He used his legs to open yours, parting them allowing him access.
His hardened cock pressed into you as your hips rocked together. Grinding, both losing patience as the anticipation grew. When your legs wrapped around his body, he growled, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as he pulled away. “Fuck, you sure this is okay?”
“Just fuck me.”
It was blunt, but you had no intention to sugarcoat the situation, you just wanted sex. No strings attached. Peter had no desire to get anything more from the night either. He was contempt with fulfilling his sinful want.
He quickly undid his belt, pulling his pants down. Your heat pulsated as his thick thighs came into view. Muscles carved like a Greek god. Your hips rutted against the air, needing fulfilment. “Shit are you like a bodybuilder or something?”
He chuckled before a sinister smirk emerged on his face, sending shivers down your spine; scared for what was in store. His hand rested on your lower stomach, thumb teasing your clit through your damp panties. He watched your body react, eyes droopy, lips parted and face contorted with pleasure. The sight caused his cock to throb and jump with excitement.
Tired of the foreplay, Peter lowered his face between your quaking thighs. Hot breath fanning over your pulsating core. The aroma tempted him to come undone, the sweetness seeping into his sense. Mouth was dry, dying for a taste from the source.
Not wasting another second, he moved the delicate fabric to the side, tongue diving in between your folds. Lapping and drinking up the arousal that dripped from your heat. Peter gladly explored every inch, switching between your clit and seeping hole, stretching you with the strong muscle. The angelic sounds that you created prompted him to hump the bed, granting himself some sort of relief.
Your hands were latched to his hair, grasping at his scalp trying to keep the last bit of sanity you had intact. “Pete. Please. I need you.”
His eyes flashed up to you. They were raw, piercing, a glint of anxiousness could be seen as he gave your bud one final harsh suck. His chin glistened causing you to blush. “You sure? I was gonna make you cum before we got to that part.” He shyly stated.
Hands clutched his chin, guiding him to your face, bringing him in for a messy, heated kiss. His broad stature shaded you from the dim light, overpowering, intimidating. Using a hand to plank his body, the other went to snap off your panties. You heard a rip causing you to gasp, but he shoved his tongue into your mouth, shutting you up.
He moved onto his own boxers, kicking them off his legs. Your thighs rested on his as he spread his legs, causing you to open up your silky folds to him. His cock prodding at the newly exposed skin. He used his hand to grab his length, pumping it a few times before positioning it at your entrance. “Just breath.” He mumbled, his angry tip penetrating your tight core.
His girth took you by surprise, stretching your walls. You hadn’t expected it, underestimating his size. Your hands clawed at his back as he slowly pushed in deeper. He continuously checked in with you, asking if you were okay, if you wanted to stop. But the pain was foreshadowed by the immense pleasure that vibrated through you.
Once he came to a hilt, his cock was balls deep. Tip grazing your cervix, signifying how deep he was. The way his cock was curved was designed for maximum pleasure. You never felt so full, fingernails sinking into his back leaving behind crescent marks as you tried to ground yourself back down to reality. “You are so big, fuck.” You praised, shoving your face into his neck.
His large biceps enclosed you, holding you tight as he shallowly moved his hips. “Yeah? You are so tight. Feel so good.” He panted, trying to tame his instincts.
“God, please just fuck me.”
Growling, he followed instruction, retracting his hips before snapping them forward in one harsh movement. Thighs quaked as his pelvic bone collided with your neglected clit. His moves were slow, calculated. Eyes shut tight, his senses overwhelming his body. You could see he was holding back.
Peter, since the bite, was always scared of what he was capable of. Sex being one of those things. He knew he was powerful, strong enough to stop a bus. He also had a heart of gold, never wanting to injure or hurt another person. Especially a woman he was intimate with.
“Pete, don’t hold back. Let go. I can take it. I want it.”
His eyes shot open, pupils dark and wide, swallowing the warm brown that surrounded them. His jaw clenched, unsure if he should do as told. Your hand cupped his cheek, assuring him. “Peter please. I like it rough.” You confessed, cheeks burning with embarrassment.
A primal grunt slipped from his gritted teeth, your innocent eyes driving him mad. Adjusting the position, he placed your calves on his shoulders, his cock slipping deeper into you. “Please, tell me if it’s too much.”
You nodded, inhaling sharply, mentally preparing yourself for the on slaughter that was about to ensue. His hands hooked around your thighs, fingers digging into the skin. Before you could even process the strength of his grip, his cock began to pound into you mercilessly.
His member relentlessly struck your g-spot, eyes rolling to the back of your head. Thankfully, the music was so loud it drowned out your pathetic, loud moans. He used his tight grip as leverage, pulling your body to meet his hard thrusts.
The sounds were sinister, skin on skin clapping, applauding him. Your wetness splattering, covering his cock, echoed through the room. Body on a high, you felt no shame for how you were reacting. Your hands flung to the pit of your stomach, clawing at your skin. “I can- feel how deep you are.”
He smirked at your statement, one hand shoving your hands away to replace them with his. Fingers pressed into your lower stomach, thumb focused on your clit, rubbing aggressive, precise circles around the swollen bud. “Fuck, I can feel how deep I am. Bet you’ve never felt so full before. Not gonna be able to walk after this.”
The thought of destroying your body only turned him on more. His hips moved at an animalistic pace, not humanly possible. His balls slapped your ass with every thrust, and the attention on your clit drove you to insanity. You became a babbling mess below him. Unintelligible words slipping from your lips as your brain clouded with lust.
“Fuck. Look like a beautiful mess. Does it feel good? Making you feel good? Cause, shit, you make me feel incredible.”
Head nodded vigorously, unable to speak only cry out in pleasure. Body began to convulse, the knot in your stomach ready to burst at any second. “Pete. Close.” You chanted, grasping his hands, grounding yourself.
“That’s it. You wanted to be a big girl. You said you could take it. So c’mon. Cum all over my cock. Wanna feel that pretty pussy clench around me.”
His words rang through your ears as you tipped over the edge. A wave consumed you, body shook as it welcomed the intense feeling. His hands grabbed your waist, holding you still, comforting you. “That’s it. Let go.” “Feel so good around my cock.” “So pretty when you cum. Could watch you all day.”
His thrust slowed, allowing you to come down from your high. Once your head started to clear, you could still feel his hard presence pulsate against your abused walls. Eyes bulged, shocked that he was lasting so long. “You good?” He queried, watching you struggle to keep your eyes open.
“Fuck yes. Amazing.”
He cleared his throat, in a bit of a predicament. Should he continue? Or should he just leave? Finish himself off in some random bathroom. However his question was answered. “Why’d you stop? Fuck, I want you to cum.”
He flipped you over so you were now straddling him. Whimpering, your palms slapped his hard, defined chest. “Pete, I am tired. Sorry.” Your hips movements weak against his, body still recovering from your orgasm.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry, I got you. May I?” He asked, positioning his feet flat on the bed, hands grasping your waist.
Confused by what he meant, you nodded, naively. He bit his lip, giving you sudden harsh thrust. You jolted upwards due to the mere force, but his hands brought you right back, forcing you to swallow his cock. You screeched as he stretched you, filled you.
He repeated that movement, continuously. Pumping his throbbing cock into your wetness. There was no escape from the pleasure, his hands in complete control of your body. His eyes locked in on your mounds, watching them bounce begging to be released from their restricting cups. “Take off your bra, wanna see your tits. Please.”
A guttural growl was ripped from his throat as you quickly removed the material from your body. The way they bounced and rippled with every thrust. He couldn’t help but bring a hand up, squeezing the plush flesh. “Fucking beautiful.” He muttered, thumb teasing the bud.
With the last bit of energy you possessed, you rocked your hips on his cock causing the curve to hit your sensitive spot hidden within your velvety walls. That was enough to send you to your second high without warning, falling off the edge with a scream of his name.
But that didn’t stop his merciless thrusts. Using your lifeless body as a toy to please his cock. You were getting wetter at the thought of just being used as a tight hole for him to fuck. It shouldn’t turn you on as much as it did. His dominance over you was scary.
Your throat was dry and raw, every sound that rippled from it tore apart the skin. Peter wouldn’t dream of silencing you, the song you sang was too beautiful. “Yeah keep screaming my name. Shit, I am so close.” He groaned, hips were violent, bruising the skin of your thighs and hips.
The pain succumbed to the pleasure, masking any future aches you would inevitably experience. Your body was limb, he was in complete control of your movements. Brain dead in your euphoric haze. You sputtered nonsense, eyes droopy as hands grabbed his shoulders preventing you from falling forward.
The sounds from the collision were pornographic, sinful. The arousal that poured out from your core making it easy for his cock to dive deeper with every stroke. He was so close, eyes flickering between your bouncing tits and the contact your bodies made, enjoying the way his length was creamed with your juices.
Your body burned, insides twisting and turning. A fire spread uncontrollably through your veins. It was something you never experienced. Being brutally used. Peter, was loving the feeling of dominance, controlling every movement. “Fuck, you love me using you don’t you?”
You parted your lips, but your brain was not functioning, only a hum escaping. “Got you dumb for my cock do I?” He chuckled, his thrusts never ending. “Love me using you for my own pleasure. Just, grabbing you, fucking you down onto my big cock.”
His cockiness and confidence resonated between your quaking thighs. Only adding the wetness that pooled between them. “Getting wetter from me just talking to you? Fuck, you are the best girl. Feel so good and tight. Gonna make me cum.”
Moaning, you practically begged him to cum in fear you may mentally leave this planet and never return. “But, you need to cum one more time for me. Be my good girl, my best girl, and take it.” His voice was stern, not in the mood for negotiations.
Following his demand, his thumb found your forgotten clit. A sequence of curses and screams poured out as your stomach tightened. A new sensation appeared, an unfamiliar one. The pressure that pent up was about to explode. “Pete, I- too much.”
“One more. Give it to me. Let it go. Cum.”
And with that, everything collapsed. Vision blurred and spotted with black dots as your juices gushed from your fragile body. His cock was pushed out from your heat due to the force. His fast reflexes reacted, grabbing his cock, using the tip to rub fast motions across your swollen clit. Your cum covered his lower stomach and length. He groaned at the sight, watching the juices squirt from your convulsing body.
He guided you through the intense orgasm, using his cock to slowly trace your drenched folds, his tight grip pumping his throbbing cock as he did. “Atta girl, I got you.” He assured, caresses your soaked thighs. “But shit, I am gonna come baby, so fucking hard. Can I cum on your tits, please.”
“Yes! Yes! Fuck Pete you can cum wherever you want.” You slurred, brain drunk from the overstimulation your body was experiencing. Three intense orgasms in less than twenty minutes, you would’ve been considered lucky to achieve one on a given night.
He smirked, proud of his work. Fucked out and messy. It turned him on so much. His balls tightened, begging to find release. Gently, he cradled your lower back, laying you down on your back so he could straddled your waist.
Through heavy eyes, you watched him jerk his cock through a tight grip. His member was wet, glistening, covered in a mixture of your cum and his own precum. Veins bulging through his thin skin. Tip, red and angry, pulsating vigorously. Weakly, you placed a hand on his thigh, raking it, while the other played with his sensitive slit. “Fuck. Gonna be so pretty covered in my cum.”
“Cum Pete. Please. I want it so bad.” You pleaded, sticking your tongue out, hoping some would land in your mouth.
The sight of you below him, begging to be degraded. It sent him to his climax. His cock shooting out thick ropes of white cum while chanting your name loudly, with no shame. You had to clench your thighs at the sounds he made. Some landed on your face, most painted your chest. You were amazed at his load, it seemed like it would never end. Your weak hand joined his, helping him milk out every last drop. The touch of your tender, soft hand wrapped around him made him rut his hips against it as he rode out the feeling of pure ecstasy.
As the tingles that surged through him finally simmered, he collapsed down beside you. Breath heavy, and sharp. His cock twitched against his thigh, his whole person overstimulated by his senses that were dialed to a hundred. The dim light suddenly becoming too bright from him. He winced, turning his head towards you, which he immediately regretted when he saw you running your fingers across your chest, gathered up his cum on your slim digits. You carried it up to your mouth, sucking them clean. His jaw dropped. And suddenly the blood rushed back down south.
You turned your head to face him, heat rising to your cheeks after realising you’d been caught. You were intrigued. Peter took the chance to take in your appearance. Your chin was wet with a mixture of your spit and his cum, eyes still blooming with lust, hair messy and knotted. He closed his eyes, trying to remove the picture from his head as it wasn’t helping his current situation. Hearing a giggle, forced him to look at you, confused at the sudden outburst.
Your eyes were peering down at his growing length causing a red crimson colour to creep across his cheeks. “I was going to ask you to get me a rag to clean up because I don’t think I can walk, but I don’t think there is a point. I can see you have other ideas.”
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satanhalsey · 6 months ago
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uma either sf universe or gangrry but it’s y/n’s bday and harry does smthn special bc todays my bday 😭😭
-🦋
why not both? happy birthday honey, love u! 🤍 ps one is longer than the other sorry 😢.
HARRY'S MASTERLIST | SINCE FOREVER UNIVERSE | GANGRRY UNIVERSE
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SINCE FOREVER:
"You gotta be kidding me."
Harry just laughs, feeling completely thrilled as he watches Y/N quickly open the present. Today is her twenty-fourth birthday, the ninth she's spent with him, and he takes it upon himself to make her happier than ever on her special day.
"No, Harry!" She screams, covering her mouth with one hand as her boyfriend just laughs. "I can't believe you got it, I never got to buy it!"
The Reputation Stadium Tour Vip Box (...) was finally in her hands. He gladly lets himself be hugged and snogged, feeling his heart beating fast for her and only her, and he leaves kisses on her face as well. "It was nothing, really."
It really hadn't been nothing, he'd just had to contact Taylor and ask if she had any leftover boxes and to his luck, she'd managed to get one for one of her biggest fans. Y/N had been trying to get it for a long time as well as tickets, failing at both, and had been very sad.
"Read the letter." He tells her, and she takes the black letter with golden letters and begins to read silently.
"Hi Y/N! Harry told me it's your birthday today, so happy birthday! thank you for supporting me from the beginning in everything I do and I hope one day I can meet you and thank you in person. Lucky for us, Harry has two tickets for June 22nd in the front row and we get to meet backstage! hope you enjoy the gift, see you soon ♡. TS."
Harry deduced that she had finished reading the letter because she looked up from it and looked at him with tear stained cheeks. "You didn't."
He smiles, showing his bunny teeth. "But I did."
He's again assaulted with kisses, and she kisses him for a long time, leaving him frustrated when she breaks away. "I love you. Fuck, I can't believe I'm gonna meet Taylor Swift!"
She'd only seen her from afar when accompanying the band to awards shows, never being able to get close enough to say hello.
"Get ready m'soul, we're going to the Reputation Stadium Tour on June 22nd."
Yeah, this was definitely the best birthday present ever.
GANG!HARRY:
When Y/N had come downstairs on her birthday, she did not expect to find this.
Harry was in one of her aprons, his hair tied up and completely covered in flour as he took a rather messy cake out of the oven.
"H?"
He turns as if he's been caught, and when he sees her standing there, he closes his eyes and sighs in defeat.
"No, you're supposed to be sleeping!" He sets the cake down on the kitchen island and walks over to her to rest his hands on her arms. "You're supposed to be sleeping, and I'd walk into the room with the cake and wake you up and kiss you and then we'd have birthday sex... fucking shit."
Y/N's quick to wrap her arms around his hips, standing on her tiptoes to leave kisses on his prominent jaw, making him smile soothingly.
"I can go back to bed and pretend I'm asleep."
Harry laughs darkly and shakes his head. "It's done, now let me kiss you good morning, yeah?"
He kisses her, and she smiles mid-kiss, feeling Harry's tongue caress hers and his hands slide down her pajama top to squeeze her bottom. When they pull apart, he grabs her hand and drags her towards the cake.
It's chocolate and the icing is a bit smudged, having uncovered parts that reveal it's a bit burnt, with "21" and a crooked heart written on the top. But Y/N's sure she has never loved a cake so much in her life.
This was their first birthday together, and he had given it his all.
"I tried... I never made a cake so I'm sorry if it tastes like shit." He says, untying his apron and throwing it on the counter in frustration.
She looks at him with her mouth open and her eyes sparkling with surprise. "You... made your first cake for me?"
Her boyfriend nods, and she could swear she sees a heavy blush on his cheeks from embarrassment. "Yes, I asked your aunt which one was your favourite and sent Louis and Liam to buy the ingredients."
Y/N can feel the butterflies in her stomach flutter like crazy and how her whole body responds to hearing the man she loves say those words. He was so sweet, it wasn't even fair that he had all that sweetness hidden away for so long.
"Sweets, this is the best cake I've ever seen in my life, I love it, I love you."
"Yeah?" He asks hopefully, letting her leave a kiss on his cheek and kissing her back.
"Yeah, let me cut a piece so I can taste it."
He hands her a knife and watches her cut the cake perfectly, then bites off a piece. He's nervous, it must taste awful.
"It's good, baby." Y/N smiles at him as she chews the cake, it could be better but it was tasty for his first time.
Harry's surprised, and tastes it a bit to note that, indeed, it wasn't too bad. They have breakfast while they talk about mundane things and he tells her that he left Louis in charge today so he can spend the whole day with her and go visit her aunt in the afternoon.
They both do the dishes and he can't believe he has something so... domestic, he never thought he'd find someone to love and more importantly, someone to love him, especially someone as different but equal to him as Y/N was.
When they finish, he takes her in his arms and lifts her onto the counter so he can kiss her neck, biting down to make her moan. She's so addictive he can't stay away from her.
"You know, this isn't your only gift." He murmurs, as he slips a hand underneath her shirt to peel off her panties.
She unbuttons his white shirt and drops it at his feet. "Oh, yeah? What is it?"
"Another car."
Y/N rolls her eyes and pulls his head from her neck so she can look him in the eyes, he had an obsession with giving her extremely expensive things. "What for, Harry? I already have mine plus another one you gave me!"
He just laughs, kisses her again and then says. "I'll buy you one for every day of the week. Now, let me taste something better than that fucking cake."
She wants to say something else, but the moan that escapes her mouth as Harry licks from her clit to her hole catches her off guard. Well, they'll have time to discuss the car another time, now it's her birthday and she's going to enjoy having one of the most feared men kneeling in front of her just to make her feel good.
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harlowcomehome · a month ago
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Okay so now we need a small blurb of jack surprising the reader with a pillow bc she was tossing and turning all night and she just starts balling
I blame you
You finally reached your 16th week of pregnancy and your belly was finally starting to show more prominently. You hated how hard it was to get comfortable in bed at night, otherwise you didn’t mind your round bump.
Jack was utterly obsessed with it, constantly touching it or complementing the way it looked in whatever you were wearing. He made you feel good about your changing body, you never had to question how he felt about you even as your belly grew. 
It was the second night in a row that you couldn’t sleep, you tossed and turned but couldn’t find a comfortable position that didn’t put pressure on your back or belly. Jack turned to you in the dark using his phone to illuminate your face, he could tell that you were trying not to cry. “Oh no, baby girl” he scooted closer to you to hold you. “I’m sorry baby, it’s the hormones” you sniffled and he rubbed your back. “Why are you saying sorry? You don’t need to apologize for crying, you’re carrying our baby! Cry all you need!”
“I just feel bad because you have a busy day tomorrow and- and” you started to cry harder unable to finish your sentence. Jack rocked you back and fourth, rubbing your belly every so often until you finally fell asleep clutched to his side.
He text his mom to see if she was awake, the two of them usually had the same sleeping patterns. She text him back asking if everything was okay, he explained to her that you hadn’t been getting good sleep. She suggested a pregnancy pillow explaining to him what it was and he ordered it with rush shipping immediately.
The next day a package arrived at your house and you were going to bring it in but looking at the size of the box, you just knew that if you attempted it Jack would scold you again. You called for Jack to get it and he had a big grin on his face.
“What is it?” You looked at him confused, unable to read his expression.
“A present for you” he smiled as he opened the box and ran into the bedroom quickly.
You followed slowly behind him and he had already put the pillow on the bed for you.
“It’s a pregnancy pillow. You basically straddle it and it helps make room for your cute little belly” he smiled.
“You’re so thoughtful” you started to tear up and Jack laughed “baby, you don’t have to cry! I just want you and the baby to get good rest!”
“I just love you so much” you wailed.
“I love you too baby!” He laughed as he gave you a much needed hug.
That night you fell asleep almost instantly. Jack reached out to kiss your forehead and belly, feeling a slight kick as he did. “You’re welcome” he whispered to your bump.
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1kook · a year ago
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crunchyroll & rail
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the 10th installment of my netflix & chill series !
SUMMARY Never mind the fact you really like Sailor Moon, or that you really want to pay attention to every little detail; the moment becomes Jungkook and his big smile and his red cheeks and the tiny box he produces from within his pocket. WARNINGS smut in the forms of making out, jk nipple play, some 69 action, cunnilingus, blowjobs, brief choking, jk trying his best to listen to oc but he doesn’t rlly :/, fingering, missionary bc his eyes are pretty, unprotected fuckin raw, its romantic but when is it not… MISC fluffy and domestic <3, weekend getaway <3, the Big Question, shy jk, sailor moon supremacy, jk makes this big elaborate speech about the sun and moon, mentions of 240p YouTube quality, RATING m (18+) WC 8.7k
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NOTE (!) the smut in this chapter is relatively short ! I was more concerned with writing this monumental step in their relationship, so sorry to all the lads who come here specifically for the p0rn but today we focus on the l0ve <333 anyway nc 10!!!!! Can u fuckin believe….
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Jungkook mentions it at the dinner table one night. You’re not eating— well, you are not eating; Jungkook has been stocking up on his protein intake like a madman —but finishing up some work you had brought home. Your back aches, your eyes burn. The mere sound of his soft voice has all those feel-good endorphins shooting through your nervous system like a shot of adrenaline. “We should take a trip,” he says, fork clattering against his plate to signify the end of his feast. 
Your fingers tap across your keyboard, eyes flickering between an Excel sheet and the report you’re typing out. It takes you a moment to respond, a delayed, “huh,” that even Jungkook doesn’t find convincing.  
In the background, you’re listening to what has to be one of the worst voiceovers of the original Sailor Moon series in a language you don’t even understand. But you know the series like the back of your hand, know what exactly is happening even if you don’t understand what they’re saying, because you’ve watched it only about a million times. It’s mostly just there for background purposes anyway, some white noise to try and replicate the noisy soundtrack of your office. 
To make matters worse—complicated?—, you had been too lazy to get onto your usual pirating sites and had settled for the five minute, five part, 240p clips of Sailor Moon on YouTube (you know the ones), and Jungkook has to wait until Episode 74: Part ⅖ ends before you grace him with a proper response. “Where do you wanna go, baby?” you ask, giving your eyes a break from the data as you move to scour YouTube for Episode 74: Part 3/5. 
He’s stretching back now, arms wound up above his head. His hair— god, his hair —is an ashy color now, a faded version of its golden ancestor from a few months ago. Soon, he’s planning on going back to brown, claims he’s getting too old to be dying his hair, whatever that means. For now, you watch his inked fingers run through his scalp; he looks delectable. Maybe you’re hungrier than you initially thought. Or at least thirstier. “A cabin,” he suggests, and he offers this little half shrug that would otherwise seem normal had you not been well-versed in the art of Jungkook Body Language. His front teeth nibble at his lip, eyes laser focused on his empty plate. Even now, he still gets nervous asking you out. That thought alone makes your ego soar as high as an airplane. “Just something small.”
Usually, “something small” with Jungkook ends up being something big and, in most cases, something expensive. Which you’re totally not opposed to— you’re at the point in your relationship where you don’t even bother trying to dissuade Jungkook from showering you with gifts. It’s one of his many, many, many, many forms of loving you and, well, he knows you like the back of his hand. He rarely misses. 
Lo and behold, it is a grander affair than a simple cabin. “Well, it’s more like a resort,” he confesses, reaching across the table for your hand. Immediately, his thumb finds itself rubbing over the simple band of your promise ring. “Just wanna do something nice for you. I know you’ve been tired lately,” he adds on, voice a quiet murmur that nearly gets lost under the intensity of the pout that appears whenever he becomes even the slightest bit bashful. 
You smile, the fondness in your heart skyrocketing to impossible heights when he lifts your hand to press those pretty petal lips against your knuckles. “Well, just let me know when,” you tell Jungkook. “So I can request time off from work.” 
Episode 74: Part 3/5 starts playing after an ad, and you’d pause it for the sake of preserving this moment with Jungkook, but it’s hidden under so many tabs on your laptop that you lose it the second you leave the tab. Jungkook’s head tilts to the side, sending his ashy locks cascading beautifully. “You know that show is on Crunchyroll,” Jungkook says, seemingly moving past his bout of shyness now. “And you have the password.” 
“Do I,” you murmur, but he’s lost you once more, your true talent of typing with one hand showing itself as you return to your Excel sheet, the other still firmly squeezed in his grasp. Jungkook releases soon enough anyway, cleans up the table quickly, and disappears off into the kitchen. He sings when he washes the dishes, likes to pretend he’s a terrible singer even though you’ve told him countless times he could easily take X Factor by storm. (And you know exactly what it takes to wow those judges— you spent the entire last month psychotically watching multiple X Factor seasons from multiple different countries, nearly considered joining the damn audition yourself.) The horribly dubbed Sailor Moon is yelling now, shrieking really, and Jungkook calls from the kitchen, “don’t forget to take your contacts out, sweetheart.” 
It’s domestic and it's nerve-wracking. 
You want Jungkook, that much is a fact. Aristotle and Socrates and that other guy could debate the philosophical intricacies of the world, turn this dimension in on itself until it was a scrambled mess of emotion and thought, but the one thing they could never change, could never even question, is your love for your boyfriend. You want Jungkook badly, but more importantly, you want Jungkook forever. 
And you’re sure Jungkook probably, maybe, hopefully feels that way too. But the way you feel is… slightly concerning to say the least. For starters, you’re convinced your love for Jungkook was meant to be, and that’s saying a lot coming from you. You’re not one for cheesy, soulmate tales— that was more Jungkook’s thing —but the more you think about it, the more you become convinced that you and Jungkook were destined to meet. Like the planets aligned one year, the stars conferred, a tectonic plate somewhere in California shifted; whatever it may have been, something happened somewhere that led to the birth of this beautiful romance of yours. 
Lately, being with Jungkook has this inexplicably fiery feeling blossoming in your chest, these waves of emotion that sometimes have you fantasizing about the weirdest of scenarios with him. Like yelling at him for not taking the garbage out on time, or bumping into each other as you make dinner in the kitchen, or buying a new rug together. 
(Most drastically, the other day, you had a dream where you were pregnant and Jungkook was there and there was a house and a dog and an annoyingly friendly neighbor and this god-awful tile in the bathroom.) 
Long story short, you’ve been fantasizing about a forever with Jungkook. The concerning part is the timing; was this too early? You’re nearly halfway through your second year with Jungkook now, and you know most people date for many, many years before the mere thought of union even occurs to them. In another life, maybe you were the same, would have held off until the very last moment. But with Jungkook things just feel right (at least for you), like there wasn’t going to be anyone else after him. And you sincerely hoped there wouldn’t be. 
You slump back into your seat, eyes fluttering shut. Too many thoughts swirl around your mind, and the screech of the Sailor Moon voiceover on screen certainly doesn’t help. How you managed to spiral that far down your thoughts in the span of one 240p, five minute clip of a larger episode amazes even you. To add onto your worries, the clip abruptly ends and Episode 74: Part ⅘ is nowhere in sight, a fact that draws a frustrated moan out of the already sensitive you. 
Luckily, Jungkook eventually returns, standing closely behind you. His presence is enormous, the room suddenly overflowing with a shit ton of those feel-good endorphins all over again, except this time they reach an all-time high when he leans over and quietly shuts your laptop. “Come sleep,” he says softly, and it’s a pleasant mixture of his genuinely caring voice and that horndog purr of his that lures you into bed. And it’s that same voice that croons softly into your ear, fingers nestled between your folds until you’re orgasming yourself into a deep slumber. 
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Much to no one’s surprise, the cabin turns out to be quite the luxurious lodging; two floors of dark oak everywhere you turn, a stunning stone fireplace in the bedroom, and a truly breathtaking view of the resort’s snowy hill (read: front row seats to watch all the snowboarders and skiers wipe out in the snow). Jungkook had splurged quite the pretty penny on it, so you make a point to clap it up for him when he first opens the door to your temporary home for the weekend. 
The main bedroom is beyond words. It’s got an attached balcony (that you doubt you’ll be using in this chilly weather), and a wooden canopy bed that makes you feel like a royal (that you will certainly be using). It’s separated into two areas, the bed space and a tiny entertainment area on the other side of the room. Perhaps the best thing about the room— and the cabin itself —is the huge, smart TV mounted above said stone fireplace and the fact it allows the phone mirroring option in lieu of not having any streaming sites. And as is with every and anything to do with televisions, Jungkook is the most excited of the two of you. “Baby, look,” he beams, pointing excitedly at whatever he’s got mirrored onto the television this time. Knowing him, it’s probably another documentary. 
You had the forethought to finish your work before the trip, spent two days in the office going absolutely ham on this month’s final reports until your department head promptly sent you home to finish the rest there. You had given yourself a fright upon entering the bathroom that night, the state of your under eyes so severe, you feared it was sufficient cause for a national emergency. Similarly, Jungkook had done the same with his work, cooped himself up in his study until he was free from the shackles of capitalism for the weekend. All this to say you’ve missed him these past few days. 
But even though you’re sorely malnourished in the affection department and craving a good kiss or two, you wouldn’t dare interrupt one of Jungkook’s little nerdy, tech-induced fanboy moments. They’re cute, in their own geeky way, providing some insight to a mellower side of your boyfriend who looks on with childlike wonder; Jungkook’s eyes always get so big when he talks about nerdy stuff. You get to work hanging up the silk shirt he packed for tomorrow night’s fancy dinner at the resort, listening to some British narrator’s detailed description of the functionally extinct Northern white rhinos living under 24-hour surveillance in Kenya.  
(Jungkook’s really into nature documentaries again, had spent a few nights sniffling as he watched that one Koko the gorilla film.) 
The original plan was to head to the nearest store and whip up something small to eat at the cabin. But Jungkook is a little tired from the long drive, slumps down into the couch in front of the now lit fireplace like a limbless blob as he tunes into his documentary. His nose is a little red from the outside chill. It’s so cute. He’s so cute. You love him so much, you fear you’ll accidentally squeeze his cheeks to death. It’s a thought that occurs more times than you’d like. 
According to the pamphlet on the nightstand, the resort has its own room-service to order from. Normally you would do that, but not this time; you had gotten into a bit of a squabble with the man at the front desk after he had tried to withhold Jungkook’s reservation for arriving two minutes past your check-in time, called each other all sorts of names before he backed down and gave you your room key. So you’re still a little salty, to say the least. Instead, you settle in for some pizza in front of the huge TV, calling up the nearest place to order some of Jungkook’s and your favorites. 
You plop down beside him, instinctively cuddling closer when he wraps an arm around your shoulders. “So,” you start, flipping through the rest of the resort’s introductory pamphlet. There’s a loud roar on screen. In all honesty, you didn’t even know what Northern white rhinos sounded like until then, and you probably never would have if not for the man beside you. “What are you in the mood for tonight, sweet boy?” 
You’re not sure if it’s the fatigue or the overall relaxed vibes he’d been exuding since the moment you entered the cabin, but Jungkook is weirdly cooperative today. “Whatever you want,” he responds, head on your shoulder. He even places the remote in your hands, gives your enclosed fist a gentle tap as if he’s just handed you the secret to eternal youth. In other words, it’s a rare sight to behold. “This is your trip, pretty girl.” 
You appreciate the sentiment, but feel the need to clear the air, tucking your feet up onto the couch as you snuggle closer. “Our trip,” you clarify, and snatch the remote anyway before he changes his mind. 
Jungkook releases a quiet huff of laughter, head rolling back against the couch cushions to display his thick, juicy neck that definitely doesn’t awaken any vampiric tendencies in you. “We can even watch some anime if you want,” he murmurs, casually throwing an arm around your shoulders in a way that would have made any teenage girl in the early 2000s squeal with excitement. It’s one of those barely there touches, but the way he holds you makes you feel so safe and warm and loved. So loved and in love. “The ones on Crunchyroll, though.”
For the sake of preserving these good vibes (and your ears [and Jungkook’s sanity]), you navigate to the Crunchyroll app on your phone, quickly finding your latest obsession and mirroring it onto the big television before Jungkook can react. “Sailor Moon?” he asks with a tone that implies a feigned interest, mostly out of respect for you; he’s, sadly, still not the big dorky anime fan you had hoped to convert him into. 
“In the name of the moon, I’ll punish you,” you recite dutifully, snatching up the throw blanket on the end of the couch. It’s barely big enough to cover the both of you, has Jungkook’s outstretched legs and your booty subject to the chilly air. Who cares, Jungkook is a furnace anyway. 
He snorts. “Punish me,” he mumbles, as if he doesn’t believe it. His snarky comment wins him a playful pinch against his doughy cheek, not that he particularly defends himself against it anyway, eyes fluttering shut as you tug at the pale skin. 
“Don’t fuck with the moon, Jungkook,” you warn him, snuggling closely against his side as your favorite opening song begins filtering through the speakers of the television before you. It’s infinitely better than the 240p YouTube clips you had subjected yourself to the entire last week, the graphics scarily clear. 
“Right, of course,” Jungkook says, but a hint of amusement seems to curl around the sound anyway. Nevertheless, he lets it go, cuddles into your side as you pour your full focus into watching yet another group of ragtag teenagers with supernatural abilities kick some ass. 
You can tell Jungkook isn’t really into it, and you’re torn between just snuggling him into a well deserved nap or taping his eyelids open so he can become a fan of this show with you. 
The loving, caring, adoring side of you says Jungkook deserves the entire world and more (the more in question preferably being a fluffy blanket and a nap). He worked hard this week, just like you, and on top of that he was the one who planned this entire weekend getaway for the two of you to enjoy. You want him to rest up.
The obnoxiously in love girlfriend-slash-best friend in you says Jungkook is sorely missing out on one of the greatest shows on planet Earth and that naps are for the weak. 
Your jumbled thoughts are interrupted by a loud sound on the television, a yelp from Ms. Sailor Moon herself that has you jolting up in surprise. Jungkook welcomes you deeper into his embrace, chuckles at your little fright. “Scared?” he teases in that low voice that makes you feel like you’re going crazy, really. So crazy and irrational, and the only thing that stops you from bombarding him with an unexpected outpouring of love is that hard and sharp thing that pokes your side when you get too close to him. It’s not Jungkook, sadly, but something in the front pocket of his hoodie instead. 
And for some reason, part of your brain is stuck all of a sudden, rewinding the last two and a half years like a broken cassette tape that had the tape reel hastily stuffed back inside by a toddler. It’s choppy to say the least, and it certainly doesn’t help when Jungkook calls your name softly, tenderly. “__,” he murmurs. It’s a little weird; it’s not often he says your name, mostly referring to you with one of the many pet names from that part of his vocabulary that focuses exclusively on terms of endearment. Your heart skips a beat. 
Now, if anyone were to ask, it’s approximately around this time that you begin to spiral. The pink curve of his bottom lip is just too close, the mole on his nose too prominent. Paired with the obnoxious tittering of Usagi on screen, you can feel your thoughts begin to overlap, bumping into each other within the realm of your brain until all that comes out are the messiest of messy thoughts. 
They go like this: 
Most episodes of any anime run for approximately thirty minutes. Take out the commercial breaks, the opening and ending credits, and it becomes something closer to twenty. Twenty minutes per episode, filled with plot and gags and tears and whatever else necessary to make you feel something, anything really. 
“What’s in your pocket?” you ask tentatively. 
In contrast, it takes approximately two seconds for Jungkook’s lips to quirk up— first the right side, always the right side —and his eyes to crinkle. Two seconds for him to smile, a sweet expression that reminds you of Netflix and college and quiet laughter and tattoos and silly YouTube videos and cookies and cell phones and job applications and blond hair; two seconds to make you feel everything all at once. 
“There’s nothing,” he says, but his cheeks are pink, and it’s not from the cold anymore. His smile is so big it makes your own cheeks ache just looking at it. You can’t even hear the television anymore. Never mind the fact you really like Sailor Moon, or that you really want to pay attention to every little detail; the moment becomes Jungkook and his big smile and his red cheeks and the tiny box he produces from within his pocket. “It was supposed to be for tomorrow,” he admits, unwrapping his arm from around you. 
It’s a little funny, somehow, because his hands are covered in ink, in tiny doodles and intricate pieces of swirls and words that ooze this aura of strength and toughness. But they tremble when he opens it, as unsteady as a wispy dandelion on a windy day, fumbling with the box. And when you look closely, he’s been biting at the skin along his thumb again, that nervous habit you’ve been trying forever to help him overcome. 
Someone is saying something on screen, something important to the plot. The volume is loud, but not as loud as your heart. Not as loud as Jungkook’s quiet murmur when he speaks again. “Will you marry me?” he asks softly, looks at you with flushed cheeks and big eyes and his heart on his sleeve. 
The answer has always been the same, hasn’t changed since the first time he planted the seed in your mind. Still, it catches in your throat, nearly loses out to a surprised and emotional sob that you barely manage to bite down. You had just been speaking, had just been ready to deliver a whole spiel on the importance of him watching Sailor Moon with you. But when you try now, it’s raspy and dry, as if you haven’t used your voice in years. “I— yes,” you exhale, surprised by the lonely tear that trails down your cheek. You go to wipe it away, but Jungkook beats you with a gentle hand cupping your cheek. 
His smile is wobbly, patches of red blossoming across his face that eventually consume his entire appearance as he leans his forehead against yours. Only then do you realize he’s crying, and you laugh out of reflex. “You’re crying,” you say, and Jungkook snorts. 
“You cried first,” he sniffles, smiling. “You made me cry.” 
He looks like a wreck, but, like, a hot wreck. An engaged, hot wreck who’s eyes flicker back to the TV to remind you to pause your anime, always so considerate. You do, hastily smashing buttons on the remote before remembering it’s controlled by your phone, hands flying back and forth as your nerves actively work to retire themselves after Jungkook’s proposal. “Easy there,” he soothes, eventually catching your hand in his, drawing it up for a kiss against your knuckles. 
The ring fits perfectly, snuggly. Vaguely, a memory drifts through your thoughts of Jungkook and Doyeon on a rampant mission to reorganize your jewelry box a few months ago, but it disappears as quickly as it came. You’re taken by the ring, a simple band with a pretty diamond on top. It’s a good mixture of you and him; flashy yet mild. 
“You love me,” you marvel, a revelation you’ve had the honor of experiencing time and time again with Jungkook. Still, it never fails to render you speechless. He hums. 
“I do,” he says, taking your hand in his. “It’s the easiest thing for me. Like breathing, or existing. I think I was made to love you.” And normally, you’d be the first one to correct him. Jungkook was made for so much more, a fact he’s proven time and time again with his abilities and the sheer size of his heart. He was your golden boy, could do anything he set his mind to. Always amazing you, always making you fall in love all over again. 
But now, with the weight of his words sitting heavy in the air, you find yourself incapable of negating the fact, instead sniffling at the meaning. 
Pleased with your silence, Jungkook places another chaste kiss against your ring. “I love you, __,” he confesses, voice nearly a whisper. Your entire body feels as if it is doused in gasoline, lit aflame over and over again. Your heart threatens your rib cage, pounds away with the strength of a world renowned boxer. Jungkook’s hands curl around your wrists carefully. “I used to think we were like the moon and the sun,” he admits, “that you were my sun and I was your moon. In love but always separated by those thin veils of the sunrise and the sunset.” He pauses, nuzzling sweetly against your palm once more before gently guiding them down between the two of you. “But that really sucks— saying goodbye to you every night? I hate that, __. I hate watching you leave, I hate watching you run off in the mornings or halfway through the day, having to drive back and forth from your place to mine. I hate having to be away from you when all I wanna do is hold you. I— I want to be by your side,” he rambles, eyes nervously meeting yours. They’re still glassy, dark lashes framing his chocolate irises wonderfully. “Forever.” 
Your heartbeat stutters, the simple word looping itself in your mind like that night in his dining room all over again, all the fantasies of having a forever with Jungkook bubbling to the surface. Jungkook pushes on. “You are my sun,” he says softly, mostly to himself. “But… I don’t wanna be the moon anymore. Being the moon means, eventually, I’ll have to say goodbye. In the night or in the morning, it always comes to an end. And I don't want there to be an end with you,” he insists, clutching your hand tightly. “I wanna be another star, the closest one to you. The one who gets to be with you forever. I wanna be by you and shine with you and—“
“Explode into a gazillion little fragments of cosmic dust with me,” you offer, and Jungkook nods along eagerly, too amped up on his speech to bother scolding you for your playful comment. 
“Yes, I want to— to—“ The words catch in his throat. So much emotion from the man you once thought was the dictionary definition of calm and collected. “To—“ 
“Marry me,” you fill in, and Jungkook practically blows a fuse from how emotionally fired up he’s become, exclaiming a resolute, “yes!” that leaves you stupidly grinning back at him. 
His outburst leaves him with flushed cheeks. “I do,” he reiterates in a softer tone, averting his gaze from you as if embarrassed by his cheesy outpouring of emotion. Usually, it’s the other way around; you make all the corny declarations of love and Jungkook laughs along suavely. It feels nice to have the tables turned. 
There’s so much to say, but the words all fade away when Jungkook shyly looks at you again. You settle on tackling him back onto the couch cushions, taking his surprised little yelp in stride as you suffocate him in your embrace. “Save those words for the big day, superstar,” you giggle, peppering his red face with tiny kisses that make him scrunch up cutely. “I can’t wait to blow up into one huge supernova with you.” 
Beneath you, Jungkook groans. “I’m sorry,” he huffs, voice muffled against your shoulder. Begrudgingly, his arms come up to envelope you, pulling you closer until the blanket scrunches up uncomfortably between you two. “That must’ve sounded so lame.” 
Leaning back so you’re not completely squishing him, you carefully push his silvery hair away from his forehead. “Don’t be,” you assure him, placing one chaste peck against his pouty lips. “I thought it was cute. I didn’t know you were into astrology.” 
A sigh. “Astronomy,” he corrects, “astrology has to do with zodiac signs and placements.” 
You run your thumbs over his cheeks, collecting any of the drying tears that paint his face. “Oh, like how you’re a Virgo and I’m a“— 
The TV remote you had lost somewhere along the way is suddenly rematerialized beneath your knee, sends the speakers blaring to life with a deafening screech that has both you and Jungkook leaping up like two frightened cats. “You always do this,” he laughs, that loud boyish sound that makes you feel like you’re sitting on a cloud. He watches you with a gentle smile as you hurriedly shut off the television, the remote haphazardly tossed somewhere behind you afterwards. You return to his embrace, wrap your arms around his waist and snuggle into his warmth. His heart thumps a steady rhythm beneath your ear. 
“You’re gonna be stuck with me forever,” you warn him, clutching at the fabric of his shirt like he’ll suddenly disintegrate before your eyes.
Above you, Jungkook hums, placing a kiss against the crown of your head. “I look forward to it,” he responds, pulling you impossibly closer, until you can feel the wrinkles in his shirt imprinting themselves against your cheek. He’s back to being that suave bastard again, and you find yourself wishing you had milked those big crocodile tears out of him for just a little bit longer. 
Fingers gently press against the muscles in your nape, push themselves in deeply until you can feel all the tension seeping out, turning you into a limbless blob over Jungkook. “Jeez,” you sigh, eyes fluttering shut. “And you wanted to wait until tomorrow.”
He huffs out a laugh. “I just thought you’d rather get engaged at a fancy restaurant with a pretty dress,” he defends, and you can hear the grin on his face. “For the photos.”
“Fair point,” you concede, eventually pushing yourself up so you’re not entirely squishing your boyfriend beneath you. Jungkook is already looking at you when you lift your head, has got this funny double-chin from this angle that makes his normally sharp jawline disappear. You find yourself tapping a finger against his chin, on the chocolate chip mole that hides itself beneath his plump bottom lip. “If anything, just propose to me again tomorrow at the restaurant.”
It wins you an eye-roll. “I’m not gonna propose to you again tomorrow,” he laughs, doesn’t even push you away when you become annoying and start tapping your fingers against all his beauty marks like you’re playing Whack-a-Mole. 
“Booo,” you frown, but let it go soon enough, foregoing your little game to press your lips against his. “Then I better make this a night to remember,” you murmur, tilting your head to the side.
Your hands dip into his luscious locks, fingernails tracing thin lines along his scalp that are certain to send tingles down his spine. As predicted, Jungkook releases a quiet groan soon after, a sound that’s muffled against your own lips. He’s pliant tonight, but not in a way that would elude fatigue. Pliant in a way that suggests he wants you to take the reins tonight, exhaling softly against you as he parts his lips. 
“Let me take care of you,” you hum, the hand that had been mindlessly hovering along his cheek drifting down to caress the side of his neck. Jungkook nods, his irises swimming in lust. You smile at his silent compliance, give his throat a light squeeze that makes his breathing hitch in surprise. 
He’s always at his prettiest when he’s beneath you like this, limbs moving in slow motion as you guide him along. You can already feel the beginnings of his arousal stirring beneath the front of his sweats, his cock slowly making its presence known against your thigh. You press your lips against his once more, making sure to make it rougher than the first kiss. Your tongue is met with little resistance, slips past his lips and dips into the hot cave of his mouth where Jungkook releases another trembling breath. 
Two hands come up behind you, trail themselves over your back and down to your ass, where he gives the two globes a tight squeeze. It draws a whimper out of you, one that Jungkook greedily swallows up. His tongue rubs up along yours, the wet muscle daringly pushing back against yours. His rebelliousness is only quelled with another press of your fingertips around his throat.
“Slow down,” you tell him. The first roll of your hips against him is slow, cruel in that you cut the motion short just as Jungkook begins to push back. A bratty huff escapes him, swollen pink lips pushing out into that endearing pout you love so much. It makes you grin, releasing the grip around his throat to carefully brush a stray strand of hair away from his eyes. 
It’s a gesture that works to soften Jungkook as well, the petulant look on his face melting away as you trail your pointer finger along his cheekbone. It’s replaced with a more tender one, dark lashes blinking up at you slowly. “Open,” you command upon reaching his mouth, finger pressing down against his pink lower lip. Jungkook obeys, opening his mouth until you can see his pink tongue and the dark abyss that leads down his throat. Your finger pushes itself in, and Jungkook certainly doesn’t try to resist. His lips suction around the digit fairly quickly, tight enough to keep you there but loose enough for you to slowly draw your finger in and out, each short plunge pressing down against his tongue. 
It’s a rather short affair, one that comes to an end when he accidentally bucks up against you, pressing his hardened member against your core. You retract your finger.  “Can you,” he tries, but his cheeks are stained red and he refuses to meet your gaze. “Just…” 
You intercept him with a chaste peck, maneuvering your legs until your knees are firmly pressed into the couch cushions beneath him, his thin waist trapped in between. When you sit up, you feel drunk on power and the way Jungkook looks up at you certainly doesn’t help. “Can I sit on your face?” 
He chokes. “I— sure, please,” he blurts out. His gaze follows you as you slip off of him, quickly discarding your pants and top on the floor. One pat against his thigh has him hurrying to shimmy out of his clothes, his sweatpants caught around his ankles. 
“You’re excited,” you laugh, stripping him of his bottoms when the frustration takes him over. 
Jungkook scoffs. “Well, yeah,” he mumbles, tugging his shirt off with one smooth motion. The ink around his bicep is as dark as ever, contrasts wonderfully against his warm face. “My fiancée is gonna sit on my face.”
The title makes you preen, quickly finding your place on his lap once more. With your clothing out of the way, Jungkook really does become a furnace. Every inch of his body is hot to the touch, soft too. “Fiancée,” you giggle, hands on his chest. They slide down, fingers playfully nudging his brown nipples. Jungkook flinches at the touch. “Gonna sit on my fiancé’s face,” you parrot back, delicately pinching one nipple between your fingers. A moan spills from his lips, his cock pushing against your thigh once more.
It’s the reminder you need, pushing back dutifully against him as you continue to toy with his chest. He’d look pretty with piercings, you find yourself thinking, watching on in fascination at the way his pert nipples stand at attention. Beneath you, Jungkook begins to grow desperate, his hands finding their place on your waist to encourage you to grind down against him once more. 
Jungkook swears up and down that he’s not particularly sensitive about having his nipples touched. But when you’ve got him like this, sinfully laid out before you, you can easily confirm that his claims are nothing but lies. He loves having his nipples touched, squirms beneath you impatiently with each playful tug and twist you bestow upon them. 
You duck down, pressing a kiss against his pectoral, just beside his nipple, and Jungkook’s entire body shivers. A few careful drags of your tongue against his warm skin only serve to string him along further, the prettiest whimper pulling itself from his lips when you finally envelope one of them in your mouth. “Wait,” he gasps, clawing at your clothing as if he both wants to push you off and push you closer. You grin, brandishing one mean nip at the sensitive nub. 
Eventually, your incessant need to play with Jungkook’s chest is fulfilled. “Lay back,” you instruct, watching as he shuffles down flat on the cushions, silver hair tumbling away from his eyes. He’s so red, eyes hazy. Your panties are discarded, joining the ever growing pile of clothes on the floor. 
Once upon a time, the idea of sitting on Jungkook’s face had terrified you, filled you with nightmares of crushing his windpipe or breaking his nose. For the most part, they’re pretty unrealistic fears, ones that can be easily shut down after one careful Google search on safe sexual practices. These days, it’s all too easy; in the mornings, especially, it’s become natural for him to guide you on top carefully, holding your hand as you whimper and sob over his face. 
In the current moment, you find yourself stroking a hand down the side of his face, completely enamored with the huge puppy eyes he levels your way. Jungkook likes having your pussy in his face just as much as you do, loves making you feel good in any way he knows how. But there’s a separate matter at hand, one that stands at attention beneath his black boxers and successfully wins your attention. 
Truthfully, there is no dilemma to ponder over; you want both to ride Jungkook’s face and suck him off. The solution?
“We’ve never done this before,” Jungkook mumbles in amazement, his voice slightly muffled from his position beneath you and slightly behind you. Still, his arms dutifully wrap around your thighs, guiding you closer to his mouth where his hot breath fans against your glistening folds. You rock back willingly, hands preoccupied with pushing his boxers down and away from his engorged cock. 
“Really?” you ask, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with the cock before you and the tongue that gently laps at your folds. Jungkook makes a sound, something between a hum and whimper, his mouth slowly getting to work against your folds. “M- Maybe,” you stutter, all thought processes coming to a halt as you carefully take him in your hand. 
His cock is hard and long, his tip an angry shade that weeps with precum. From this angle, you get to watch Jungkook’s huge thighs twitch at the sensation, the tattoo that marks up one of them doing little to hide the fact. Your hand squeezes him, watches in awe as another fat droplet oozes out of his tip. A moan tears itself from his throat, and it’s so goddamn sexy it nearly drives you insane. 
It’s one particularly long lap of his tongue over your clit that sends you into action, back arching at the tingles that shoot down your spine. Wasting no more time, you guide Jungkook’s cock into your mouth, let your own tongue shower his mushroom tip in kitten licks that have him bucking upwards. He releases your clit with a lewd pop, hot breath fanning across your lips. “Fuck,” he gasps, voice harsh. 
Admittedly, it’s more difficult than you thought it would be. 
You’re not one to be easily overwhelmed (says you), but with Jungkook’s twitching cock in your mouth and his teasing tongue dipping into your entrance, it becomes hard to juggle your attention between the two. Even Jungkook, who is quite frankly the master of cunnilingus, seems torn between the two, his breathing shallow and quick against your folds. 
With each slow descent around his cock, he shudders, thigh muscles tightening in anticipation. It causes a lull in the pace of his tongue, the generous kisses and licks against your folds subject to a somewhat uneven pace that, surprisingly, leaves you more on edge than you’d ever expected it to; right when you think he’s about to suck your clit into his mouth, you’re met with a harsh exhale instead, one that makes your lips flutter. 
You’re both disappointed in yourselves for never having tried this mind-blowing position before, and equal parts understanding as to why you haven’t tried this position before— it’s a lot. His cock is halfway down your throat when it twitches, sends a gush of precum into your mouth that has your eyes rolling backwards, a whine slipping out around him. Jungkook appreciates the vibrations, letting it fuel him as he plunges his tongue into your hole. It’s a two way street, you realize, one that is constantly experiencing traffic. 
“Baby,” you gasp, pulling off of his cock with a slick sound, hypnotized by the trail of saliva that connects your lips to his tip. Jungkook’s tongue prods along your slit, makes your eyesight go blurry when the tip of his nose brushes along you as well. The idea of his cute nose buried deep someplace it shouldn’t be has you grinding down on him. “We can— we should stop,” you stutter, your trembling hand reaching forward to grasp the base of his cock. 
He’s slick with your saliva and his precum, and your hand makes a squelching sound upon contact. It must feel good, because Jungkook moans against your folds, his thighs unconsciously falling farther apart as you slowly jerk him off. You think you might’ve heard your name slip from his lips, but your mind is fuzzy, lost in your lust as Jungkook licks a sinful line from your hole to your clit, curling his tongue at the end. “J- Jungkook,” you cry, flinching away because it’s become too much, your toes curling as the beginnings of an orgasm threaten you. 
Before that can happen, he relents, leaning back with a heavy exhale, his hands loosening their grip against your ass and plopping back down against the cushions. “Fuck,” he pants, his cock twitching in your hold. A lonely droplet of precum trails down the side, your knuckles coated in the glossy substance. Beneath you, Jungkook rubs one soothing palm against your hip. 
You slink off before he can get any funny ideas, maneuver yourself around until you’re kneeling between his parted thighs, his fat cock standing at attention between the two of you. From here, he looks ravenous, and you begin to question who exactly is taking care of who. Jungkook looks like he’s a second away from pinning you down and swallowing you whole, a thought that makes your toes curl. 
It’s with a cautiously horny hand that you reach for his cock again, holding him with both hands. Jungkook growls, head lolling backwards until all you can see is his neck and his chin, thick veins protruding along his skin. Jungkook doesn’t waste a moment longer. “C’mere,” he purrs, hauling you up until you’re clumsily leaning over him, palms framing his face. A lone finger runs down your spine, its faint touch making you arch forward. “Sorry,” he says, securing an arm around your waist. “I know you wanted to take care of me, but…”
You roll your eyes, submitting yourself to his clutches as he masterfully rolls the two of you over. The couch is soft beneath your back, and Jungkook looks pretty from above too. “You just can’t sit still, can you?” you murmur playfully. 
Jungkook’s forearms find their place beneath your thighs, the fold of the back of your knee perfectly slotted against his warm skin as he shuffles closer. “Maybe another time,” he laughs along sheepishly, his hard cock gliding over your slit, teasing your clit. You gulp, eyes scanning over his lean build as if it’s the first time. “Sorry,” he repeats, but he’s got this stupidly dopey grin on his face as he glances down at your pussy; he’s insane, he’s got to be, what man makes heart eyes at a pussy?
Your man, apparently. Grasping the base of his cock, Jungkook takes care to drag it along your folds collecting your wetness along his length, a deep shudder wracking his body through it all. “I knew you would do this to me,” he mutters, so low you nearly miss it under the thundering sound of your heartbeat.
“Huh,” you mumble, and you’d like to defend yourself and say you weren’t as cock-crazy as Jungkook was coochie-crazy, but that would be a lie. You’re staring at his cock as if it holds the secrets to the universe right now.
Jungkook juts his head to the side, a motion similar to the one he does when he’s trying to crack his neck. His tongue prods along his cheek, eyes laser-focused on the point where your two bodies meet. “From the moment you walked into my house,” he grunts mindlessly, finally lining himself up with your entrance. He chances a glance up, meets your gaze with a patient look, “all good?”
“All good,” you hurriedly reply, fingers finding their place against his broad shoulders. With the way he had prepared you earlier, mouthed along your clit and your folds until you were pleasantly aroused, the glide now is too easy. Tight, but easy, has the two of you releasing twin moans that echo off the wooden walls of the cabin. 
Jungkook’s forehead is covered in a thin veil of sweat, one that glistens when the evening sunset pours in through the balcony doors, highlighting him in a golden light that makes you dizzy. The angry tip of his cock sinks into your walls, Jungkook’s ashy strands sticking to his forehead and his cheeks. For some reason, you find yourself reminiscing on the aforementioned moment Jungkook had spoken of. Of the soft sweater he’d worn that day and the dinner he had made, the blond tips on his chestnut hair and the way he’d clung onto every word you’d said. 
It makes you tear up, and, after laughing at Jungkook early for crying, you quickly turn your face away. 
Jungkook isn’t dumb. “What now,” he chuckles, though his breathing is labored, every inch of his cock that penetrates you further bringing with it another rush of adrenaline. At the hilt, you’re embarrassed to say there’s multiple tears streaming down your face, so you can’t even play it off as you usually do. “Crybaby,” Jungkook teases, but his voice is so soft and tender you don’t know what to do with yourself. 
“Just move,” you bite out, shamefully covering your face with your hands. Jungkook leans over you, the movement pushing his dick deeper inside of you, your walls clenching around him. A kiss is placed over your knuckles, just shy of your engagement ring. Your chest lurches with a silent sob. “Jungkook,” you whimper, sinking further into the cushion, “please, just—“
“I got it,” he assures you, placing one final peck against your handmade (literally) shield. And then, so quietly you almost miss it, he makes sure to whisper, “love you,” before unsheathing himself. 
You shudder, your heart feeling so full, you fear it’ll burst. You both love and hate when he treats you like this, like an ice sculpture in the scorching heat that has him doing everything he can to keep you solid. His touch is soft, the roll of his hips too slow for your liking. You feel so small and vulnerable— too pampered. “Harder,” you beg, your voice an airy whine that has Jungkook chuckling above you. 
He lives to please you, hiking your leg over his shoulder with a renewed vigor. His hands find themselves on your waist, forcefully pinning you down against the couch cushions as he sets upon fulfilling your latest request. The next series of thrusts are jerky, have you jostling in his grip as Jungkook pounds into you with an all new mindset. “Lemme see you,” he huffs, thumbs painfully digging into your skin. You tremble in his arms, heart swayed by the quiet plea in his voice. “Let me see your face, pretty girl.”
Reluctantly, you do, brandishing your tear-stricken face his way. Jungkook smiles, that stupidly handsome smile, his hips snapping into you roughly. “Fuck,” he moans, the expression never leaving his face, even when run your nails over his chest harshly. “You’re so pretty.”
You ignore him for the sake of your already weakened mental state, focusing instead on the brutal force of his hips, the way his cock stretches your walls out. Each push has you seeing stars, thighs quivering from the sensations that shoot up your spine and down your toes. “Oh,” you mewl, hands gripping his biceps as you lose yourself to him. Your eyes roll back, vision a mess of colors and nothingness all at once. 
“Is this hard enough?” Jungkook husks out, and he sounds so close. His proximity is confirmed when his mouth slots against yours, his harsh breath mingling with your own as he continues to frantically buck into your inviting heat, each new round of thrusts leaving you weaker and weaker than before. “God,” Jungkook cries, the sound nearly lost beneath your own moans and whimpers. “Gonna k- keep you forever,” he spits, tongue slipping into your mouth.
He’s messier than usual, moves with unrefined movements unlike his normal self. You don’t care, you love him all the same. His sloppy kisses turn into desperate ones, matching the pace of his hips. “Kook,” you sob, arms wrapping themselves around his neck, pulling him close until his thrusts are reduced to a shallower depth. 
“I’ve got you,” he croons, lips against your jawline. His cock presses in and you swear you feel it alongside every inch of your walls, a warmth blossoming in your stomach. He’s layering messy kisses down your face now, lips sucking dark marks any chance he gets. 
True to his word, Jungkook indeed has you. His cock pistons in and out at an astonishing pace, each surge into your folds making you dizzy over and over again. It’s a feeling you fear you’ll never grow tired of, in fact, it’s a feeling you fear you’ll begin to crave even more in the future. The good thing is, that future will extend into forever. 
You yank him towards you, swallow his low laughter with your lips. Jungkook doesn’t complain, lowering himself until he’s practically squishing you beneath his beefy body, cock ramming in and out despite all that. His tongue glides along yours, makes it his mission to muffle each of your cries. 
It doesn’t take long for you to be fulfilled. Given the fact you had sucked him off like a lollipop whilst having him eat you out, you’re not entirely surprised. That and the emotions of tonight have you melting into him sooner than you’d like, his name falling from your lips as your thighs clamp down around his waist. Jungkook takes it in stride, slows the maddening pace of his hips to cradle you in his arms. You’re like jelly, practically flop back into the cushion when he slips an arm beneath you. “You’re so good for me,” Jungkook praises, lavishing your throat in tiny pecks as his orgasm circles around. “My pretty girl.”
“Love you,” you sigh, and your body feels numb, his intrusion but a small touch now that he’s tired you out once more, your walls tender and raw. Jungkook presses a smile against your throat and, moments later, releases inside of you. 
Even minutes after the deed, the feeling refuses to return to your legs. He didn’t go that hard— well, you’re not entirely sure. The memories always become blurry toward the end of your escapades. Everything rushes back in waves, and for some reason, your first thought is, “where’s Sailor Moon?”
Your post-rump conversations have never been the most coherent, usually filled with pretty weird thoughts and ideas. Still, more grand things have happened tonight for you to be worried about a magical anime girl. Jungkook draws himself out of your core with a huff of laughter. “On the TV,” he answers, unfazed by the oddity of your question. 
That’s how you know he’s a keeper.
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It takes a while, but eventually Jungkook responds. “Avocado toast,” he says, though his answer is dripping with uncertainty. He’s naked as the day he was born, snuggled up beside you in bed. He’s propped up on one arm, looking down at you over the ample swell of his manly bosom. It takes everything in you to keep your hands off his chest. 
“Correct,” you respond, “and what movie did we watch?”
Without missing a beat, “Transformers, the first one.”
You nod, glancing at the ceiling as you rack your brain for any other trivia questions to ask your fiancé. “The title of the playlist you made?”
A flush paints his cheeks. “Date Night playlist,” he answers through a pout, reprimanding you for bringing up such a memory with a flick to your forehead. You wince. “I was young and silly,” he defends.
You beam, cuddling into his side until he’s forced to lay back down. “Yeah, yeah,” you tease. “We’re only gonna get older from here,” you lament. You’d say it’s difficult to picture him with a gray head of hair, but his current silvery locks don’t leave much room for your imagination.
Jungkook pulls you close. A beat of silence passes, and then, “so who are we telling first?”
Definitely Namjoon.
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Copyright © 2021, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.
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evilgrl-ssn · a month ago
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A/N: I haven't posted on this acc in so long but I was reading Eddie Munson fics as one does and felt the immense need for domestic fluff with Eddie so this is what I threw up idk if anyone is even gonna like this also sorry if the format is weird I wrote this on desktop(unedited)
Eddie Munson x Reader
Life with Eddie after he graduates and all the upside down stuff is resolved. (tried to keep as gender neutral as possible)
Warnings: disgusting domestic fluff, showering together ig
Eddie finally graduated high school two months after a battle with the demo bats and defeating Vecna and you were so unbelievably proud of him.
Chrissy’s death was blamed on a drug over dose and the other deaths were deemed freak accidents but you guys knew the truth and tried to honor Chrissy in your own ways
Word got out about Jason rampaging around town and threatening and beating up innocent people and he was arrested and thrown in jail overnight until his parents bailed him out but after people weren't so hell bent on tormenting Eddie
All of the Hellfire club showed up to cheer on Eddie as he walked up on stage and ‘snatched’ his diploma and then you all ditched diploma in hand to get food and celebrate the end of Eddie’s high school career
After graduation you got away from your shitty parents and moved in with Eddie which uncle Wayne was more than pleased to hear as you were like a child to him and kept Eddie out of trouble for the most part.
A week after graduation Eddie decided to finally get a steady job that wasn't dealing drugs so he got a job at the local diner 
Eddie wanted nothing more in life then to wake up to you every day and he knew you guys couldn't live with uncle Wayne forever so he did the early mornings and almost 40 hours a week while playing dnd and practicing and performing with corroded coffin on the weekends while spending his nights and afternoons with you.
So every morning your alarm went of at 5am about the same time Wayne got home and Eddie woke up to your arms wrapped around him and your legs tangled together 
lay in bed for a few minutes before gently coaxing you awake so you could eat breakfast together before your early shift at the cafe in town and his at the diner.
Monday trough Friday you would wake up with him admire his pretty face and study his tattoos and then you guys would listen to music as you put his hair in two French braids for work (imagine how fucking pretty he would look!!) because he refused to wear a hairnet
Eddie would drop you off at work and then come pick you up when both of got off at 2pm the short drive back to the trailer was full of complaining about the shitty customers you both had to deal with only to arrive home to shower together, get half dressed and lay around together until you decided wether to make dinner or order take out.
after 6 months of the same routine you guys had enough money to get your own little apartment furnishing it with found and cheap second hand furniture but you loved it all the same it was your own safe haven together 
A few months later Eddie was offered a better job with less hours and higher pay so every Friday he would preform with corroded coffin with you in the front row cheering them on
Eddie was happier than he'd ever been and even bought a ring and kept it in the glove box of his van waiting for the perfect moment to properly ask you to spend the rest of your lives together 
I'm now brain dead and didn't know what else to write so this is the end ig anyway this was entirely self serving bc I had a thought of Eddie with his hair in braids wearing an apron and then I wrote all of this from this one thought
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sunshinerainbowsbts · 6 months ago
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Caught | PJM
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Pairing: Jimin x Reader
Genre: smut, established relationship, non-Idol!AU
Rating: M (18+)
Warnings: exhibitionism, public sex, unprotected sex (assume alternate bc)
Word Count: 499
Disclaimers: NSFW, I don’t own BTS - they just inspire me
Summary: It was only a matter of time before the two of you got caught.
Prompts: Fluff 47 "We could run away" & Smut 8 "I didn't think you were into that"
A/N: For @loosewindmill! Your comments are always such a delight - so insightful and funny! I can't thank you enough for reading my stories and letting me know what you think. I hope you enjoy this little drabble! 💜
Unbeta’d as usual. I’d love to know what you think - my inbox is always open! 💕
Milestone Celebration Masterlist
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“Oh my god, I’m ruined!”
“It’s not a big deal, baby, I promise,” Jimin consoles you from his seat on a pallet of boxes.
You just shake your head, pacing.
“We never should’ve done this,” you groan.
Jimin had been just as surprised as you the first time it happened. Out dancing one night, your boyfriend’s magical hips and roaming hands got you more hot and bothered than usual. Unable to wait to get home, you’d pulled him behind a velvet curtain in the corner of the club. Jimin’s eyebrows shot up as you unzipped his pants.
“Here?” he gasped as you stroked him to hardness, tugging your panties to the side. “In public?”
You nodded. “Need you now, baby.”
“I didn’t think you were into that!” he exclaimed, and truthfully you hadn’t either, but as he sank into you, thrusting hurriedly, the realization that anyone could walk by at any moment set your pulse racing and your orgasm crashing into you faster than ever before.
So it happened again, the next weekend, in the gym sauna. Then the weekend after that, at the movie theater, sitting on his lap in the back row. The two of you were shameless, fucking anywhere you could think of, week after week.
You’d been in the middle of a particularly delightful round tonight, him buried to the hilt inside you, up against the bargain shelves in a store basement, only to be interrupted by none other than Min Yoongi.
Honestly, it had only been a matter of time before you were caught. But did it have to be your boss who caught you?
Maybe you shouldn’t have visited the bookstore he’d personally recommended. Now you're hiding in a stockroom while you melt down.
“I can’t go back out there and face him. Not today. Not Monday. Never again,” you moan, covering your face with your hands. “Everyone at work's gonna find out! Oh god, and our friends'll hear from Hoseok, because he’s the office gossip and you know he won’t be able to keep quiet!”
Jimin stands and wraps his arms around you. “Baby, take a deep breath,” he instructs, rubbing your back. “It’s gonna be fine. You really think he’s gonna say something?”
You shrug, burying your face in his shoulder.
“Okay. Then, we’ll just run away.”
“What??”
“If you’re that worried, we could run away. We'll slip out the back door, head right for the station, jump on a train and never look back.” He grins. “We’ll leave this life behind. I don’t care where we end up, as long as we’re together.”
Jimin’s drastic idea snaps you out of your panic. “God, you’re such a sap,” you sigh, kissing his cheek. “Fine, I get it, it’s not the end of the world. But… let’s call that a backup plan if things are awkward Monday morning.”
“Deal,” Jimin walks backwards until he’s sitting on the boxes again. He pulls you onto his lap, nuzzling your neck. “Now. Where were we?”
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© 2022 by sunshinerainbowsbts. Crossposted to AO3. Please do not copy or repost.
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soliloquiss · a month ago
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Hi ten <3 its your platonic spouse back at it again with some brainrot bc my head literally wont shut up ab this idea
So. Fulgur. Cyborg right? I feel like, he just has that capacity to be able to go for hours and hours on end and even orgasm several times *inside* you, and even after everything is done its like hes barely tired and idk i just find that rlly hot ueirueurh im deprived of fulgur smut and nsfw headcanons if you may provide me with some i'd be eternally grateful 🙏🙏❤
fulgur becomes a different personality whenever you have sex with him— every time you try to glance at his features, you notice at how he's not showing any signs of fragility at all. due to the modifications of his body and his build, fulgur is able to fill you up like a cum jar in a span of two hours, pace not faltering at all. in fact he can actually go deeper than ever, faster than ever just for you to reward him with shameless moans of satisfaction and pleasure. there were times he disliked being the way he is and often contemplates about it but when it comes to bed, he's boasting how he can do you for 3 days in a row with no breaks at all, talk about a cocky cyborg. he actually wants to try it with you one day and have bought several boxes of lubricant, different brands and flavors for you both to try. after all, what is a hole if it won't accept his heating rod? your limbs start to go numb and you could no longer support yourself, fulgur does it all for you— you lay on the bed there, mouth wide open as endless mewls come out and eyes heavy lidded due to the fatigue coursing through your body. but fulgur? he's still pumping into your walls, almost as if his objective is about to rearrange your insides. he watches you get fucked by him mindlessly, and god if he could imprint the view in his memory permanently, he would. perhaps he'll find a way to, someday.
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accio-samulet · 6 months ago
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prince & princess — adrian pucey x fem!reader, soulmate au
Summary: Adrian Pucey and Y/N Y/L/N never got along; everyone knew that. But no one exactly knew why. Heck, even Y/N didn’t know why the Slytherin chaser was out to get her from day one. She wished to simply ignore him until graduation, but fate had other plans.
Warnings: some angst
Notes: soulmate au (share the same mark), reader uses she/her pronouns, sorted into Slytherin, two years older than golden trio, shorter than Adiran, no other physical traits mentioned I believe?
Word Count: 7.3k
A/N: this is kinda different from my other fic so i hope y’all still enjoy! I was determined to post this by midnight but it’s 12:20am now so fail but also win bc i finished so?? i did a fast proofread so sorry for any typos :-)
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First Year
The happiness was radiating from Y/N as she walked through the doors of the Great Hall. She had heard so many stories of Hogwarts growing up, it seemed too good to be true. This was the place where young witches and wizards learned the true extent of their powers. This was the place where her dad met his best friend, who was practically like an uncle to her and all his kids like cousins. This was the place where her mother played quidditch as seeker and went on to win the Quidditch Cup three years in a row. Most importantly, this was the place her parents met and fell in love.
They had been destined together since the beginning. A symbol, unique to each pair of soulmates, marked on their bodies. A symbol that would be the only clue given to help find the person fate put you with. As a young witch, Y/N begged her mom to tell her the story of how she and her dad met. It gave her hope to find a love like theirs one day. She would fantasize for hours about the surreal feeling of being in love with someone who was completely and utterly made for you. Standing here now, waiting to the sorted, her love story would finally start.
“Y/L/N, Y/N!”
She inhaled sharply, walking forward to the lone stool. The Sorting Hat was placed on her head and started to fill her mind with its thoughts.
“What a lovely, young witch we have here. Quite smart, yes. Set on finding your soulmate... Works with what has been given. You’ll do best in...”
“SLYTHERIN!” The table with green and silver colors erupted with cheers. Y/N smiled greatly as she sat down, matching the same expression of those around her. After the ceremony had ended and the feast began, she turned to the young boy who sat next to her. She hoped to make some friends and start the latest chapter in her life off right. Not to mention, he was cute and anyone here could be her soulmate.
“Hi, I’m Y/N Y/L/N,” she said welcomingly, extending her hand for him to shake. The boy turned, looking at her, then at her hand. It took him a second, but he finally shook her hand and said two simple words,
“Adrian Pucey.”
Second Year
A year went by and what appeared to be the start of a friendship turned the complete other way around. Adrian Pucey teased and hexed Y/N non-stop. He was like a rock stuck in her shoe all day, a papercut in-between her fingers, a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans that seemed to have no good flavours, not a single one. It was just enough to inconvenience her, but not enough to ruin her day.  
“Oi, Y/L/N!” She didn’t even have to turn around to know who was calling after her.
“What do you want, Pucey?” she replied, frowning. She was actually having a great day, he had not talked to her all day. “Can’t say that now though, can I?” she thought. He came running to her, clearly out of breath.
"Hold these!" he griped, shoving something towards her.
"What?! No way," she exclaimed back, pushing his hands away.
"I need you to take them now! Just for a second." He took her hand and forced her to hold whatever he had. Just as she was about to give them back, he ran past her and into another corridor.
"Miss Y/L/N... This is not how Slytherins are supposed to act. Detention, tomorrow at 7pm. Any talkback and I'll make it a whole week." She looked back in front of her and saw Professor Snape walking towards her. That’s when she finally noticed what Adrian had shoved into her hands: dungbombs. That little snake! Why is he always out to get me?!
Third Year
A new year and Adrian Pucey was still just as determined as the last two to mess with Y/N. She matched his determination and vowed one boy would not mess up her entire school experience. Her mother played quidditch during her Hogwarts and she wanted to do the same. That leads her to where she was now: the quidditch pitch for Slytherin tryouts. Unfortunately, Adrian had similar plans.
"Come to cheer me on, Y/L/N?" he asked with a smirk. She glared at him, giving him the look of "Really? What do you think?"
"No, Pucey, I'm trying out for the team," she stated obviously.
"Well, you might as well leave now. I'm clearly going to be the new chaser," he boasted. She rolled her eyes at his arrogance. Who knew a 13-year-old could be so full of themselves?
"I'm not going after chaser, I play keeper." Before he could comment, Flint, the new captain of the Slytherin team, called everyone together and discussed how tryouts would go. She was up against another third year for keeper, Miles Bletchley. Despite practicing all summer with her mom, Y/N still couldn’t shake the nerves off. She pushed off of the ground and flew into position at the hoops, Bletchley matching her movements and taking the other side. Taking turns, the current and recruiting chasers got a chance to score against her. She managed to save 9 out of 10 shots. Much to her disliking, the 1 goal that made it through was from none other than Adrian Pucey. Bletchley only managed to save 4. Flint ran a few more exercises with the chasers before calling all of them to the ground.
“I don’t even need to think after seeing how you lot performed out there. Keeper goes to Y/L/N, chaser to Pucey. Practice starts on Monday. The rest of you, don’t even bother trying out next year unless you improve by some bloody miracle,” Flint announced. Y/N felt a wave of relief wash over her. However, the sweet sensation was abruptly cut short when reality set in.
“Best get used to me, princess. Looks like we’re going to be spending a lot of more time together,” Pucey whispered to her as he walked by. She froze in her spot, baffled at the new nickname he had just called her. Just the other week, she was talking in the Great Hall with her roommates, exclaiming how as a little girl, she dressed up as a princess almost every Halloween. She wanted a fairytale ending just like all the princesses did. And not that she would dare mention this in an such open space, but this was directly influenced by her soulmate mark being a crown on her abdomen, right above her hip bone. Adrian clearly planned to use this new knowledge against her. She turned around and “accidentally” shoved past him as she walked into the charging rooms.
This was the first time Adrian Pucey called her princess and it surely wouldn’t be the last.
Fourth Year
It was dumb to be crying over this, but after one of the most stressful weeks of her life, Y/N couldn’t help but cry when she learned yet another one of her friends found their soulmate. Of course, everyone but her was finding theirs, the girl whose spent her whole life dreaming of her soulmate. How could fate be so cruel and sweet at the same time?
Y/N stared into the Black Lake, lost in thought as someone sat down next to her. They cleared their throat and Y/N snapped back into reality. She frowned as she took in the boy next to her.
“Look, Pucey, I’m not really in the mood right now,” she said, attempting to wipe her tears away from his view.
“I-I was just headed inside and saw you, it’s getting late,” he motioned to the last bit of sun peeking out in the horizon. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.” His words were filled with sincerity.
“Oh,” she mumbled. She was shocked, not knowing what to say to his profound kindness. This wasn’t Adrian’s normal behavior.
“So, are you? Are you okay?” Y/N looked into his eyes, trying to find anything that would tell her he was joking right now. She couldn’t.
“Uh, not really, but it doesn’t matter. It’s none of your business,” she snapped back. Y/N had to remember who she was talking to. He may seem nice right now, but he had been hell any other time.
“Is about Ruth and her soulmate?” She looked back at him, stunned. “Sorry, you guys are kinda loud during meals and I saw how you reacted,” he spoke hesitantly.
“I’m shocked you were able to put that all together, or even cared for that matter,” she said, something in her wanting to speak honestly.
“I’m not a total arse, princess,” he laughed, easing the tension.
“I would beg to differ,” she joked back. Am I actually having a conversation with Adrian Pucey, like a normal conversation? What is Merlin’s name is happening?
“So, was I correct then? About the soulmate thing?” he asked.
“I’m not going to tell you, Pucey. You’ll just find some way to tease me about it.”
“I won’t, cross my heart and hope to die,” he whispered, evening doing the “x” motion with his finger across his heart. She stared at him hesitantly. What else do I have to lose, honestly?
“Fine, you were correct. The only thing I really want to do in life is find my soulmate, but that seems to never be happening. So yeah, it fucking sucks seeing my friends find theirs. Is that what you wanted to hear?” She didn’t mean be so crude with him, but to be fair, she did tell him she wasn’t in the mood.
“I’m sure you’ll find them, it’s only fo-” Adiran began to speak, but got cut off by Filch yelling at them for being out on school grounds past curfew. The two walked back to the common room in silence, never speaking of that interaction again. Adrian went back to his normal tactics, as if it never happened. Y/N thought about it every now and then, wondering why he had been so kind, but she would just be left as confused as the day it happened.
Fifth Year
This was when things started to truly get messy. Some newfound confidence, a growth spurt from both parties, and conflicted feelings were not a good mix together.
Y/N sat in her first potions lesson of the year, waiting for Professor Snape to walk in and begin. Luckily, she had her roommates to help keep her company. They are started to gossip about the latest people who found their soulmates over the summer. Of course, Y/N had no luck in her search so far. She had no clue it was this difficult to find them, especially when the mark is in a place often hidden by clothing. One of her roommates nudged her, bringing her out of her thoughts.
“Rumor has it that there’s a fellow fifth year boy with a crown mark,” Ruth exclaimed. Her eyes widened in shock. Ruth was always the one with the latest news, she somehow knew everything.
“You’re joking! Who? What?! When? W-where did you hear this?” she asked rapidly.
“Relax! I don’t know much, some sixth year Ravenclaw was talking about it on the way to Transfiguration yesterday,” she explained. She groaned in response. This rumor barely helped in her search and that’s all it was too: a rumor.
“Settle down,” Professor Snape called out, bringing everyone’s attention to the front. He looked around the room.
“These seats certainly won’t do if I expect any actual work to get done. Your new pairs are on the board. I expect a presentable Draught of Peace by the end of class,” he said, flickering his wand ever so slightly. Chalk moved swiftly across the board, listing off who would work with who. She read the line with her name: Y/L/N, Pucey. She groaned in response and hit her head down on the desk.
“Why, Merlin? Why,” she muttered. Her roommates laughed and wished her luck before heading off. They certainly knew her frustration about the Slytherin boy.
“Well, well, well. Isn’t it my favorite princess?” a voice beside her spoke. The voice was familiar, but now deeper? Y/N looked up at him. Oh Merlin, she thought. Adrian definitely had a growth spurt over the summer. She was once the same height, but now it seemed like he towered over her. All his features were finally filling in and it was clear the universe definitely spent some time on him. Not to mention, a good haircut, or lack thereof, does wonders. A subtle grown-out haircut is what she had always pictured her soulmate to have. Y/N, get it together! This is Adrian Pucey you’re thinking about, the guy who’s had it against you since first year! She shook the thoughts away before Adrian could notice her staring.
“I’ll get the ingredients, you find the recipe,” she stated quickly, getting up before he could argue. She took her time before returning to her inevitable partner. Adrian started to prepare the cauldron as she crushed up the moonstone. They worked in peace for a few minutes, thankfully, before he decided to say something.
“Do you reckon we’re partners for just today or the whole school year?” he piped up, glancing at her.
“I think I’d rather be a squib than be your potions partner for a year,” she retorted. This year, she was not gonna let him get away with messing with her. She suffered long enough from his tactics, it was time to fight back. She added the syrup of hellebore after the moonstone, waiting for the potion to turn turquoise.
“Ouch, finally snapping back I see. I like it, just another one of the many ways you’ve changed this summer,” he said with a smirk, looking at her. She sees his eyes flicker up and down her body. She turned away before he could see her blush. Did he really just say that? This was Adrian Pucey, right? The boy who’s hated her since first year and not just some rando on polyjuice? She put away her wonders and focused back on the potion. She was never the best at the class and could not mess up anymore, especially with OWLs this year.
“Next, add the powdered porcupine quills and stir clockwise 7 times,” she read out loud from the recipe.
“No, it said counterclockwise when I read it,” Adrian exclaimed. Before she could correct him, he stirred in the opposite direction which resulted in the potion bubbling immensely before ultimately exploding everywhere. She shrieked at the sudden outburst.
“You bloody idiot! I said clockwise for a reason,” she griped at him. He mumbled a quick and quiet “sorry.”
“Miss Y/L/N and Mister Pucey, detention both of you. Tonight. You’ll be cleaning up this mess along with all the other cauldrons without magic,” Professor Snape declared.
“You know, you could have just asked if you wanted some alone time together,” Adrian whispered into her ear. She shrived at the sudden proximity between the two of them and his new profound boldness. This year was going to be rough.
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“Seeing as it’s your fifth year, it’s time to revisit the subject of Boggarts. I would like you all to discuss with each other what you experience in your third year while I do some last minute preparations for our lesson,” Professor Lupin exclaimed. The fifth years jumped as the dresser in front of them jumped and rattled. Lupin had proved himself worthy over the year so far, but they still didn’t trust whatever was in that dresser.
“You can hold my hand if you’re scared, princess,” Adrian joked. “Let’s not forget what happened last time.” Y/N rolled her eyes and looked at the Slytherin boy. She could tell he was referring to how she almost burst into tears when it was her turn to fight the boggart and Professor Quirrell had to pull her aside.
“Oh yes, let’s not! I would never dare forget how you shrieked when it turned into a clown and chased you around the room,” she laughed, thinking about young Adrian frantically running around while Quirrell tried to catch the boggart.
“I have no clue what you’re talking about, princess,” he said, hiding a smile.
“Maybe this lesson will jog your memory, I would love to relive that moment again.”
“You think you’ll see the same thing as last time?” he looked down at her as he spoke. Y/N wanted to say another joke, but she looked back up at him and was suddenly aware of how close he was standing next to her.
“Uh, I-I’m not really sure. I didn’t have a chance to see what it actually was last time. There’s a good chance it’ll be this one thing, but I’m really hoping it doesn’t turn into that,” she laughed dryly, trying to not make it awkward. Y/N knew damn what it would, the fear of being alone and not having a soulmate, but she couldn’t admit it out loud, especially to Adrian.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine, you’re tough. But if not, I’ll be right behind you, princess,” he winked, nudging her. Y/N laughed and nudged him back. The two had fallen into this type of banter over the year, not exactly being friends, but not exactly being enemies. Y/N wasn’t where they stood with each other, but as her turn got closer, she started to gravity more towards Adrian, her arm slightly brushing his for a sense of comfort. Adrian didn’t dare look at her, instead just smiled to himself about the subtle touch.
Sixth Year
The Start-Of-Term feast hadn’t even begun before Adrian Pucey decided to go back to his familiar habits. Y/N glanced around the Great Hall, seeing some old and new faces, before catching Adrian’s eye. He sent her a wink, and she stuck her tongue out in response, making sure to turn away before he could notice her blushing. Over fifth year, it was hard to not fall for him, at least just a little bit. He constantly flirted with her while somehow still teasing her and making her life inconvenient in any way possible. How could a boy be so confusing? Her roommates were not blind to her new feelings, especially with how often she ��complained” about him.
“Y/N! Please, classes haven’t even started yet,” Annabel groaned. She looked at her roommate confused. Annabel laughed at her bewilderment,
“Oh, please! We all just saw that look you just shared with Pucey. Just admit you like him already so we don’t have a repeat of last year.” Her two other roommates murmured in agreement.
“What?! I do not like him. He’s been an arse since first year, why would I like him? That’s completely barbaric,” she explained, rolling her eyes at her roommates’ delusions.
“Well something is obviously going on! If you can’t admit it, don’t come complaining to us,” Ruth retorted. Y/N muttered a quick disagreement before dropping the subject and turning back to Dumbledore to start the feast. There was no way I could actually like Arian Pucey, right?
The feast continued on and the news of the Triwizard Tournament was buzzing about the castle. The idea of two foreign schools joining them was exciting. The potential new people, chance for eternal glory, the Yule Ball. It was enough to make anyone look forward to the school year. Of course, being a sixth year, Y/N and her roommates could not compete. It was obvious some students did not like this rule, but it didn’t bother her much. She always preferred to watch from the sidelines away.
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The first task flew by and soon, it would be time for the Yule Ball. Y/N chatted with her roommates on their way to Potions, each discussing their dates or what they would wear. They reached the classroom’s door and Y/N parted ways from the rest of the girls. Snape thought it would be a good idea to keep the pairs from last year so she was stuck with Adrian again, but she didn’t mind it as much this time. He was already in his sit as she set her stuff down.
“Morning, how’s the princess’s day so far?” he questioned, looking at her.
“Hi, Pucey. Uh, it’s been fine I guess, can’t complain, yourself?” she replied as she got her books book out. She glanced over at him, his signature smile across his face.
“A lot better now that you’re here.” Y/N gave him a small smile, not knowing exactly what to say.
“The Yule Ball’s in a few weeks, you got a date?”
“Oh, uh actually I do,” answered, unsure why he was asking about this.
“Wait, really? Who?” he said, brows burrowed in confusion. Y/N could hear a bit of angry in his voice, but she pushed the thought away, she was surely just imagining it.
“Lawson, Edward Lawson. You might know him, he’s seventh year chaser for the Hufflepuff team.” Adrian’s jaw went tense. Now she definitely saw that, no imagining about it.
“If you wanted to go with a chaser, you could have just gone with me, you know?” he said, winking at her.
“In your dreams, Pucey,” Y/N retorted, glancing back at the boy whose eyes never seemed to leave her.
“Oh, you have no idea, princess,” he mumbled. “Look, if you ever manage to escape the bloody bloke, save me a dance, will ya?” he exclaimed with a smirk. Luckily Professor Snape walked in and started the lesson before she got to respond. She had no clue how to respond to that.
──────────
Y/N sat in her room, perfecting the final touches of her hair and makeup. She was excited for the Yule Ball, but something felt off. She couldn’t quite place her finger on it, though. She was surrounded by her friends, all getting ready and eagerly chatting. Soon, she would go downstairs and meet her very nice date. There was no reason not to be happy.
Y/N looked at her reflection in the mirror, the girl looking back didn’t seem real. Her dress was better than her could ever imagine, and Annabel had truly outdone herself on the hair and makeup. She smiled, feeling at peace.
“You are going to knock him all off his feet, Y/N,” Ruth exclaimed. She changed her focus from herself to the other girl in the mirror.
“It’s so surreal, you know?”
“Edward isn’t going to be the only boy taken back. Who wants to bet Adrian won’t leave her alone tonight?” Annabel laughed as she put in her earrings. The other girls murmured along in agreeance. She rolled her eyes at her.
“You all are delusional, the boy has hated me since first year. And even if he didn’t, I do! I don’t care how much flirting he does! I’ll murder him if he gets in the way tonight.”
“You say that, but yet here you are in an evergreen dress, which happens to be Adrian’s favorite color. Down to the exact shade,” Annabel observed. Y/N gave her a shape glare, deciding not to retort back and make things worse.
The other girls were finally ready and they all went downstairs. The others had all found their dates, but Edward was no were to be seen. Instead of making a scene, Y/N told Ruth she forgot something upstairs and they should go on without her before it gets too late. She gave her an odd look, but agreed, leaving her be.
Her heart raced at the idea of being stood up. It had been 10 minutes past the arranged meet up time. Was this some kind of sick joke? Was this his plan along?
“You can’t think like this, Y/N. This night will not get ruined,” she muttered to yourself. She took a deep breath and made her way out the common room. She walked towards the Great Hall and saw Cedric Diggory, along with his date, Cho Chang. They looked amazing together.
“Diggory! So sorry to bother you, but have you seen Edward? He didn’t come down to the Dungeons to pick me up like we discussed,” she frowned as she spoke. His eyes widened as he saw her. Cedric was friends and on the quidditch team with Edward.
“Oh, uh.. Y-Y/N. I didn’t expect you here. A-about that...” He looked tense as talked. She tilted her head in confusion.
“Um, he’s not coming anymore.” Y/N’s heart dropped.
“What do you mean he’s not coming?”
“Well, you see. Please don’t get mad, I know how you two are, but Pucey may have threatened Edward and said if he took you to the Ball, it would be the last thing he ever did. Edward could barely tell me what happened after it. He really did want to come! He was so excited to be your date, but you know how Pucey can be when it comes to guys interested in you,” he explained quickly. Her world came to a halting stop as she processed what Cedric had just said.
“W-what?” It barely came out as a whisper, tears already threatening to escape.
“I really am sorry, Y/N.”
“Oh, um, thank you for letting me know. Please tell Edward I’m sorry. I had no clue this would happen. Sorry for bothering you once again, I hope you two have fun,” she utterly, leaving before they saw her completely breakdown. They smiled awkwardly at her and waved goodbye.
Thoughts raced around her head as she glanced throughout the crowed corridor. How could he do this? This was by far the cruelest thing he has ever done. What did Cedric even mean by “you know how Pucey can be when it comes to guys interested in you?” Had Adrian been the sole reason why it seemed like no guy at Hogwarts liked me? Her head started to feel dizzy with all the confusion. She stumbled her way outside, hoping the fresh air would help. She sat on the steps, too stunned to do anything else. She heard the sound of footsteps from behind her.
“Where’s the date, Y/L/N?” he teased. Y/N lifted her head and looked back at boy who has ridiculed her nonstop since first year. Rage took over her body.
“You. Complete. Fucking. Arse,” she uttered as she shoved him back. “Do you enjoy this? Do you enjoy seeing me in fucking pain and then teasing me about it? Seriously, what is your problem?!” He was taken back from her sudden outburst. There was no holding back now.
“You’ve hated me since first year, Pucey! I’ve put up with your bullshit since first year. I put up with it year after year, but this is the last straw. The one thing I will not let you mess with is my fucking love life. How dare you ruin my night, the one night a guy finally shows some fucking interest in me! You KNOW how much the idea of meeting my soulmate means to me. Diggory said you’ve threatened every guy who’s ever been interested in me. Is that true?!” Y/N yelled, not caring who could hear her. Adrian was too stunned to speak.
“IS IT FUCKING TRUE?” she yelled impatiently. Tears had been rushing down her face at this point. Adrian never intended for this to happen.
“Yes, but Y/N lo-”
“Bloody hell, you are fucking pathetic, Pucey. Never talk to me again or I’ll go to the headmaster about this and make sure you will never talk to me, or let alone see me.” Her voice cracked with heartbreak as she spoke. Never in the six years of knowing him did she think Adrian would swoop this low. She shoved past him and didn’t look back as he called her name. As soon as she made it to her room, she cried and sobbed until there were no more tears.
Adrian Pucey had finally broke Y/N Y/L/N.
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It had been one month since that night. Adrain upheld Y/N’s word and hadn’t spoke to her since. No snappy remarks, no flirting, no ‘princess’s, not even so much as a glance. Part of her was relieved he listened to her, but the other part of her couldn’t help but miss his presence. It added variety to her day. Now, all the days seemed to ruin together.
She stared at the fire in the common room, her roommates chattering next to her. She had been so absent during this time, they didn’t deserve this. Y/N hadn’t even noticed their talk turn to whispers. They looked at her cautiously.
“Y/N...” Ruth voiced gently. Y/N snapped out of her gaze and looked at her.
“Are you sure everything’s okay? I mean, you haven’t been the same since the ball. Hell, I’m even worried about Pucey. He looks just as bad as you. Please talk to us,” the girl spoke with concern. Y/N sighed, not knowing exactly what to say.
“You all know what happened. I know Pucey and I weren’t exactly friends, but what he did was unacceptable. Whatever we had, it got completely broken now. I thought I was starting to actually lik- ... I-It doesn’t matter, guys. The damage is done and I’ll be fine. Just need some more time,” she gave a weak smile after she spoke, hoping that would satisfy them for now. They looked at her wearily and started to leave for bed. She heard a chorus of goodnights and now she sat in almost silence, the only sound coming from her breathing and the crackling of the fire.
Y/N didn’t know how long she had been then, but the fire was now almost completely dead. The moon shined through the Great Lake’s water, the only source of light in the common room. The sound of footsteps took her out of her thought. Before she could even react, Adrian Pucey shuffled into the common room and sighed as he fell back into the couch opposite of her. He didn’t even notice her at first until he opened his eyes.
“I-I didn’t see you here, sorry. I’ll leave,” he voiced as he got up. Before she could even think, she started to respond.
“It’s okay, you can stay.”
“Oh.” He definitely wasn’t expecting that as an answer.
“What are you doing up? It’s late,” she expressed quietly.
“I could ask you the same thing...” he chuckled dryly. She gave a slightly smile in return.
“Can we talk?” he asked, barely above a whisper, afraid of what the girl in front of him might say. Y/N hesitated, but gave a slight nod. She would be lying if she said she hadn’t been dying to know what Adrian was thinking these past few weeks, as if that would things any better.
“I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am, Y/N. Never in the years I’ve know you did I mean to cause you harm, especially like this. I really am sorry, so so sorry. I know none of this excuses my behavior, but I just can’t seem to think straight around you. You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen and you make my mind go crazy and j-just when I think things are going good between us, I fuck it all up,” he breathlessly explained.
“What are you getting at, Adrian?” you asked, titling your head in confusion.
“Look, I- ... Y-you never call me Adrian.”
“Yeah, I know.” Y/N looked down, playing with the hem of her shirt anxiously.
“Oh... Uh, I completely understand if you want to never speak to me, but Y/N, please know that I like you, like a lot. When I first saw you, I was a stupid 11-year-old boy who didn’t know how to talk to girls so I just teased you instead. Then I realized you hated me and the only way to get your attention was to tease you so I just continued to do so. And oh Merlin, when I first saw you fifth year, I had no clue how I was going to survive. You make my mind go wild. I’m completely mental about you, probably worse than any love potion you could give me. A-and I know you hate me now, but I just need you to know that I really am sorry. For everything.”
“I don’t hate you, Adrian, I never did,” she voiced. He stared back at the girl in bewilderment. “I don’t know where my feelings exactly are right now, especially after hearing this, but I don’t hate you. Part of me feels like I should, but I-I just can’t for some reason. I may say it to my friends, but I never actually mean it.”
“I’ll do anything you ask you’d me to make up for this, even if it means we can just be friends. Hell, I-I’ll even go to Lawson and tell him he can go on a date with you, that he should go on a date with you, because any guy would be luckily to have you.” Y/N smiled at his sweet words.
“You don’t have to do that, Adrian. I didn’t really want to go with him, anyways,” she confessed.
“Why did you agree to go with him, then?”
“No else was asking me,” she laughed dryly, trying to ease the tension. “Was kinda hoping a certain person would ask me, but they didn’t so.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. She never imagined saying these things out loud, let alone to Adrian himself.
“I-I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“I mean, I don’t exactly know either. I was starting to like you, I want to like you, but I don’t know if that’s what’s best anymore,” she explained. She glanced over at Adrian, his eyes never leaving hers. He had a shy smile on his face.
“I swear I’ll make it up to you, no matter what it takes,” he begged. She stared at him, seeing only sincerity in his eyes. It was hard not to smile at him. She bit her lip, not knowing what to say. Y/N was so conflicted with her feelings for him. She subconsciously shivered from the coldness around her. It was the one thing Y/N didn’t like about the common room. Adrian noticed and stood up to take off his sweater.
“Here, take this. I always get too hot anyways,” he claimed as he lifted the sweater. His thin t-shirt underneath rose up with it. She started to protest, rolling her eyes before suddenly freezing. It happened all so fast, but she knew what she saw.
Adrian Pucey had the same exact crown mark as her, in the same exact place. The mark, no bigger than an inch, sat right above his hip bone on his abdomen. It felt as if the world had stopped. Y/N was too afraid to move, she stayed in place, staring at where the mark had just flashed. He handed the sweater out to her, but she did nothing.
“Y/N? Princess?” he called out. The nickname tore her out of the trance, it had been forever since she heard it. She glanced back up to his face, which was filled with concern. She subconsciously took the sweater and stared at him in bewilderment.
“I-I uh... I gotta go,” she muttered out before she ran away to her dorm. If she was thinking normally, she would have felt bad for leaving the poor boy so abruptly, but that was the last of her worries at the moment.
Adrian Pucey was her soulmate.
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“HE’S YOUR WHAT?!”
“Bloody hell, can you please not scream it to the whole Great Hall?”
“I’m sorry Y/N, but I cannot believe Adrian Pucey is your soulmate. Adrian! Of all people! I knew you liked him, it’s fate! What did he say when you told him?” Ruth exclaimed to her. She looked at her roommate sheepishly.
“I, uh, haven’t? I sorta ran away,” she explained, looking down in embarrassment. Annabel, who sat next her, smacked the back of her head.
“Are you dumb? This is all you have ever wanted in your entire time being here at Hogwarts and you left the poor boy. Absolutely, completely, undeniably foolish!” she rambled.
“What’s so foolish?” a deep voice said from next to them. Adrian had just joined for breakfast and was now sitting down. All the girls looked over, baffled. None of them said a thing in fear of what he all heard.
“Oh, nothing. Gotta go, see you all in class,” Y/N quickly piped and got up. She dashed out the Great Hall before anyone could say anything. Her friends avoided the confused looks from Adrian.
From that day, and the next few days, Y/N avoided Adrian like the plague. No matter how many times he tried to talk to her, she found her way out of it. She knew it was a toxic thing to do, but she needed to get her thoughts under control.
Y/N packed up her Ancient Runes work, wishing it was longer since it was one of the classes she had without Adrian. To be honest, ignoring someone was exhausting. Who knew it was so difficult to avoid someone that shared the same classes, dining table, and common room as you? Y/N was snapped out of her thoughts as someone abruptly dragged her off when she walked out of the classroom’s door. She tried to fight her way out, but whoever had her in their grip was substantially stronger than her.
“Stop fighting before you hurt yourself,” a deep voice said, one she knew all too well. That voice just made her want to fight even more.
“Adrian, let me go!”
“Not happening, princess.” Y/N accidentally ran into the boy’s tall figure as he stopped suddenly. Adrian grabbed onto her before she could fall. Or escape.
“Why are you avoiding me?” he demanded, staring her intensely.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied. Y/N refused to meet his eyes.
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” She stood there silently. “Can you please just tell me what I did? Because I have been going over what happened a thousand times and I still don’t know what I did wrong. You’re driving me insane, even my roommates can tell so please, just please tell me what happened so I can fix this,” he pleaded with her. She could hear the despair in voice.
“You did nothing wrong, Adrian. If anything, it’s all my fault. So if you want to avoid me, go right ahead! Be my guest, I won’t stop you,” she said sarcastically. She tried to leave, but he stopped her. She glanced around, a few people looked at them as they argued.
“You are not leaving until we figure this out. I’m done playing games. I’ve given you a chance to explain yourself, but you’re still refusing to say it so I will. I know you saw my soulmate mark. And I told I’ve thought about what happened over and over so don’t even think about denying it, Y/N. But I-I don’t know why you’re still avoiding me, why does my mark have to do with any of this?! Is there something you know? Something you’re not telling me?! But then I don’t know why you wouldn’t tell me an-”
“IT’S BECAUSE YOU ARE MY SOULMATE, ADRIAN!” she yelled at him to stop rambling. He stared at her, not believing what he had just heard.
“Is that what you wanted to hear? That you, Adrian Pucey, are my soulmate?! I’ll even show you the bloody mark!” She untucked her dress shirt so he could see. His face had the same shocked look as her’s did just a few days prior. A slight smile creeped up on his face.
“It’s you? You’re my soulmate?” he asked. Y/N continued to ramble on.
“Yes! And I really am sorry for ignoring you, I didn’t want to but I just really needed to think over everything. I’m just so confused. Yeah, what you did was fucking awful, and you thought you had it bad? How do you think I felt when I start to like the bloke who’s had it against since first year?! Merlin, you are confusing” Y/N rambled on, as if Adrian wasn’t even there. He grinned, it was always one of her traits he secretly admired from afar. “I-I thought I was gonna die fifth year in that first Potions class. Bloody hell, the universe does seem to have its favorites, it’s really unfair. Fifth year in general, don’t even get me started, I-” so he didn’t. He didn’t let her get started and kissed her instead. Y/N was taken aback at first, but soon returned the affection. He lightly placed his hands on her waist, bringing her closer to him. Y/N smiled into the kiss.
“A ‘shut up’ would have sufficed,” she joked, but still not daring to move even an inch away from the boy. Adrian laughed and smiled even wider if that was possibly.
“Yeah, but this seemed like a better way.” He rested his forehead against hers. Y/N didn’t even try to argue.
“Can I kiss you again?” he whispered. She beamed at the sweet gesture, pulling him in again as her response. Everything in the universe felt right. Their bickering and fights were merely nothing now compared to this. Y/N had read endlessly about soulmates growing up, but nothing described what she felt here now, under his touch. It was a feeling she would hope never go away.
Seventh Year
It was finally Y/N and Adrian’s last year at Hogwarts, but it would be their first year without pretending their feelings for the other didn’t exist. The end of their schooling had come so quickly, it was hard to believe honestly. Y/N sat in the common room, the fire cracking slowly. Adrian rested his head in her lap, as she read the latest muggle book her mother had given her. It became a frequent occurrence for her and Adrian to stay here until the late hours of the night. It was a time where they both felt at peace, a slight familiarity to their story’s begin.
“What are you reading, princess?” Y/N smiled at the nickname she had grown to love over the past year, it had a whole new meaning now.
“’Pride and Prejudice’ by Jane Austen,” she replied, marking her page and looking back at the boy below her.
“Is it any good? What’s it about?” his face burrowed in wonder.
“Oh, you’ll like it. It’s about this guy and girl who completely hate each other at first, but the guy actually starts to like her, but she still hates him so it’s this whole ordeal, but in the end, they end up together and happy as ever,” she joked, bringing him up for a kiss.
“That story definitely sounds good, a little familiar too,” he laughed.
“Oh, really?” she teased. Adrian sat up and pulled her into his arms.
“Oh, for sure! Except the story I’m thinking of is called ‘Prince and Princess,’ has the Ps in the title just like your book too,” he said continuing the joke. Over the past year, Adrian had been deemed “prince” by Y/N and her friends as a response to her being called “princess.” They couldn’t help but like him now after seeing how he treated her this past year. She was the happiest she’s ever been.
“I don’t think I’ve heard of that story before, you’ll have to tell me about it.”
“It would be an honor, but I would rather show you if I’m being honest,” Adrian said, pulling her into another kiss. Y/N smiled and returned the kiss.
Y/N spent years thinking about soulmates and their stories. She still couldn’t believe how surreal things felt, but Adrian Pucey was her soulmate and that was enough for her.
162 notes · View notes
hueningshaped · 2 months ago
Text
★ old friend | c.bg
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▰ genre: angst (happy ending) but overall angst lol
▰ word count: 5.8k
▰ synopsis / request: you and beomgyu are exes that are pretending to still be together for the sake of a special day and all the friends and loved ones there but there’s unresolved feelings between you (+ beomgyu has a sister in this) +++ based on mitski’s song titled ‘old friend’ ❤️❤️❤️
a/n: anon 🧋 thank you for sending me this request, a combination of mitski and beomgyu, and it also felt really good to write this even if it isn't good (i came up with 3 alternative endings bc i was so conflicted and had so many ideas) - thank you again, u deserve the moon and stars and everything in between
The moment of artificial intimacy was over within the blink of an eye, and truly, you were grateful that your nightly guest had been okay with you not wanting to progress past a few kisses and shed outerwear. Your back hit the door once they were gone, and what you had been trying to distract yourself from all came back to haunt you.
Moving on wasn’t in the stars for you it seemed.
It had been about a month since the day your relationship with Beomgyu came to end. The worn box of all his belongings and souvenirs of memories between the two of you sat idly by the door, greeting you and mocking you all at once. He was always like that though; you’d have to remind him over and over again before he would eventually come back to take what was his, leaving you a footprint of a relationship, which inevitably had merged with you, so much so that you were empty just like your apartment.
The big day was tomorrow, and running on the last bit of drunken courage you had to whip up someone to entertain yourself with, in hopes of distracting yourself from the break up, had all but crashed and burned. Again. This was the third one in a row.
Beneath the pile of stickers and highlighted ink, tomorrow had been glowering at you for the past two weeks from your paper calendar on your wall. Not that it mattered anymore.
from: byeomgu 🫗
excited for tomorrow?
from: you
thrilled.
from: byeomgu 🫗
glad to hear it hahaha
i’ll pick you up around 12
from: you
sounds good
thanks gyu
from: byeomgu 🫗
pleasure is all mine yn
it’s an honor to be working with u on this ruse
from: you
likewise gyu 🤝
Your attire for the wedding had long since been chosen, down to the most minute detail of how your hair and makeup would appear, to all your options for shoes, yet sleep refused to open its gates for you to take refuge in. The ceiling mimicked the medium of wherever dreams should be; it all looked the same, and it made you sick to your stomach. Everything for the day was prepared to the most specific detail, so you could not think of any other reason you could never find sleep.
Much to your chagrin, morning arrived in the blink of an eye along with Beomgyu after the hazy chore of getting ready.
Your television was in the middle of a season of whatever show you were watching, and you were all but collapsed on your sofa when your phone rang.
“Hey,” his breath was short and he was laughing, trying to calm down. That goofy and annoying laugh. “Hey, Y/N, can you let me in? I’m outside your door.”
You sighed and waddled over to the door with your slippers, call still going, until you whipped it open.
“You couldn’t have knocked?” You asked incredulously both into the phone and at him before hanging up, stepping aside to let him in.
He held your gaze for a moment before continuing to chuckle, following suit.
“Well, you still opened it for me, so…” you rolled your eyes but still laughed.
“Alright, just let me put my shoes on and we can go.”
As you leaned on the wall to slip into your shoes, you did not catch Beomgyu’s eyes wandering around your living room and kitchen. His lips pursed and his heightened expression from earlier was slowly diminishing as he saw you’d rearranged everything, even got new decor. Oh, how he hated that new lamp of yours.
His eyes settled on his box of belongings in the corner though and it can’t help but linger his gaze there.
“Beomgyu?” You called out once more and he snapped back to reality, turning towards you. His stance was all relaxed and somehow his suit matched the look despite the formality around his, especially as one of the brothers of the bride. It was his sister’s wedding after all; he had to look his brightest for his family.
He smiled warmly, eyes just the same temperature, despite the arrangement between the two of you.
“Ready to go?”
During the drive to the ceremony, the conversation was about as dry as any would be between two exes, even if that wasn’t exactly the whole story. You were friends before you were exes. You were a couple before you were exes. You were exes before you could be a couple (again).
“What about you?” You had to ask. Beomgyu didn’t hold back on the questions, all in good nature and in same, certain light that only he could have. You missed him.
“Oh,” he chewed on the skin inside his cheek, eyes trained to the road, hands still maneuvering the wheel carefully as he did when he’d drive. “I’m actually seeing someone…”
You nodded, internally applauding yourself at how you couldn’t even register that you paused. He glanced at you, meeting your eyes for half a second before looking off once more.
“She was who I was on the phone with before I called you to open the door. Yeah, it’s only been two dates… and we’ve hardly spoken since the last one, but I don’t know… it’s something, I know that much. I feel nervous every now and then because it could be the start of something new.” Now, that threw you off guard. Made you sick even.
“Even the prospect of being wanted and pursued by someone and being that someone for someone else is nice, I get it. Totally understand, Beomgyu.” The car slowed down at a red stop, and he smiled over at you, nodding slowly. It wasn’t until a car honked from behind that you realized you were just staring at each other. Like weirdos.
Neither of you could ignore the strange tension in the air, even if it was just moments shared between two friends, who had dated, but mutually decided to end it along the way.
Everything was normal except that it all felt a little off. For instance, everything especially holding hands with your ex felt so compromising. In the parking lot, you and Beomgyu had strategized a few more moves and ideas to sell the lie that you both were still together. He had led you in to the building, fingers intertwined with yours so gently, and smiled when he met your gaze. Due to your false privilege, you had to sit front row of the chairs in your section, joined by the rest of your friends; it had been so long since you had met up altogether.
When Yeonjun wasn’t working, he was busy working on his dance major; Kai and Taehyun both took on extra credits for their college courses, so both were booked in school; and Soobin was head over heels for someone at his work, so he was busy constructing the most secure path in order to build a relationship with them. You all texted plenty, though, even Kai, who would either reply immediately or would take days to do so.
Although the fabricated lie weighed heavily upon your shoulders, you managed to keep your chin up, smile as wide as possible. It was a gorgeous day, and the decorations were floral. Every juncture was met with pastels and greens of bouquets. As the bride and groom had walked down the aisle, family and loved ones leading them in, vows exchanged, your eyes prickled. With joy. Even though your chest clenched. What a beautiful day for love.
Soobin had bawled his eyes out besides you.
Following the conclusion of the ceremony, the table you and your friends were sat was nestled within a corner adjacent to the table where the lovely newlyweds were. Beomgyu had sat you down and pushed your chair in for you, fingers still intertwined.
Yeonjun whistled at you two as he played with one of the fallen petals from the centerpiece.
“When’s the wedding for you two?” He asked teasingly, earning middle-school-girl giggles from the others.
It was probably in your head. Beomgyu’s thumb was tracing your knuckles, and it felt, almost imperceptibly, as if he had paused, even for just a millisecond. But, again, it must have been in your head.
“I kinda feel like maybe you should be asking Soobin about that actually.” You spoke up and the eldest immediately agreed, turning his body towards the second older that sat next to him.
“Oh, right. Good point, Y/N,” He stated before smacking his shoulder particularly roughly, causing him to jolt and almost fall off his chair. “Yeah! Where’s this new love of yours huh?!”
Poor Soobin stammered his defense and the exact state of his workplace romance. His suit was getting all wrinkled, so Taehyun was half trying to get Jun to ease up and also joining him in his teasing smacks.
The volume of the chatter and music was heightened enough that when Beomgyu called your name, you realized only he and you would be involved in whatever discussion was ready to leave his mouth.
“You still doing okay?” He asked, eyes soft as he waited patiently for your response. That was one of the many, many things you had enjoyed about your time together: no matter how loud, energetic, ridiculous he could ever be, he could be patient, quiet, understanding, and sensitive for you, if need be. It was what you had always loved. As it always was. As it used to be.
This question could have been conjured up in light of Yeonjun’s silly question, or in general, you weren’t sure. Maybe he saw through your facade and saw how much of a wreck you were.
“Yeah,” your mouth moved, eyes dropping from his weighted ones to watch your connected hands. It felt wrong to act thus far, but he and you had understood that there may be times where you had to look as in love as the couple you once were. “It feels weird. And it feels weirder to be with everyone, especially when things are the way they are now.”
He nodded at that.
“I know, but it’s only for the day, so once today is over, I’ll give you your space. We’ll tell them some other time.” Right.
As you recall, it was the day after you had broken up with Beomgyu when you both had to swallow your prides and reconvene to sort out how to break the news to your beloved friends.
Meeting up at a coffee shop, it felt robotic and painfully unreal the way you both had to assess your broken relationship in a business matter.
“We’ll just have to fake it ‘til we make it. Okay, Gyu?” It was then that the conclusion to fake date, while being exes, had been reached. There was no way in hell that such a beautiful day would be marred by what was going on. His sister deserved that much.
He nodded, oddly silent and pensive, and took a long sip of his iced coffee.
“But, Y/N,” he spoke up suddenly, setting the drink down. Those long locks were splayed over his forehead, even over his eyes a bit, which were swollen and sunken underneath from lack of sleep. You must have looked a thousand times worse.
“Hm?”
He ran his thumb over the lid in patterns, gnawing on the inside of his cheek before speaking up again.
“I know things aren’t good between us right now, but we’ll still be friends, right?” His tone was light with fear.
You had smiled at that.
“Of course, Beomgyu. We’ll always be friends, I promise.”
He placed your hand down so that the palm faced upwards and decided to draw the very lines of them, tentatively watching your fingers twitch at the sensation.
“Beomgyu’s more chivalrous than usual today!” Kai commented while picking at the main course for the ceremony’s appetizer. One by one, the focus was fixed towards the both of you.
“Yeah, I saw and I didn’t want to say anything, but…” Soobin agreed. You hoped no one could see the sweat beginning to dot your hairline.
“Wonder what could have happened for Y/N to have him so tame.” Yeonjun added while absentmindedly scrolling through his phone.
Maybe Beomgyu felt the same. Your eyes widened a little, expression doing its best to mirror the correct reaction for the change in atmosphere. Maybe this was paining Beomgyu: the whole act, reuniting, pretending, being here with you. Maybe he hated you.
Maybe it was like a play within a play, an actor acting as another actor in some form of media.
But you’d liked him for so long, and he had, too.
It almost made you forget why you both had broken up in the first place. Hadn’t it been going well?
“I’m always like this,” he tried only for him to get booed at playfully, and only you could tell he faltered with a retort. “You just caught us on a really good day, that’s all.”
They liked that, it seemed, but for some reason, although you understood why, the questions bordered scrutiny and interrogation, and it was almost too much.
“Hey, you know what? I just remembered we left the gifts in the car, and we need to bring them to the gift table before they get to opening the other ones.” It was a statement thrown with some finality but murmured so it didn’t make much sense. Nonetheless you still followed behind Beomgyu as he held your hand in his.
The pace of the jaunt settled and you were in the lot, the environment much looser and even warmer.
“Finally, they shut up,” you laugh along with Beomgyu. The lack of stuffiness helped open up your lungs that you hadn’t registered before. “Every actor needs a break.”
He looked over at you, big smile and dimples, even swinging your hands, until he stopped altogether, dropping your hand as if he burned himself from touching you.
“You took that a little too seriously,” you noted, feeling petty, but you kept your voice even.
“Aren’t you tired?” His tone was dry, eyes not meeting yours.
“We just started…” you said, trying to mask your disbelief.
“Just forget it.”
Something prickled behind your eyes, but you quickly blinked it off as if nothing had even occurred. The laughter died, and conveniently no one else was around. It was too obvious.
It was the first time you weren’t in public since you’d arrived, so it made sense. Except that it didn’t.
Once at the vehicle, Beomgyu did in fact grab two large gift bags, and it was back to walking to the venue, all in complete silence. His expression had dropped, too.
Upon passing through the doors, there was an instinctive grasp outwards to your hand, and as much as you wished to elude it and divert from his presence, smack his hand away and give him a scalding glare just out of spite, you and that bitter part of yourself practically ached to be touched by him. To be with him, even if in the end you were both past that.
For the next hour, you both entertained yourself with chatter all while keeping up the part of the happy couple.
Jesus, you guys could win an Oscar, or some other meaningless award for acting.
A part of you was upset with him, another too petty, and an even other part of you pathetically wanted nothing more than to burn without so much as his gaze or touch. You burned, you pined, you perished.
After an hour or so, you and maybe he, too, realized that the act was weakening due to how long you two managed to stay quiet for, which wasn’t often, since you two could be rowdy, but something had to seem off enough for Taehyun to have mouthed to you, in a fleeting moment of no one noticing, “Are you two okay?”
(You nodded with a sure smile, mouthing back something reassuring to call off his worries, something that your closest friend would buy).
“Alright,” your body acted before your mind could refuse and abort such a reckless mission. The party was at its point where soft music filled the venue; the bride and groom, accompanied by other couples took off gently on the dance floor. You didn’t even like dancing, but that didn’t stop you from rising, offering your hand to your so called boyfriend, who had been leaning on his propped up hand. Even your friends tried to pretend they weren’t shocked by your confidence. It was all a ruse.
“Let’s go.” You said with a smile, one that was backed by all the joy you could muster and manifest that you felt that was because of him. Even in this fake relationship, you’d love Beomgyu more than he did.
He hesitated with widened eyes before resuming his role, joining you on the floor.
Not a word was exchanged between you two for the first minute or so, although to you, it seemed time stood still. His hand held yours, your other hand lightly leaning over his shoulder, and his other steadied at your waist. His steps set a pattern and rhythm for you to follow, swaying and waltzing so gently in a way he knew you could follow. He still remembered you; he still knew you, your heart clenched. But only now he’d know you as a friend.
“Hey!” His sister’s voice whisked you back to reality, both your heads turning to see the bride smiling so widely. “Sorry I didn’t have the chance to talk to you guys earlier, haha, but I’m really, really glad you guys are here, especially out here on the dance floor. You guys are so cute, ah! Can’t wait until our roles are reversed, like you guys getting married and I’ll be part of the bridal party.”
You really wanted to cry more than laugh, but you had to play the part, so you and Gyu exchanged some dry laughs.
Her presence evoked the memory, the fact that she was one of, if not, the most supportive of your relationship, doting on you and giving advice to her brother about you. It seemed futile to hope that she wouldn’t be devastated at the news that would break eventually.
“Anyway,” she cleared her throat, pinching both of your cheeks for a moment, to which you both groaned. “Y/N, I’ll see you later. Beomgyu! Take care of them, or else…” with that, she peddled off to greet the other tables.
It seemed harder than it was to keep looking into each other’s eyes with each passing moment.
Beomgyu squeezed at your waist and your hand slid from the broad of his shoulder to the back of his neck.
“I’m sorry,” he spoke up, the proximity between you having closed by a few inches.
“What for?” You asked, thoughts swarming, surging, outright exploding and bouncing around in your mind. He snickered halfheartedly. Making your heart shake when he leaned his forehead against yours, craning his neck probably.
“For a lot of things, but just off the top of my head, for what I did back in the lot. I know it hurt you.”
“What? But it didn’t,” you lied, trying to reassure him but for what you didn’t know. The corner of his lips quirked.
“Okay, but I’m still sorry,” he said. You guys were nearly chest to chest. “I just… thought then that it wouldn’t be right of me, it would be unfaithful of me for me to look so in love with you even though we were both talking to people, but here I am, nose to nose with you, practically.”
Beomgyu smiled, nudging you with his head.
Your lungs seized, your stomach was in knots, and your face felt so hot the heat beat off in waves of radiation.
But I’m not talking to anyone, your thoughts cried internally, begging and scratching to be voiced. It’s all a lie. I miss you with all of my heart, and I love you even more.
“It’s not right,” your pride tragically defeated your subconscious. He pulled back an inch or two. “But we have to keep up our act. Your sister’s so happy. We-we’ve got an hour or so before the day is over. Let’s keep it up.”
He nodded in agreement. That cute tiny smile remained on his face as you two continued waltzing about until the music genre ascended, lights hued of warmth and joy, and then, it seemed as if everyone had come from out of nowhere. It had felt like you were the only two there for a minute.
With that, Beomgyu pulled away. He turned on his heel to return to your spots, but not without your hand in his.
“You’re back finally,” Yeonjun commented, and you both laughed, feeling uneasy.
“Yeah, you guys looked like two penguins in love like in Happy Feet!” Kai giggled and Yeonjun clicked his tongue at that.
“You and your penguin jokes…”
Beomgyu hadn’t let go of your hand yet, you realized, and you looked up at him because of it. He gave your fingers a squeeze.
“You just hate on me because I’m so cute, and you’re old,”
“Oh, for the love of Jesus. I’m tired of your slander. Where’s Tyun and Soobin?”
“He’s giving emotional support to Soobin, who’s calling his crush.”
“Wow, this guy…”
Gyu used his other hand to settle on the back of your head, rubbing. This set you on fire, heavy but gentle motions setting you ablaze. His face had made its way closer to yours, his forehead almost on your temple.
“No, wow, to these two. God, get a room!”
You veered back, embarrassed like you would always be any time you’d get caught for so much as holding hands. It had never once bothered Beomgyu; in fact, in response, he’d take it a step further.
This time, he faltered in his facade, looking away from everyone.
It must pain him to be with you, even just for an act.
Beomgyu’s brother came from out of nowhere, tapping him on the shoulder.
“Hey, come on, let’s take pictures. Y/N, come join us!” He pleaded, loosely referring to the growing crowd of the bridal and groomsmen, along with the rest of their respective families.
“Oh, no, not me,” you said a little too fast, making him tilt his head at you.
“Hey, they don’t like taking pictures. Let’s not force it. I’ll be right there, okay?” He concluded, patting his older brother’s arm in a manner to send him off, which he thankfully did. You sighed in relief.
He rubbed your knuckles before standing up, about to walk away until he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. You weren’t able to process it until the flashes of the camera told you he was among the others.
There was a tap at your shoulder as you were still on fire, from every of his touches. You turned to see Taehyun, grinning.
“Can we talk? Outside?”
As you both were walking outside, Soobin ran past you guys with red ears and cheeks.
“Oh, he’s fine, by the way,” Your friend answered your thoughts. He opened the entrance doors for you and shut them behind himself once you were both outside. “He scored a date with the love of his life.”
That made you chuckle happily, but it quieted once you remembered you were here for a reason.
“What was it that you wanted to talk about?”
He nodded, as if he remembered, too, but sighed.
“You and hyung are hiding something. Those knuckleheads might or might not have been able to tell, but I did and I’m here now because I’m worried.”
Your innate shock at his perceptiveness had presented itself far too well for you to act as if what he said was inaccurate.
“What…” you lied, so badly, you should add.
“What’s wrong, Y/N? You can tell me. I know you guys well enough to see something’s not right. So, what is it, or at least tell me how I can help.”
Your lips pursed, frown taking form.
“Did you tell anyone?” You asked quietly.
“Tell anyone what?”
“About what you think.”
He smiled wistfully at that.
“No,” he held your hand in his. “It’s been a few hours since I put two and two together.”
You looked down trying to find the words.
“Taehyun, maybe it’s better if I tell you later. How about tomorrow? Or tonight after the party?”
He furrowed his eyebrows, holding onto your other hand.
“Is there a reason you can’t tell me now? Or should I ask Beomgyu?”
You sighed.
“He hasn’t hurt you or anything, has he?” His voice was tiny but voice tense, but you looked up to shake your head, to clear up his fear.
“No, no! He’s good, he’s good, I promise,”
“But?”
You bit at the skin of your lip.
“You guys are going through a rough patch?” He asked, and you still remained uncooperative.
“Well, Y/N, every couple goes through those. You know that. I’m not in a relationship, but I know that much. My mom and dad would argue, get upset every now and then, but they’re still in love. Chin up, one little disagreement isn’t the end of the world. And if it feels like it, then we’re here for you.” Your eyes burned. He was so close, not only to the matter of the issue, but at the same time, so far in the way even Beomgyu was to never know of your true feelings.
You wrapped your arms around Taehyun’s torso, leaning your head against his chest. He hummed and hugged you more to himself.
“Y/N?”
Your eyes shot open, and the lamppost illuminating you two seemed to grow and move, drawing up a widening distance between you and Beomgyu, who stood by the entrance, eyes wide and a crease in his brows.
Taehyun cleared his throat and gave your arms a little squeeze before going back. He returned inside quicker than you had anticipated, leaving the two of you alone.
Beomgyu remained at the door, a light in his eyes you couldn’t comprehend. It was you who had to go to him, but within the blink of an eye, he met you halfway.
“My sister said that there was an issue with the coordinator’s schedule, and um… the party’s ending early. The send off should be soon, I think. We don’t have to be together for it, if you want,” he sounded so small, smile artificial and eyes wrong. “You aren’t obligated to stay with me; it’s all up to you. You can call curtains for this whole act. I’m sorry if you’re tired of having to fake this.”
“I’m not…” you said a little too weakly, and he laughed humorlessly.
“You don’t have to lie to me, or yourself. It’s okay, I promise, Y/N,” he sounded so desperate to reassure you, even it meant that it sounded like his heart was being crushed. “You’re too good of a person. I’ve been a hassle all today. Maybe I’m overreacting for thinking so, but there’s no written rules or decorum for our plot, you know?”
His words were scaring you.
“I thought we promised not tell anyone, but I don’t blame you for any of it, or for moving on, especially for someone like Taehyun,” your eyes were past prickling. He thought your nonexistent rebound was yours and his best friend. How cruel was that, and for him to forgive you?
You shook your head, lips wobbling in an effort to keep your stupid, stifled sob at bay.
“No, Beomgyu,” he smiled sadly, hand cupping your face and thumb wiping the tear that coincidentally let loose, as if he had timed it, as if he knew you down to that gesture. His long dark locks framed his face so beautifully; even as his heart broke, he looked pretty.
“It’s okay, don’t feel so bad now, sweetheart,” you closed your eyes painfully at that name. “I’m going to go back inside for the send off. Let me give you my keys if you want to go. I’ll get the car from you some other time. Just take care of yourself.” He pressed the item into your hand, rubbing your cheek gently before he pulled away, already on his way towards the door.
You felt sick, sweltering, freezing, all at once.
“I don’t want to stop pretending.” You cried, so breathless it almost didn’t register, but the way he stopped in his tracks told you so. Your heart pounded in your ears.
Beomgyu turned, pivoting on one of his legs.
“What?”
You blinked hard, briefly thinking about the send off and whether or not they’d do it without him, but he had to know.
“I don’t want to stop pretending I’m in love with you because…because I’m really in love with you,” you breathed in and out shakily. He neared you to better listen to your words. His own eyes glistened. “I want to try again, Beomgyu.”
He furrowed his eyebrows at that.
“But, we both called it and said it was for the best, remember?”
How couldn’t you remember: you guys were happy and great together, but sudden albeit stupid anxieties and fears about your relationship overwhelmed you both. They didn’t appear out of thin air; miscommunication on certain bad days combined with his insecurities and your impulsiveness effectively wrought faults in your relationship. It was strange. You hardly ever fought, but even while discussing and trying to move on, it seemed futile; in fact, just about every possible outcome of every possible situation terrified you. Maybe it wasn’t time for you yet, but you both had wordlessly left out the “yet” part when you two broke up.
“Y/N, we were rushing into things, everything seemed like it was going downhill, and I was too insecure, and that hasn’t changed — ”
“Screw that, Gyu!” Hot tears dribbled down to your chin. He hesitantly reached to dab at your tearstained cheeks. “I love you. I’m sorry I’m being so selfish, but I love you.”
“Haven’t we both moved on? Do you really want to go through that again? What about the people we’re talking to? Is it really worth the pain?”
“I’m willing to do anything for you,” you must sound so pathetic.
“Y/N,” he whispered. The only other sound that could be heard was your sniffles. “I just don’t want us to both make the mistake and suffer all over again. We deserve more than that. You deserve more than that.”
“It only hurt because it ended. You’re the only one I’ve wanted. Please don’t give us up, Beomgyu. Please,” you cupped his cheeks with both your hands, thumb grazing his bottom eyelashes. He leaned into your touch. “But if this isn’t what you want, or if any part of you truly doesn’t think this is the right thing, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I understand, and it’ll all be okay. I owe you that much. The last thing I want is to guilt trip you, Gyu. Sorry, I’ll pull myself together now.”
His eyebrows remained drawn in, tears running down his own cheeks now.
“You’re all I’ve ever wanted, Y/N.” He mumbled before diving to take your lips with his, a hungry but somehow soft exchange that either lasted forever or defied science, sucking the oxygen straight from your lungs.
He held your face in his hands. Your own palms rested on his shoulders, fingers pulling on his suit. Feeling your attempt to pull away for some air, he planted kisses on your nose, cheeks, forehead, temples, and then one last kiss on your lips, so much fervor that he almost drew blood from how hard he bit your bottom lip.
“Ow,” you laughed against his mouth, your own already swelling. He giggled and kissed you some more before pulling away.
“I’ve got an idea,” he whispered, even without much volume, his voice was soft and precious. You nodded, hanging onto his every word, and pathetically moved from staring at his lips to eyes, then back and forth. His mouth curved a little more at that. “Let’s pretend we never broke up.”
“I can do that,” the dazed expression on your face made him chuckle, almost ignoring your response.
“I’m sorry I messed everything up,” you frowned again, realizing the repercussions of your actions. In response, he rubbed your knuckles to soothe you.
“No, you fixed everything,” you closed your eyes, all your senses occupied by Beomgyu, and you felt thankful to the universe. “I was so close to giving up this heaven for the sake of letting you go, but if you really want to be with me, if you insist, then I’ll be yours.”
You blinked up at him, pretty sure your hands were sweaty, at this point.
“I was talking about the girl you went in dates with, but I’m more than okay with that.” If you weren’t on fire before, you must have been magma by now.
“Oh,” he snickered. “I’ll make things right and call her once the send off and the party’s done.”
There was a brief pause, a finite moment of silence before he and you gasped simultaneously, “Oh, my God, the send off!”
Thankfully, his sister had chosen to wait until Beomgyu would show up, which inadvertently was not a minute after you both ran in, both nearly slipping a few times.
The night came to a close officially once all the attendees, including yourself, waved goodbyes to the car with the bride and groom. Distantly, you wondered if there was any other drama besides yours and Beomgyu’s, but you supposed you could ask his siblings yourself. Some other time though.
Beomgyu walked back to you from the venue, since you and your friends were still outside.
“How did she take it?” You asked, frowning with guilt bubbling in your throat. He winced but still kept an easy expression on his face.
“Well, she threatened to kill me, cried, and apologized. Wishes us the best though.”
You couldn’t help but laugh.
“Well, that makes two of us, minus the death threat,” you reached up to touch his tie, enjoying the fabric and the pale color. He smiled at you, even if you couldn’t see. “Are you sure you’re okay with everything? I can’t help but feel like I did something wrong. You know I’m impulsive.”
“I want nothing more than to be with you, I promise,” Beomgyu reached down to kiss your nose. “I’ll take anything you want to give me, baby.”
He held you in his arms, and for one of the first times, you felt what it was like to be loved just as much, maybe even more, as you loved.
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gayeddie · 9 months ago
Note
sick + kitchen bc i'm sick in the kitchen <3
combining with "sick + eddie's house" from @cm1031sr
[ao3 link]
Eddie wakes up sweating. The thermostat reads 68 degrees but he wakes up sweating. The alarm on his phone rings and rings and rings, and echoes in his pounding skull long after he shuts off the sound. He’s completely uncovered, the sheets thrown off the bed some time in the night, but he still wakes up sweating.
There’s two options. Two non-options since, although he has a choice, he doesn’t really have a choice. He could shove his face into the pillow and sleep for another three, four, five hours, ignore his life outside these four walls, and wake up to a colder world that doesn’t leave his head throbbing. But it’s five-thirty a.m. on a Friday, Chris needs breakfast and a packed lunch and a ride to school, there’s a terrifying stack of dishes in his sink, and dangerously low stock of groceries. He opts for option two, despite his best wishes.
He slips on a t-shirt and jeans and drags himself into the bathroom. He should’ve showered first, but it’s too late now. The lights are too bright and the counter is too cluttered and there’s some stranger in the mirror, looking too tired and too pale. Eddie brushes some stranger's teeth and pretends to be alright.
“Good morning,” Christopher calls as he walks into the kitchen.
“Good morning,” he replies, and pretends to believe it. There’s a sink full of dishes. He decides it can wait.
Sandwiches and lunch boxes, peanut butter toast and packed bags, Eddie follows a routine, albeit, slower than usual. If Chris notices his silence, his tired eyes or heavy head, he says nothing and eats his breakfast instead. The morning passes in a blur and it’s nearly seven-thirty. He has to leave, but there’s still dishes to do.
They’re in the car, and then they’re not. Chris is staring out the windows of the backseat, then he’s not. Eddie kisses him on the forehead, or maybe hugs him or waves goodbye, but Chris is at school and he’s in the car and there’s still dishes to do at home. The A.C. shrieks from his dashboard and he’s shivering, but he’s sweating, and his skull is still pounding and there’s still dishes to do at home.
A car honks at him on his way back, and the sound refuses to leave his head. It’s loud and it thumps, harder, harder. He switches from cold to heat and turns on the seat warmers. He’s shivering and sweating and he still needs to go shopping.
The key gets stuck in the door. He shakes until it finally turns.
There’s a mess of blankets on the couch, evidence of a movie night gone too late. The blinds remain shut and the plants sag by the window, but he couldn’t bring them to life if he tried. Eddie moves to the kitchen and is faced by the morning, by the open cabinets and empty pantry and pile of dirty dishes.
One at a time. He takes it one at a time.
Big dishes soak. Cutlery sorts randomly into the dishwasher. Mugs of yesterday's cocoa form rows on the top rack, dripping through to the bottom.
Scrub, rinse, carry on.
It’s beyond him how two, three people could fill the sink so easily. Plates fill the bottom rack. Bowls stack, unevenly, alongside them. The knives stay in the sink to be washed by hand.
Scrub, rinse, carry on.
He finds a spoon stuck underneath a pot. He finds chopsticks slipping down the drain. Somehow there’s still another mug in the sink.
Scrub, rinse, carry on.
The garbage disposal hisses, and he nearly lets it out down the drain. The pots need to soak and he needs groceries, so that’s exactly what he does.
Despite his behavior, Eddie is a medic, and he knows he must be sick. Fever, headache, cold sweat. A bit of nausea too, but he decides to ignore it. His pantry is still empty and he has a kid to feed. Irresponsible, yes, but there’s no other option.
He finds his way back to the driver's seat, empty grocery bags piled in the passenger’s seat. The sun is bright against his windshield, he can barely see. It’s silent as he drives, it’s for the best. He rolls down the window but no, he refuses to vomit out of it.
The truck rolls to a stop in the parking lot. His phone vibrates in the cupholder.
Buck (10:32am): are you still coming over for lunch?
It shouldn’t be a loaded question, but it is. The truth comes with explanations, but there’s no lying to Buck.
The text goes unopened, he saves the hassle for later. For now, there’s groceries to buy.
He’s grown accustomed to shopping with Buck, who will gladly join him for any and all chores and errands. Even when it’s his groceries, Buck is more organized than him with his checklists and simple patterns, though there’s always a few extra items thrown on top of the cart as they pass through the aisles. There’s jokes and exasperation and Buck, without fail, will always stand on the back of the cart to roll down the cereal aisle when no one's watching.
Eddie tries to follow the same pattern, but it’s duller than usual and the fluorescent lights burn when he turns his head to the top shelf.
If it were Chris who was sick, he would file through the pharmacy in search of cherry cough syrup, the only flavor he can stomach. There’d be a cart full of tissues and soup cans and anything that could ease the pain, even just a bit.
If it were Buck, he would let himself in his apartment and shove him into the shower. He’d wash the sheets and make him lunch and resist the urge to leave a kiss on his forehead, a little sweaty but still sweet.
Eddie bypasses the pharmacy and makes the bold assumption that there’s some sort of medicine at home.
Checkout goes by quietly, he leaves non-responses to the cashier’s small talk and only feels a little guilty about it. He does smile as he leaves though, but remembers too late he’s wearing a mask.
He’s in the car, and then he’s not. He’s shaking and struggling with each breath, but still, he refuses to vomit out the window.
Deep breath in, he takes two handfuls of groceries and adds soreness to his growing list of symptoms. Soreness and nausea and an ever-worsening headache. Deep breath out, he struggles to unlock the door, to turn the handle and key.
It takes several trips to get everything inside, several more than he’d usually take.
His phone vibrates in his pocket. Buck sends another message.
Buck (11:49am): should i take your silence as a no?
Three dots appear and disappear as he opens the message. Yes, he considers, no. It’s confusing, too much to handle for now. Eddie can’t handle truths, but he can handle groceries. He leaves the phone on the counter.
He should stop. He should rummage through some medicine cabinets and lay down and maybe drink a cup of that tea Buck always leaves in the kitchen. He bought an infrared thermometer a few months back, the touchless, forehead ones, but he can’t remember what drawer he left it in and the counter is covered in the reusable grocery bags Buck left behind and never claimed and he did the dishes, he knows he did the dishes, but somehow there’s still dishes in the sink.
He should rest. Eddie unpacks the groceries instead. He can never brew the tea quite right, anyway. Burnt leaves, oversteeped, cold before he can finish his cup. A simple task, and he still can’t get it right.
It’s inevitable, the way he breaks. He wants to laugh because really, it’s hilarious how a sniper blew clean through his shoulder, but a headache and a cold sweat is the thing that breaks him.
Eddie got shot, spent hours, days, weeks bouncing between hospitals, doctors, and physical therapists. He recovered, well enough at least, and came back to work. One panic fed into another and suddenly he was single. Soon after, so was Buck, and they like to pretend it means nothing when surely it means something. Bad days and bad calls, headaches and heartaches, nightmares and pointless daydreams of love and a kinder life.
All the suffering and this is what breaks him: a fever, a pile of groceries, and a sink full of dirty dishes.
His phone vibrates on the counter.
Buck (12:24pm): are you okay?
There’s no good answer. The time difference catches him, the time spent thinking and slowly shifting between the cabinets and the bags on the counter. Eddie knows the truth, but doesn’t know what to say. There’s still so many bags. There’s still dishes in the sink. It’s a mess, it’s all a mess.
Eddie starts to type out a response: I’m fine, I’ll be over soon.
He deletes the message.
I’m fine, but I think I have to cancel.
He deletes the message.
I’m fine.
Three dots flash, then disappear. He deletes the message.
I can’t make it. Sorry.
He barely finishes typing the last word.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
He lies, deletes the message.
I’m trying to get better, but I still see my blood on your hands.
He deletes the message.
I’ll be fine.
He deletes the message. Three dots flash on the left side of the screen.
He tries one more time, nearly pleading: Help.
The phone falls to the floor before he can press send. It’s easy then, to fall along with it. Eddie’s knees hit the floor with a thud, and he’s bent over the trash can, gagging and choking and trying to forget the taste of this morning’s breakfast. The plastic bin shakes as he grips the edge, strong enough to leave his knuckles white and press marks along his palms. His hands are numb and he nearly slips off the edge.
It’s pathetic, really, the way he collapses and spits into the bin. It’s even more pathetic, how he wishes he weren’t alone.
And worse than that, when that bullet tore through his shoulder and left a pool of himself on the pavement, Eddie didn’t cry. He passed out in his best friend’s arms and woke up under a doctor’s care.
When he broke up with his girlfriend in this very kitchen, by the sink, against the fridge, Eddie didn’t cry. They both said goodbye and soon, he forgot they were ever together.
Through and through, he never cried, can’t remember the last time he did. He’s hurling his guts into a plastic bag. A few stray tears fall with it. It’s pathetic. It’s all pathetic. But at least when he was bleeding out, he wasn’t bleeding alone.
His phone vibrates again on the kitchen floor, just out of reach. The vibration continues, either a phone call or a series of texts. The sound resonates through his legs, bent to the side and all sorts of wobbly.
All he wants is to answer the phone, or at the very least, shut off the sound. The shaking doesn’t make him cry, but the combination of the shaking and gagging and dirty dishes is what breaks him.
Footsteps shuffle behind him, but there’s no way he can turn. His forehead stays pressed against the plastic bag, sweat building on his hairline, skin paling by the minute.
“Eddie?” he hears, and then there’s a hand on his back, on his shoulder, pressing soft circles into his skin. Eddie breaks, yet again, at the touch. Choking turns to gasping, and then he’s collapsing sideways into the same arms that carried him off that street.
Buck shifts his arms, gentle hands pressed flat against his back, hugging him close. It’s the only thing keeping him upright, and even then, he can’t help but drop his forehead against his shoulder, hiding his face in the hoodie.
“I got you,” he murmurs, hands tracing up and down his back. There’s still vomit in his mouth and tears in his eyes, but right here, there’s safety. Eddie fists his hands in the back of Buck’s sweatshirt, scared of holding too tight, but terrified of letting go. Buck continues his reassurances, always knowing how to set him at ease. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Years pass before he leans back, or maybe just twenty minutes. There’s too much fog in his head to really tell the difference. Buck traces a hand from his back, over his shoulder, over the scar, up to his forehead. His brows furrow in concern as he checks Eddie’s temperature.
“Do you have a fever?” He asks, voice soft and a little raspy.
“I don’t know.”
“Headache? Cold sweat?” Buck reads through a laundry list of symptoms. “Or a sore throat? Stuffy nose?”
“Some of those,” he mumbles, closing his eyes, biting back the returning wave of nausea.
“Have you taken any meds?”
Eddie shuts his eyes impossibly tighter, falling forward into his chest. “No.”
He can feel the breathy laugh rise from Buck, something between exasperation and disbelief. “For someone who takes care of people for a living, you’re pretty awful at taking care of yourself.”
“I’m fine,” he lies, barely audible. The words struggle against his throat, and he knows Buck can hear the rasp in his voice.
“No, you’re not,” Buck shakes his head, gently pushing Eddie up to look him in the eyes. They’re red and they burn with brightness and tears. “You don’t have to be.”
Eddie shakes his head too, sees stars in his blurring vision, but Buck holds him steady, he always does. There’s a trash can full of vomit, a counter covered in melting groceries, and dishes in the sink. The thought of standing, leaving this tile floor, leaving Buck’s reassuring hands makes him sick all over again.
“No, I’m not,” he admits, choking on his words and the cracks in his voice. Eddie collapses once more. It’s become a regular occurrence, for Buck to catch him the way he does, strong arms and steady hands. There’s bile in his mouth and tear stains on Buck’s hoodie, but he doesn’t seem to mind, still whispering soft assurances into his ear.
“I’m sorry,” Eddie breathes out.
“For what?”
He almost laughs. What is there not to be sorry for? He shakes his head instead, still hidden in the cotton hoodie. “I don’t know.”
And he can feel it, he can feel the twitch of Buck’s face, the gentle smile. He moves a hand to the back of his head, brushing the hair at the back of his neck. “Well, let me know when you figure it out so I can say something like, ‘you have nothing to apologize for,’ and you can go on and say, ‘I’m such a mess,’ or something, and I can tell you, ‘you’re my favorite mess’.” Buck lets out a breath. “Or something like that.”
Eddie looks up so he can see Buck, not just feel, but see him. Maybe it’s just the light, or maybe there’s tears in his eyes too. There’s definitely some worry, and just a bit of fondness. Maybe it’s the fever, or maybe it’s the truth, either way he speaks his mind.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Buck’s breath hitches before a smile graces his face. “You’ll never have to find out.”
And God, it’s unfair how Buck is so effortlessly kind even while he’s throwing up his guts in the trash, and it’s unfair how he can wipe away every last tear and promise him it’ll all be alright, and it’s unfair how he wants to kiss his best friend while his mouth still tastes like bile and acid.
Buck kneels before him, beautiful and warm, and Eddie wants him, wants it all, even when he’s sweating through his shirt.
“I need to put away the groceries,” he says, strained and tired.
“I know.”
“And there’s still dishes.”
“I know.”
“And that tea in the cabinet is only good when you make it,” he admits. Eddie lets out something between a sigh and a laugh. “And I’m such a mess, and I hate that you knew I would say that.”
Eddie’s still holding his sweatshirt, hands somewhere around his waist. His fists are tight, returning to their white knuckle grip. But Buck holds him softly, a light weight against his cheek, thumb pressing away any stray tears that dare to grace his cheekbone.
“You’re my favorite mess,” he says, as promised. Buck’s good at wiping his tears and giving hugs and reaching the top shelves, but he’s even better at keeping promises. “I’ll make that tea everyday for the rest of your life. If you wanted.”
“I don’t even like tea.”
Buck nods. “I know.”
Eddie nods too. No one knows him like Buck. There’s so much he wants, but so much he can’t do. He’s stuck on the floor, still shaky, still sweaty and tired, but he’s not alone. No, he never has been.
“I would kiss you, but I don’t want to get you sick,” he says, and this time he really can blame the honesty on the fever. “And there’s still some vomit in my mouth.”
Buck laughs and presses a soft kiss into Eddie’s hair, letting his lips linger across his scalp. “I’ll be right here when you’re ready,” he assures, his voice echoing softly against his still-throbbing head. For once, Eddie believes him, that it’ll all be alright.
For now, Buck brews a cup of tea and leads him to the couch. He cards his hands through Eddie’s hair until he falls asleep, and he truly believes it’ll all be alright.
all word + place prompt fills can be found here (ao3) and here (tumblr)
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uncouth-the-fifth · 5 months ago
Text
Pythia - A Supernatural Rewrite. Wendigo, p1.
read it on ao3. masterlist.
Tumblr media
words: 12, 113
notes: I tried to alternate my Sam-focussed episodes and my Dean-focussed episodes, with little moments with the other brother thrown in bc I want to lol. since the pilot is one of my even split chapters, enjoy our first Sam one >:) I have no idea how much i'm going to stick to that, but we'll burn that bridge when we get to it.
also I did NOT want to divide these episodes into parts, but they are so long that it'd be cruel (i was at 18k at 3/4ths of the way thru) to make you sit and read it all in one sitting/wait a century for me to finish one whole ep. or maybe you're all masochists, what do i know? there's just so much I want to indulge in each episode, and i'm assuming you guys would actually enjoy me talking about teen reader and teen Sam shoving frogs down teen Dean's shirt for a paragraph or two... anyhoo.
Wendigo! Enjoy!
P.S - rain and wind sounds are rlllllllllly good for this chapter. next part: wendigo, p.2
PALO ALTO - NOV. 9th, midday.
Dean had only texted you the address of the Self Storage place, so a woman at the front desk had to point out to which unit they’d rented. Oh, you’re looking for the two supermodels that wandered in here? She’d teased, and you would’ve snarked back something cute, had you not been saving every ounce of your good attitude for Sam.
You found them easily. Among the rows and rows of rattling metal storage units, you could hear Dean’s music bouncing off the asphalt and echoing strangely in the alien place. He was humming without the usual heat. Other than the bustle of the city beyond, it seemed you and the boys were the only ones making noise. The weather was perfect, which was strange after the bone-clinging cold of that night—the cold that none of you could shake. You’d fallen asleep in the bathroom of your motel two times this week, because Sam’s post-nightmare shivers were medical enough to warrant a hot bath in jeans and layers.
And yet today, the sun was white in the sky, blazing enough to urge everyone into the shade but too sudden to spoil. Car tires whisked and motorcycles rumbled over the baking asphalt. If you stayed in one spot long enough you could feel your skin soaking in the sun, and after the week of thunderstorms and chill you’d had… It was too sudden not to be a gift. Jessica had always seemed—sounded like a sunny girl.
The Impala and Sam’s car were facing a storage lockup trunk-first, which was just far enough away from the adjacent buildings to be outside the shade. When you were close enough to make out Sam wiping the ash off a coffee table, you took your own exhaustion and choked it down where no one, not even you, could find it. Only Dean lifted his head when your shoes scuffed closer, squinting against the light.
“Hey.” He deposited a box labeled Kitchen inside the lockup, then dropped his shoulder against the outer wall to pant in his own shade. Sweat was beading under the aviators on his forehead, but the week Dean had spent on autopilot hadn’t ended yet. After a breath, he was up and searching for another box to carry again.
“There’s my boys,” you sighed, and greeted Dean with a cold soda. His smile was tired, but worrying, so you leaned into the rub he gave your arm and wandered over to study what they’d accomplished so far. “Man, you guys got a lot done.”
Once it was out of your mouth, you were unsure if you should’ve said it. Was it better to get all of this pain out of the way? Or did Sam want one last look at what remained of his normal life? Either way, he didn’t react when you appeared, and turned instead to the pile of ash-crusted belongings he still needed to clean. The broad back of his shirt was baking in the sun like a solar panel, so you pressed another cold soda against his neck and hummed a hello.
Sam stopped furiously grinding ash out of the seams of the table to lean into the sudden cold relief, blinking slow. His hands remained floating over his work, but for a moment he stilled, submitting to the knots in his back and the heat and his exhaustion. You were afraid to meet his eye. The disappointment was probably waiting for you there already.
“Anything?” Sam asked.
“...No. I-I’m sorry, Sam. No visions.” The stress in his shoulders expanded again. “But I did call my mom, and not only did she say that she’ll come get your car so you can keep it at the store, but she said she’d glance over the apartment too. She’s a lot better at it than I am. I-I tried, Sam, I really did, I meditated for two hours where it happened, I-I—”
He ran a ragged, ash-streaked palm down his face. You couldn’t see how crushed he looked. “S’ okay. ____. Really.”
All week you’d stared at the hole in Sam’s apartment from the sidewalk below, like if you planted your feet and waited long enough something might occur to you. Maybe the residual energies… or God, or whatever gave you the visions… maybe something would trigger something else and you could help Sam. You waited. You endured odd looks and the weather. You meditated. It wasn’t often that you were able to force a vision—the one time you’d tried to describe it to Dean, the best you could do was “throwing up on purpose.”
Sam accepted the soda, but immediately set it down and to the side. He squeezed his shaking hands together until they were a blistering white, then started back on the table again. You reminded yourself that Jessica’s funeral had been only yesterday, no matter how many muddy, grainy years seemed to loom between then and now. At the same time, it felt like it’d been just minutes since you and Dean had rescued Sam from the fire, even if it’d been an entire week prior.
(Even just seeing his back, taut and broken in, made the grotesque process of shoveling up visions endurable for you. You’d do it over and over and over again, if it meant Sam would have even a minute without his grief).
Unsure what to say, you cleared your throat, kissed the side of Sam’s hair and retreated over to Dean. He seemed to have a system in place. If he was a master of anything, it was the exhaustive ability to throw himself into hours of labor to avoid a single emotional thought, and come out with his smile shipped and assembled. The two cars had come in bearing three-quarters of an apartment’s weight in furniture, up to the windows in kitchen chairs and books from the living room. The fire had spared everything except what was inside the square boundary of the bedroom—and Sam.
In the few hours you’d been gone, the boys had bit a good chunk out of what was in Sam’s car and completely unloaded Baby. The only evidence that remained in the Impala were the towels Dean had laid down, streaked black and chalky gray with ash. The backseat of Sam’s Prius was probably ruined. He didn’t seem to care.
Before you could offer your help, Dean accepted it: “Get those out of the back n’ the trunk, n’ shake them out over the concrete. Or throw them away. I’m guessing Sam doesn’t want those towels.”
Sam didn’t speak up. You glanced back, to find that Sam had finally given up on the coffee table. With his foot he slid it into Dean’s loading pile, then braced his hands on his knees, took in a shuddering breath, and readied his cleaning rag to start on the next thing. It was a picture frame.
He turned it over to view its face, which had picked up and flattened a layer of ash into it like a filled mold. The debris on it was so thick that flat, papery scraps fluttered free as it was moved. A whole cloud whirled to the pavement when Sam fortified himself enough to clean the glass plate on the cover.
Sam caught a single glimpse at the picture of Jess, and that was all it took. The photo clattered onto the pavement, face-down, and Sam sank with it, resuming the oncoming tears he’d been fighting for days. A back-cresting, choking sob punched out of him. You were scooping him up before your mind could catch up with you, before you could even wonder why he was crying, and then your arms were squeezing him against your ribs and letting him weep there.
The first time this happened, you'd been struck dumb by just how young Sam looked. It didn't help how much he closed in when he cried, hiding his head in his knees and covering his face like he would when he was little. The mannerisms were a strange reflection of a younger boy, who cried about broken toys or being on the road too long—not dead loved-ones.
You fell into your old routine. With that deep, rumbling voice of his, Dean spoke quiet reassurances, and together you ran your fingers through Sam's unwashed hair like you had every night this week. Not a single stage direction had changed since you were kids. Just the lines. Dean said things like we'll get this done and we'll stop it together, but the words floated over your head as you comforted Sam. You'd prayed that things would go back to how they'd been when you were kids, but you hadn't meant this—you and Dean on either side of Sam, promising things you didn't know you could keep. When you glanced at Dean, you almost expected to see his younger, greener-eyed self there. A panic pressed down on your chest as Sam's hands fisted in the back of your shirt. Your heart plummeted with the urge to find someone, to call your mom, like you'd run away from home and gotten lost along the journey.
From over his brother's head, you watched Dean scoop up the picture and the rag.
“N-no, no,” Sam jerked up. Under your hand, you could feel his breath catch in his ribs, “I want to… want to… keep it.” His voice found itself again with strained clarity: “I don't want to forget what she looks like.”
You wilted. It was impossible not to hold tighter to him then, so you pushed into his touch and were gratefully received. He choked for breath into your belly, coating the front of your shirt with tears. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. Sam's grip was starting to hurt, but your senses were too far away to feel it.
“Alright, Sammy, we will. We will, s’ okay.”
Dean carefully delatched the back of the frame, and as gently as he could, removed the photo. It looked like a picture Sam had taken of her at the beach. You caught a glimpse of it—and Jess with her curls and those bright eyes—for the first time, and realized that you’d never seen her in person before. That you never would. She reminded you of the girls you drove past on hunts, the ones that grouped together on the sidewalk and giggled so freely, being happy without worrying when it would end. You’d always wanted to be one of them.
Something in your gut told you to look away, but you followed the picture as Dean offered it to his brother. Sam’s grip on you was so white-knuckled you worried he’d crumple Jess’s photo, but instead he shook his head.
“Can you—can you put it in the car for me?” Sam asked, his voice hollow and throaty. He sat there shaking, watching the tears on his chin hit the concrete.
It was the first time you'd seen his face all day. Sam had a habit of hiding it when he cried, in his arms or someone else's (he would even pull the fronts of his shirts over his head in middle school), so you knew better than to try and meet his eye. If you thought about it too long you'd start getting ideas about slashing John's tires, and then that rage would bottle for so long that the boys would need a corkscrew to get you to open up again. But Sam's poor face—his red-rimmed eyes were ruddy from the pressure of tears and his hands, while the rest of his skin was uncolored and sickly. He'd been struck so harshly by grief that his body itself was a bruise.
Dean disappeared to find a good place for Jessica’s picture. To compensate, you laid your cheek on top of Sam’s hair and cooed, soaking up every wound in him like you could take them on yourself. The sun’s light was beginning to burn.
“Let's get you into the shade, Sammy,” you murmured, “your tan’s perfect as-is, and neither of you idiots has sunscreen on.”
Sam pitied you with a wet, choked laugh. “…Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”
You wondered if you were being overbearing until he stood, wiped his face with his wrist, and gave you the signature Winchester manly nod of silent gratitude. That was worth more money and time than you’d ever have, so the clamps bearing down on your chest unlatched. He took a break in the Impala’s A/C and obliged your warning about sunscreen. Thank god.
On autopilot, you hauled the ashy towels out of Baby—and sure enough, when you passed Dean, there it was again. Manly nod of silent gratitude.
At the bubbly laugh that burst out of you, Dean frowned. “What?”
“Nothin’, Dean,” you sighed, resigned to being driven crazy, “just…”
You were glad. Blinded by rage, hurt, fear and guilt, but swimming with gladness too. It was clear now that your selfish wish had been granted. Like all gifts, it’d come with a price: you’d prayed for Sam to stay, you’d prayed for the three of you to be together again, but doing so had killed Jessica and brought this… thing to you. Whatever had murdered Mary. If Dean knew, he’d snarl and shake his head and insist that wasn’t a fair trade, and you knew it was awful, but a part of you was just thankful to be here. It was selfish. Unbelievably selfish. But you’d take them over anything.
“…nothin’.”
-
After the day’s labor, Dean made the executive decision to keep the three of you in Palo Alto for one more night. Every hotel in the city seemed full to bursting, and every room in the one Dean fought to set you up in itched with energy, like the walls would explode into splinters at any second. The people above you were having a noisy, bottle-smashing party with ear bleeding music. Every car took the corner turn on the street with tire-squealing gusto. Your neighbors on either side had their TVs as loud as they could go, in an effort to anger you personally. The boys tuned it out easily, while you tried not to twitch at Sam’s bedside.
He was more numb than neutral, so any comments about wanting to get a headstart on the road—and in turn the mission—were kept to himself. Needless to say, he put a pillow over his head and failed to stay awake past dinner.
You waited for his breathing to even out before you whispered, “He’s asleep. If we’re lucky, he might get more than an hour or two.”
Dean propped himself in the open bathroom doorway, casting a long blue shadow over where you were hunched over Sam and John’s journal. The last entry was splayed open on your lap, so you could keep busy while listening for the telling hitch in Sam’s breath. This week had forced you to find a sixth sense for nightmares. You hoped that Dean slept through his brother’s breakdowns, but most of the time he was hovering in the dark, waiting to see if he was needed. Something about that made your chest tight.
“Alright,” Dean murmured. He plunked his toothbrush back in his bag and floated over to you, voice so soft that he sounded hoarse, and pat your knee. “Whaddya wanna do, then? You need some Zs, a walk, some food?”
You glanced at Sam. He was nothing but a big arm and a bed of messy hair under the blankets, breathing deep. A sigh bowed out of you, and you lifted both wrists to Dean. “Walk, please.”
Dean smiled. With his help, you escaped the bed without waking up Sam (a miracle!), and filled the dark motel room with the soft rustle of beaten fabric. The main jacket you’d taken with you was an ancient one of Dean’s, so it looked stylish in a vintage sort of way. The smell of him in the collar had faded years ago, but studying the curve of his arm as he wrote Sam a note brought it back in full swing, like a gust of wind had bowled you over. You missed Dean. It’d been an eternity since you’d just… talked.
The door shut quietly behind you, but the neighbors weren’t as considerate. A bottle smashed upstairs, followed by uproarious, probably drunken laughter.
“Fuckin’ dicks,” Dean said, just to have something to say.
“I wonder what they’re celebrating,” you hummed. Together, you and Dean left the static-charged bubble of the motel and punctured the parking lot, too exhausted to make anything but idle conversation.
“Bottle Smashing Day?” He guessed, and you snickered. The silence you sunk into was pensive, but you were fine with that. It was easier to think leaning against the Impala with him than alone in front of Sam’s apartment.
You took your spot on the trunk, making a show of patting down your back pockets to avoid scratching the finish. Sam had nicked one of the doors with a jean button once, and now Dean never let either of you forget how pointy and sharp you were. That was what you wanted—to endure Dean’s nagging about the Impala with Sam, like the hundreds of times you had in the past. Why did a wish so simple have to cost so much?
“I’m worried,” you sighed, “that this is going to take longer than either of us thinks it will.”
Dean appeared around the side of the car, beer and bottle opener in hand. He snapped the cap off and sunk onto the trunk next to you, his gaze choosing a car down one end of the street and following it until it was out of view again. The cool fall air fluttered through his hair, compelling you to admire him as he admired the street. Without looking he offered you the first sip of his drink, and knowing Dean’s taste in beer was awful, you tried it anyway.
“Yeah.” Gradually, Dean hiked himself up a little and opened his coat, “I’ve been starting to think that, too.”
“...It’s going to suck. Already, this is…this is…” you swallowed, then met his eye. “But not every part of it has to be bad. You and me and Sam—I keep thinking, at least we’re together again. At least we’ve got each other. Is that… do you think that’s bad?”
Dean was already shaking his head. The trance he’d been wading into all day dragged him out to sea, and for a long breath he stared at you, then through you, deep in thought. “I guess we’ve been having a lot of the same ideas lately.” His brooding turned into a teasing squint, “You readin’ my mind again, girl?”
You stopped worrying the beer’s label with your thumb and passed it back to him. Something rotten crept into your mouth at the thought. “Never. Never without your permission.”
Dean tipped back his head, shook it, and did his best to goad a smile out of you with one of his own. “Oh, c’mon. You know I’m kidding with you. Cheer up, sweetheart—we’ll…” He must’ve realized what a ridiculous request that was at a time like this, because he melted down to a simmer. “Just. Take a breather with me, for a minute.”
“After you give me the gift you’ve been hiding.”
Dean almost looked charmed, if he wasn't pretending to be annoyed. “Maybe if you stop using your cheating powers to cheat. Cheater.”
With a coy, fluttery blink, you hooked your arm through his and prettily laid your head on Dean’s shoulder, because you were a fantastic cheater and you knew it. Dean’s life would only improve once he realized how little he could get past you. The Gift told you plenty, but so did the soft upturn of Dean’s lip.
From the inner pocket of his jacket, Dean shook loose a book. At first glance you would’ve called it a grimoire or a lore archive. The cover was a handsome olive color, with a thready touch and an elaborate gold design that didn’t immediately catch the eye, like any other spine stacked on a coffee table. You realized that must’ve been the point. It showed a queen fairy (the graceful long-legged kind) in the boughs of a tree, offering an olive branch to two tiny fairymen riding a bat. Simple but elegant. Two words that had no correlation to him whatsoever.
“No way!” You gaped. But before you could get your hands on it, Dean jerked it up and out of your reach.
“Don’t get all sappy about this, okay?” Dean groaned, hanging the book over your head, “I-I just saw it, and I knew you need somethin’ to do when me and Sam are off doing whatever, so… yeah. You can write down all your girly stuff n’—”
Years of having tall Dean and taller Sam wiggle your things just out of reach had trained you for this moment. “Ha!”
The second he started to dissolve into his flushed explanation, you lurched for the book and shielded it against your chest, where it was safe under your jacket. Dean seemed too tired to start any wrestling matches over the journal, so the coast was deemed clear and you brought it out to gape. The mental image of Dean slouched in some bookstore aisle was so precious that it must’ve shown in your face, because he immediately defaulted to a glare. Cute.
“You are so good to me, Dean,” you said, knowing full-well it’d crack him. Right on cue, Dean’s collar hiked up to his blushing ears and half his face disappeared behind it. “How’d you even know I needed a new journal?”
“W-we all do,” he replied lamely.
Dean looked like he wanted to be absorbed into the concrete. Among the racing glee of poking at him like this, you felt a touch of pity for your captive, so you moved your glowing grin from his face to the first page of the journal. Losing your attention both relieved him and disappointed him, so he stewed in his confusion there as you started to pace.
“Well…” you flipped through the pages, from start to finish, and breathed in the intoxicating smell of a fresh book. It was a pretty sizable journal. From experience, you knew it’d take more than a year to fill on your own.
The book was in your hands, then it was in Sam’s, then Dean’s, then yours again, exchanged a thousand different times over the next few years. You could almost see the way it would be then: aged, beloved, and filled to the brim with entries and pictures and memories. This journal would transform into any hunter’s journal, its cover dyed lighter by the sun, its spine bent-in and well-used. Images flashed through your mind almost too quick to catch, but the gist was there. Dean’s drawings. Sam’s handwriting. This wasn’t—this wouldn’t belong to you alone.
Words flowed from your mouth like something greater was speaking for you.
“I pretty much never go on my own hunts. I don’t know about Sam, but you and me—maybe we could share this one. Or all three of us.”
Dean’s brows raised to points. “Like how?”
“Here. You gotta pen?” You made your typical grabby-hand gesture, and Dean dug around his pockets for one of the hotel’s monogrammed ballpoints.
Instead of leaning on the Impala, you got comfy on the trunk and propped up your knees. Dean inched in to get a look over your shoulder, maneuvering in a way where he wasn’t blocking the streetlight too much, and curiously pressed his lips together when you cracked open the cover. The face of the first page stared up at you. Already, you knew what would go there.
In spotty ink and bubbly handwriting, you printed your initials on the inside cover. The moment you were done, you turned the journal in your lap, put the pen in Dean’s hand, and prompted him with glittering eyes: “Write your name, then draw me something.”
_
GRAND JUNCTION, COLORADO - NOV. 10th, day.
The drive to Colorado was spent mostly on your laptop, catching up on work from there. Being constantly dragged on hunts by Dean made online work pretty much your only option. Your mother had dropped hints about you picking up more than just the occasional shift at her antique’s place, but that would mean giving readings, and that would mean… Well. For now, your lame excuse was that Sam and Dean had reserved you, and she was better at the whole psychic thing anyway.
Maybe one day you could convince her to just let you work the counter. Anything that didn’t involve opening up your Gift to some stranger.
You knew you were close to John’s coordinates when houses were replaced by forest. A mailbox would jut out of the trees every once in a while, but those winding path-mouths were the only evidence of life out here. Dean had mentioned something about there being a town on the other side of the dizzying rows of trees. It was so vast and so encompassing that you couldn’t imagine anything else but the pines, the road, and the Impala driving on it—which only made you more anxious for what lay ahead. DEAN. 35-111. That was all John had given you.
“Here’s something to start with,” Dean spoke up. In the front seat, Sam straightened, and all three of you tilted with the car as it crackled into the gravel lot of a ranger station.
After almost a whole day in the car, you hadn’t entirely left your daydream yet and floated around as a result. The woods were dead quiet. While the boys unloaded, you listened, standing on the cusp of the trail like a mite on the back of a massive creature. There was no purr of car motors or traffic. Maybe some sort of rustling, like the whisper of leaves in the wind, but if you listened to it too long you began to feel paranoid. For how quiet everything was, you still felt like you were intruding on something living. Something that was watching.
The Impala’s trunk slammed shut. You startled back to life at the sound, and whipped around at attention. Good timing too, because Dean flashed a ranger ID at you, “Head’s up, sweetie.”
He tossed it into your hands. Dean was fucking with you only a little bit, so it went a little wide—and you were too bogged down by the roadtrip to jump for it. The ID flopped into a skirt of leaves just outside the safe barrier of the ranger’s station, then skittered down the muddy hill and into the undergrowth. You stared pathetically at it. He was definitely getting revenge for you eating the last of the Impala’s M&Ms supply.
“Come on,” you groaned, “Dean.”
Dean winced, but he was smiling a little too much to mean it. “Sorry. Guess I’m a bad shot.”
“You bet your ass you’re a bad shot,” you started to grumble, and resigned yourself to getting your boots dirty. And maybe being murdered in the creepy forest.
“Don’t worry, I got it.”
Right before you’d take the first step inside the invisible portal of the woods, Sam slid past you, the broad warmth of his palm glimpsing your back. Your breath hitched. At ease, he stepped toward the hill’s bottom with twice the mobility your awkward struggle down would’ve had. Sam plucked up your ID and flourished it overhead. At any other time you would’ve giggled at him, but something in your gut pressed you to get him out of there, like the air on the other side of the tree’s divide was poison and he’d breathed too much.
Sam’s next steps back up seemed to drag on. In reality, he probably hadn’t even lifted his leg before you were extending both hands and awkwardly urging, “Thank you, Sam. C’mere. Quickly.”
Knowing full well you couldn’t haul him up on your own, Sam indulged you anyway and took the closest of your hands in his bigger one. He managed not to slip and faceplant on the way back up, and with his boots slick with mud but on solid ground, you let out the breath you were holding.
When you turned back, Dean was staring.
The tension of the woods was suddenly up in the parking lot. Scrambling to explain your strangeness, you gave Sam’s back a good thump. “Brother of the day,” you awarded him, which immediately replaced the concern in Dean’s stare with shock.
“What! Sam picks up a thing for you and suddenly he’s getting brownie points?” Dean whined. He waited until you’d passed him to properly fish for said points, slouching at the shoulders and pouting. “What about me driving your ass around for 20 hours? What about me getting—hey! ____, Sam’s sticking his tongue out at me! ____!”
The temptation to knock him on the back of the head was too sweet to pass up. You gave Dean a good one, then threw a grin at Sam; it was small, but he flashed one back just for you. Something about it made the barbed wire wrapped around your heart squeeze tighter.
Where neither of them could see, you shoved the hand Sam had touched into your pocket, rolling your tingling fingers against each other.
_
The only people you passed on the way into the ranger station was a single family, probably here for a camping trip. One of the sons, in tandem with his father, shared an impressed look over Dean’s car, and by proxy it made you feel better. All you had to do was pretend this was any other hunt. You’d investigate the thing, catch the thing, and then kill the thing, so sweet families could enter the woods without fear.
The ranger station was a squat, old cabin at the beginning of the trail, with a fat stone chimney and a front room filled to the brim with hiking and hunting (the normal kind) memorabilia. What was familiar about the station was its tourism aspect; though you and Dean rarely stopped to admire the scenery these days, roadside museums and American landmarks were staples of your decade-long road trip.
Sam and Dean walked shoulder-to-shoulder in front of you. You saw the 3D tabletop map on one side of the room and the wall of hunting trophies on the other, and predicted, correctly, where the boys would go to gawk.
“So, Blackwater Ridge is pretty remote,” Sam said. He quirked his head, honed in on the table and leaned over it with glittering interest, because of course he did. “It's cut off by these canyons here—rough terrain, dense forest, abandoned silver and gold mines all over the place.”
“Cool,” you hummed. On the dusty, ancient display, the ridge was about the size of your palm. You traced the mountain-tops with a finger, and the spot was weathered from years of the same touch. “Sounds like a place to really camp… or film a horror movie.”
That felt like something Dean would tack a joke onto, so you turned to him. He was blinking at a colorless photo on the wall, jaw slack, brows furrowed. “Dude. Check out the size of this fuckin’ bear.”
You did, shuffling up behind him. A half-dozen mounted trophies loomed overhead, necks pointed straight, but eyes pointed down, like their bodies couldn’t move but their souls wanted to. If the spirits of men could be attached to their corpses when they died, then what about hunted deer… or wild boar… even cougars? You cooly pretended you weren’t hiding from their watching eyes behind Dean, and glanced over the picture. It was a big ass bear.
“And,” Sam closed in on your other side, arms crossed, “a dozen or more grizzlies in the area. S’ no nature hike, that’s for sure.”
Dean caught your eye with his, then nodded up to the massive buck above your heads. The crown of bone it wore curved elaborately around its face, which was soft and sweet-looking, had it not been for the missing eyes. In unison, you shared a shiver and mouthed to each other: no thanks.
“You boys aren't planning on going out near Blackwater Ridge by any chance?”
Sam and Dean whipped around, hands snapping into fists in their sleeves. Just the flutter of their clothes brought your hand to the dagger grip in your waistband.
A ranger, Ranger Wilkinson (according to his nametag), appeared from the back room. He cocked a fist on his hip and blew the steam off his coffee. “Ah,” he noticed your head poking out over Sam’s shoulder, “boys and lady.”
Dean opened his mouth to respond with a lie, but Sam was already halfway through one, a polite and gentle lilt to his voice. That was what made you relax. “Oh no, sir,” Sam said, and you dropped your dagger back into its sheath, “we're environmental study majors from UC Boulder, just working on a paper.”
You put on your sweetest grin and slid in front of the boys, bumping Dean’s hip on the way. “You bet. Reduce—”
Dean flicked up two happy thumbs, grinning also, “—reuse, recycle.”
Ranger Wilkinson pitied you with a dry stare, and not for the first time in your life, you were seized with panic at the knowing look on his face. His stink eye passed over Dean then you then Sam, and you wondered what he saw there. A couple of college students? Hardly. You could play the part well, but nothing could remove the ease you entered each other’s space with and the precaution you saved for everyone else. Maybe it was just because you’d known the boys so long, but you couldn’t look at them without sucking up every little detail. Hopefully, that was just a you-thing.
He sipped his coffee. “Bull.”
The three of you stiffened all over, a single muscle reacting to stress. You felt Sam peer sideways at you, but like Dean, you strained not to move in case that was what made the trap snap shut.
“You're friends with that Haley girl, right?” Wilkinson asked.
“Um,” Dean said, which put the ranger’s eyes on him.
Your stomach peculiarly dropped. It felt like a sign to go along with it. There was only a split second for any of you to reply and not get caught in an awkward explanation, and no time to explain what was compelling you to the boys. On instinct, you stepped in front of Dean to save him from further blubbering.
You cleared your throat, expression shifting from red-handed to neutral. “...Yes. We are, um, Ranger Wilkinson.”
Maybe reading them so well wasn’t just a you-thing, then. Dean could read you pretty well too.
“Well, I will tell you exactly what we told her.” The ranger moved behind the counter, and in tandem the three of you drew closer to meet him. “Her brother filled out a backcountry permit saying he wouldn't be back from Blackwater until the twenty-fourth, so it's not exactly a missing persons now, is it?”
Dean shook his head like he had any idea what he was talking about. The ranger filled in, “You tell that girl to quit worrying, I'm sure her brother's just fine.”
And then the lingering strangeness shook itself out of Dean’s frame, replaced instead by the casual authority you were used to. Either sibling conflict was something he knew well, or he’d been clued in enough to respond, because Dean propped himself against the counter and playfully raised his brows. “We will. That Haley girl’s quite a pistol, huh?”
Ranger Wilkinson snorted, which hid your eye-roll from the conversation. “That is putting it mildly.”
“Actually… you know what would help?” Dean straightened like a business-man, that dazzling smile toned with something that could pry anything out of anybody. “If I could show her a copy of that backcountry permit. You know, so she could see her brother's return date…”
_
The woods were still eerily quiet when you left the station. You could tell that your human perceptions were mixing with your psychic ones, which made for an annoying pot to sort through for the sake of the hunt. The boys were snapping back and forth at each other about this Haley girl, but you were too perturbed to follow it very closely, rattled by the pressure in the air. The whole forest was holding its breath. The taxidermy was watching you. Something was definitely up here.
For every two steps you took, Sam took one, his boots crunching noisily on the gravel. He was making very cutting gestures with his hands and frowning into his dimples as he spoke to Dean, which you took as some of the deep-seated frustration he never showed. He was getting angrier. You wished there was more you could do about it.
“The coordinates point to Blackwater Ridge, so what are we waiting for? Let's just go find Dad,” Sam grit. “I mean, why even talk to this girl?”
When you started to drag behind, an internal ____-sensor went off in Dean’s brain, triggering his proximity alarm. He paused on the gravel until you safely back in his bubble, and before you could dazedly walk right right past them, Dean dropped a hand on your head, stopping you short. You blinked up into his face. It was flat with concern, then covered with humor.
Dean pointed to you. “That’s why.”
A moment later, you were struggling to lift your head in the backseat of the Impala. When you managed to pull your face out of your hands, and your hands away from your knees, two faces swam in your vision. The air felt a dozen times colder. A big, coarse hand was resting on the back of your neck. Baby’s door was open, and two people were crouched down in front of you.
“Are you okay?” A voice asked, and the timbre of it could’ve been Sam’s. Everything was muddy.
“Ughhh,” you groaned in answer. “Bad. Bad. Not good.”
You blearily reached above you for the hand on your neck, found it by the wrist, and dragged it onto your forehead instead. The angle of the touch was strange, but the cold—the numbing, venomous cold—was worse. An icy metal bracelet glimpsed your cheek and made you hiss. Whoever it was bunched the bracelets higher up his wrist, then brushed his thumb against your brow, knowing, after more than ten years of this, how the Gift leeched all the heat out of you. The warm touch melted you all the way down to your toes. Definitely Dean.
“Let er’ breathe,” he ordered Sam, calmly. “You gonna puke again, ___?”
You swung your head back and forth, cursing, “...Th’ was only one damn time, Dean…”
Dean chuckled, and from where he’d migrated to give you more room, Sam went silent. He was probably giving Dean a funny look. “...Since when can you tell when she’s got a vision coming on?”
“You can’t?” Dean said. Had you not been too dizzy to stand, you would’ve frowned at him for the condescension floating in his voice. It wasn’t Sam’s fault he hadn’t been around—well, in a small way it was, but he had every reason to go to school. Still, Dean added, “She gets all dazed n’ everything, then she gets this dorky look on her face… You seriously can’t tell?”
You tilted into Dean’s palm, staring past him to Sam. “C-can I borrow a jacket?”
Sam softened all over, and the change in body language threw an abrupt realization in your face: they were waiting for a vision about John. Both boys exchanged a look. They’d been hinged on bracing legs, like at any moment you were going to spit out some vision of their father dying or being tortured. The hope in Sam’s face was flushed away by disappointment, and you couldn’t help but feel that you’d caused it.
“Of course,” he murmured, tone buttery. While Dean got the heater in the front seat going, Sam unzipped his jacket and helped you get into it. Just getting some extra body heat did wonders on your dizziness, which prompted Sam to ask, “What’d you see, ___?”
As he pulled the collar around your shoulders, you stared into his face in thought, “There was this girl, in some kind of dark place... A cave, maybe? I didn’t see much. She was hanging by her wrists from the ceiling… You were there, and so was this kid. He was calling her Haley.”
From the front seat, Dean’s smirk broadened into a grin.
“Bingo.”
_
Visions of other people were easy for you to handle. But something about one of the boys—in this case, Sam—getting roped up in one made you anxious. And in your Gift’s case, feverish.
While they interviewed Haley Collins about her missing-not-missing brother, your Gift kept you confined to the car. It could be touchy for hours after episodes like these. Twice you were working on an entry for the journal when the images came over you again, and when you resurfaced from them, ten whole minutes had disappeared. You were grateful the boys had a lead to run off to: when your Gift felt more like a disease than a helpful tool, it was better for you to be alone with it.
You pressed your fingers into your nose bridge until it hurt. The journal stared up at you, open and waiting for you to write something.
Dean had drawn a picture of the Impala with a crappy motel pen. Sam had written about anything but Jess, his sentences short and totally empty of the surgeon-critical details of his old school essays. You wanted to put something meaningful.
When you were little, there was nothing more heroic, more exciting, more fascinating, than being a seer. It was the magical secret your mother kept behind the parlor room curtain. You would sit in the antique shop’s stairwell for hours while she took readings, talking to the portraits of the women in your family like they were your imaginary friends. One day I’ll be just like you. They had to hear you, right? They could see the future and the past, could speak to the other side—so of course they could speak to you, right? Tell you all about the secret? They could do anything. You were one of them, so that meant the same for you. You weren’t just any little girl: you were special and different and brilliant. You could do anything.
But that had been then, before you’d received the Gift. Now, the irony of just what little you were capable of pressed upon you. You could see the future and the past, could even speak to the other side—but only now could you hear them telling you it was too late to escape. You used to stare at the pictures and paintings and the pretty tattoos they had on their palms, counting the days until it was your turn to wear your family symbol. This used to be something you wanted; this used to be a gift, an honor. But the Gift took your health and time and choice away from you.
(When you’d crossed that line between child and adult, between non-seer and seer, you’d laid in the dark with Dean and pretended everything was fine. He’d squeezed your hand against his chest and murmured, You do have a choice. And if you don’t, we’ll run away and drive until nobody’ll find us. It’ll be you and me and the road, n’ everything will be okay. You’d clutched his hand until it’d hurt and said, please. Even if you knew you were lying. Even if you knew that damn symbol on your hand would drag you from him kicking and screaming.)
You passed your pen into your unoccupied hand. Alone, in the backseat of the Impala, you turned over your wrist and stared at the mark there. In the middle of your palm was a simple eye in black ink, stretched and blurred with age. To think, your twelve-year-old self had been squeamish about the pain of the tattoo. The non-physical pain was much worse.
Maybe Dean was right. Maybe there was still a way to run away.
I feel like shit, you wrote, and closed the book.
_
The uneasy feeling of your Gift and the woods ebbed out by the time Dean drove the three of you into town. Knowing there was something to hunt here settled you some, so the boys’ concerned glances appeared less and less as the night went on. You found yourself in familiar territory: sitting with Sam and Dean at a small town’s only bar, illuminated by neon-lights and anonymous below the clattering talk of strangers.
“...and Haley said that her brother had gone out to the Ridge with a couple’a friends, and kept contact with her with a satellite phone. Emailed them pictures, videos, stuff like that,” Dean explained, leaning across Sam to speak to you. “His last update was three days’ ago, and we’re pretty sure his camera caught something in the background.”
You raised an eyebrow. “What kind of something?”
Sam nodded to John’s journal. “Let’s find out.”
The three of you were squished together on the bar, closed in a circle around Sam and his computer. Dean was laying back with an ankle on his knee, surveying the bar crowd with an idle eye, both relaxed and tense with a job on his mind. Sam had rolled up his sleeves to work, and you watched a scar move on his forearm as he typed. He hadn’t been able to save any of his clothes from the fire, so his flannels, shirts, and jeans had all been bought within the last week—at the very least, he looked freshly minted. But a keen eye could make out the old seams of his stress fractures cracking open again.
“So, Blackwater Ridge doesn't get a lot of traffic. Local campers, mostly. But still, this past April, two hikers went missing out there. They were never found.” Sam starts. He picks up John’s journal like it’s made of glass, and splays it open on the bartop with the same gentleness.
“How about before then?” You asked.
“Yeah, in 1982, eight different people all vanished in the same year. And again in 1959 and again before that in 1936.” Sam raised his brows, enunciating, “Authorities always said it was a grizzly attack.”
Dean snorted. “Sure. Grizzlies with a grudge. Every… what’s that, 23 years?”
“Look at you, Dean,” you cooed, cheeks propped on your hands, “doing big boy math.”
The glare he sent you was positively precious. Dean flipped you off for good measure, but you were protected behind Sam, who would get snappish if any scuffling happened around his million-dollar laptop. You waved back evilly… and suppressed the urge to slam your hand flat to the bar when Dean’s eyes darted for the symbol in the middle of your palm.
Unlike you, Dean was fond of your family sigil. You’d wanted him more than anyone to be there when you’d been marked, but he and Sam were already gone for the weekend. The preceding days were rampant with anxious excitement and fear, so your mom had gone all out, spending the week’s paycheck on your favorite activities, gifts, and dinner out. All you had to do was endure the pain of the needle. The itch grew to a sting which grew to white-hot, excruciating pain, and the only thing that helped was Dean a few days later.
You’d sat on Bobby’s porch swing, just out of the reach of the rain. He’d set your palm on his knee and stared at it in wonder, flattening your fingers with his grime-stained ones. Dean was only two years older than you at fourteen, but his hands had seemed so big in comparison, big enough to bend the tops of his fingers over yours. You could still remember cringing if he pressed too hard—could still vividly recall Dean kissing the iris of the mark.
(There, now you can stop whining. My cooties will cure you. Or maybe you’re immune to em’ now, seein’ as you’re tough enough to take a needle. I’ve never done anything like that before.)
You closed your fist under the bar, which tingled with the phantom kiss from that day. Case. John. Missing hikers. In the messy, untouched attic that made up your life, the trunk you locked the corpse of your Gift in could be buried in the very back for now. Or forever.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Quit it and read this.”
He unfolded an article from the journal, and when it was splayed flat, you read it loud enough for the boys and no one else to hear: “Grizzly Bear Attacks… Up to eight hikers vanish in lost creek area… hikers' disappearance baffle authorities. Well, no surprise there. These poor suckers have no idea what they’re looking at.”
“Then again, neither do we,” Sam said. He switched tabs on his laptop, “I downloaded that guy Tommy's video and—I mean, just look at this.”
Sam opened the video. Tommy’s face was obscured by the night’s darkness, so all you could make out of him was a few touches of lantern light flickering in his eyes and splaying against the wall of the tent. He reminded you of the types you saw heading out of the ranger station. Tommy was just any other adventurous guy enjoying the trails. Your heart ached, and the imaginary sting in your palm faded for good.
With a few taps, Sam jumped through three frames of the video. It appeared to be nothing but a flicker of the lantern light when the video played at normal speed, but on pause you could make out the black shape of something living. Something hunting. You glanced at Sam, impressed—he’d caught something the human eye could barely trace. If Stanford couldn’t make him rusty, then nothing could.
Dean leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Do it again.”
Sam played the three frames over again. It was quick, but the way the shapes beyond the tent moved almost mimicked a wolf shifting from hindlegs to forelegs. Or a human mid-run. Sam went to the frame the creature was the clearest in. “That's three frames. A fraction of a second. Whatever that thing is, it can move.”
You thought about the taxidermied buck, the picture of the downed bear. Whatever this thing was, it wasn’t the kind of creature you mounted on a wall—it had room above its mantle for your head, too.
“What do you think, Mean Swing?” Dean lifted his head in your direction, scratching his chin. “This feel familiar? Like what you saw earlier?”
You stared at the image until all you saw was the pixels that made its figure behind Tommy. The watching eyes of the woods felt sticky on your skin, and you twisted your carnelian ring on reflex.
“Somethin’ in the woods has been bothering me all day. Whatever it is that John sent us here for… I get this feeling that it’s there. And when the ranger brought up Haley, there was this push telling me to pursue it. S’ definitely got something to do with her… and this creature.”
Dean waved to you in a there ya go sort of gesture, and between you Sam sighed in defeat. “Yeah. Maybe this is what Dad was leading us to… But why?”
“Well, our woman in white,” you were careful to mention the events of last week, “that was a case he couldn’t finish. Maybe this is another one? Something he found but couldn’t check out himself?”
Dean frowned into his beer. If that was true, then John had a reason for putting this hunt on the boys instead of one of the other hunting connections he had. He kept Dean—and by extension, you—on a short leash these days, employing you both for bigger, more research-intensive hunts and then pointing the two of you toward a smaller fish when he was busy. This felt like a big hunt to you—the kind of three-person job John would keep you around for.
And there was only one thing, one white whale, that could make something like this into a little fish. A white whale that you had your own reasons for hunting, now.
“Maybe,” Sam murmured, talking to fill the sudden gap your suggestion had left. “But, uh, I got one more thing.” He shut the laptop, producing yet another article. Again, that selfish hole burned into your chest gushed with affection—Sam had always loved the research aspect of the job, so of course he’d looked into everything already. “In 'fifty-nine one camper survived this supposed grizzly attack. Just a kid. Barely crawled out of the woods alive.”
Reading the article over his shoulder, you spoke at the same time as Dean: “Is there a name?”
Sam tapped a surname on the page. Shaw. Satisfied, Dean dropped his beer on the bartop, stood, and stretched, purposefully giving half the room a good look at the freckles on his midriff. “I say we check into the area a bit more n’ then go bother the guy,” Dean chuckled. With new-found cheer, he threw the two of you a grin, “See you in a minute. M’ gonna go take a leak.”
“Have fun,” you snorted.
Dean bounced his eyebrows at you over his shoulder, said, “Watch my beer,” and dissolved into the crowd.
Per his request, you spun on your stool to steal sips of his bottle. Sam started unloading his laptop bag between you, dropping maps, articles, and obituaries where they wouldn’t get wet by drink stains. He pat a napkin and a pen down in front of you, and without further prompting you slid the closest obit in front of you to continue the cross-comparisons he’d made between the victims. At least, you were going to, until Sam went stiff.
“Oh god,” he hushed through his teeth.
You started writing. “Yeah, Sammy?”
“Those girls,” he paled, “I think they’re gonna come over here…”
You lifted your head: first, to Sam’s flushed, panicked expression, gluing him to his seat like a buck in headlights, and then the trio of giggling girls throwing looks at him. The most assertive of the three was really fishing for a returned glance across the bar. Given enough time and sips of strawberry daiquiri, she’d definitely slide on over. You envied her confidence, but cursed it in the moment.
Sam ducked his head, hiding behind his bangs. “I can’t—not, n-not yet… God, what should I do?”
This was yet another case of you being discounted as a third Winchester sibling. Not for the first time, you wished the opposite was assumed. You spun your stool so you were between him and his admirers, trying to calculate a way to shoo them off without being rude, or broadcasting that Sam was… That Sam was mourning.
“Here. Can I hold your arm?”
Sam’s face flared with confusion in the most interesting way. Thinking quickly, you put on a mushy smile and spun again in your chair, giggling for the whole bar to hear, and folded both hands in the crook of Sam’s bicep. For additional effect, you squished your cheek into his shoulder and kicked your legs under your stool, girly and pleased. Peculiarly, Sam relaxed.
“Oh,” he said, daring to take a glance at the rowdy women again. They looked disappointed; their token of interest appeared to be taken. “Smart.”
“We can add it to my business card,” you reassured him with a teasing pat. Freeing a hand, you began to count your titles: “Eye-candy, team morale, psychic, and fake girlfriend for hire. This girl does it all.”
A ghost of his dimpley smile flashed in your peripherals, and with arduous effort, Sam unfolded an article about Blackwater Ridge and pretended to read it. After a moment of simmering in your touch as you melted in his, Sam choked from the air the first thing he could think to say.
“...I’m sorry.”
You wanted to tell him that everything would be fine—but nothing was right now, so the only life-raft any of you had was, ironically, the hunt. You’d all fallen victim to its desensitizing routine one way or another. Dean had learned it from his father, and you and Sam had learned it from Dean, because everything in the hunt was generational and cyclical. It would be useless and hypocritical to tell him that he didn’t have to hide his feelings under the pretense of this job. But a part of you had hoped that this transition wouldn’t be so easy for him, because the easier it was the harder it would be to escape again. Sam had been loading shotguns and memorizing hexbag ingredients since he was eight. But compared to psychic powers that didn’t scrub off your skin… shotguns and hexbags were something you could run from.
And god, it killed you, it gutted you, but you want Sam to run. You want him to be happy. You want to kill the white whale, and forget these selfish feelings.
“There’s nothing you’ve got to apologize for, Sammy,” you whispered into his sleeve. “Let’s get to tracking this thing, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Sam sighs.
You slide the napkin in front of you. Sam unfolds a map. Together, you lose yourself in the names and dates and locations until it’s 1997. You’re sixteen, John and Dean are off hunting; you’re huddled at the bar, wet from the rain and dizzy from researching; you’re sixteen and duty-bound, but all you have to your name is a fake ID and Sam Winchester. Sam’s leg is bouncing under the table because his Dad won’t pick up the phone, and you’re all he has and he’s all you have and you both want out of the hunt.
But Sam’s the only one with the legs to run, and it’s been a long time since 1997.
_
“Look, ranger, I don't know why you're asking me about this. It's public record. I was a kid. My parents got mauled by a—”
“Grizzly?” Sam smoothly leads the way into Mr. Shaw’s apartment, casting another long shadow across the dark kitchen with his height. His voice had this base innocence to it, so maybe it was your imagination overlaying it with a note of significance. “That’s what attacked them?”
Shaw’s silhouette paused halfway to the closest lamp. He took a slow draw of his cigarette, ignored the lamp, and padded over to open one of his windows, like he was comfortable in the dark. After what he’d witnessed, he probably felt like he’d seen the worst of what was in it. He was an old man, far older than the boy he’d been in 59’, but something told you that nothing could make him forget that night. Dean had only been four, and you knew he remembered every frame of his mother’s death. Both of Shaw’s parents had died.
Dean dropped his hands into his pockets. “The other people that went missing that year, those bear attacks too?”
Shaw paused. You winced, wishing there was a better way to approach this. Interviewing victims never felt right, but this time it was worse: all of you knew about the threat you were dealing with.
Again, Dean pushed. “What about all the people that went missing this year? Same thing?”
Shaw remained silent, blowing smoke out of his kitchen window.
“Mr. Shaw,” you spoke up, twisting a ring on one finger, “If you can help us understand what it is, we may be able to kill it.”
Shaw pulled his cigarette from his mouth, and despite the roughness of his already coarse voice, the flicker you got of his expression in the moonlight was pained and earnest. “I seriously doubt that.” He sunk down at his kitchen table, one wrist pointed out the window. “Anyways, I don't see what difference it would make.” Shaw cupped the mug waiting on the tabletop for him and stared into it. “You wouldn't believe me. Nobody ever did.”
The little space behind your ribs where you stored that pain—the kind of pain Shaw was talking about—cracked open along a seam, and you almost opened your mouth to utter the forbidden words: I understand. I understand so much it makes it hard to breathe. There was no way to describe it. Knowing the truth about this world was simple on paper, but knowing that you were lying to everyone you ever met was not. It was like you lived in a world where fire was fictional, and yet you knew it was real, had put it in your crosshairs, been charred to the bone by it. But still. You could do nothing to stop the whole world from putting its hand on the stove.
A vision fluttered behind your eyelids, flashing so fast between frames of memory that it barely showed in your face that anything had changed. You saw Shaw standing at the cusp of the trail to the Ridge, hands trembling, begging a family he’d never met to go home go home please go home you haven’t seen it you can’t see it—s’ real, oh god, s’ real, please…
You moved past Dean and Sam to take the other seat at Shaw’s kitchen table. Some of the raw emotion rolling around in your chest must’ve made it to your eyes, because he finally lifted his head. You tried to bolster some honesty into your voice. “I believe you. Just, please—tell me what you saw.”
“...Nothing,” Shaw said. Before you could deflate, he continued: “It moved too fast to see. It hid too well. I heard it, though. A roar. Like… no man or animal I ever heard.”
Sam and Dean hovered closer, and stood behind your chair like twin doberman hounds, so still and soundless that you hadn’t known they’d moved until Sam spoke. “It came at night?”
Shaw nodded. You tried to marry his story to the creature caught in Tommy’s video, and didn’t like the mental image you ended up with. “This thing got into your tent?”
“Our cabin,” Shaw corrected. “I was sleeping in front of the fireplace when it came in. It… It didn't smash a window or break the door.” He leaned forward, struggling to croak around a trembling lip. “It unlocked it. Do you know of a bear that could do something like that? I didn't even wake up till I heard my parents screaming.”
You sat back, an uncomfortable pang clawing into the meat of your legs. Feeling Dean’s stare, you exchanged a silent look with him: this just got a lot harder.
“Your parents,” Sam gently probed, “it killed them?”
Shaw closed his eyes. “Dragged them off into the night.”
“I’m sorry,” you said, shakily, “I know words aren’t worth much, but…”
Shaw shook his head. He seemed to stare right through you, beyond you, to where he’d been in the woods that night. “Why it left me alive… been asking myself that ever since.” Giving the three of you his last skeptical stare, he brought his hand to his t-shirt collar, “Did leave me this, though.”
Shaw opened his shirt collar. The moonlight cut oddly against his collarbone, and then in the shadow of his neck you saw it: four long, shredded scars, raised and gnarled into his flesh. After forty years the mark had softened and healed, but just looking at it told you exactly what it’d looked like the night he’d been given it.
Sam and Dean exhaled slow, in shock or understanding, and your hands pressed flat to your mouth on instinct.
“There’s somethin’ evil in those woods,” Shaw warned. “It was some sort of demon…”
_
As far as hunting went, the few twenty-four-year-olds that had passed through your mother’s parlor swung one way or the other. Either they were stupid enough to be joining in fresh out of some terrible circumstance, or purebred into it like you and the boys—and the only thing that evolved greenhorns was luck. You hadn’t made it here on luck.
Still, for all the skill that nine years of hunting had possessed you, you hadn’t yet pinned down what Shaw’s “demon” was. On the walk from his apartment back to the Impala, you summoned the list of forest creatures that experience had branded into one wall of your mind. Skinwalkers, black dogs, ozark howlers, even certain forest spirits could act like this. You opened the journal without much thought and started cross-comparing traits to your mystery creature: bear-like, intelligent, dark cold habitat(?), west US forest region, 23 year cycle. But nothing stuck. After staring at it for a little while longer, you got the impression there was a gaping hole in your profile.
A step or two in front of you, Dean and Sam were wearing the same pensive shoulders, performing similar examinations in their own minds. The clouds of their breath floated skyward. Being on the edge of town, the only light on the side-road you walked was from the half-mast eye of the moon. The loud jostle of Dean’s boots was comforting; especially since being the caboose made you all-too aware of the void of dark street behind you, which clung to your back with a sentient silence.
“Maybe one of our points is wrong, or this is an unusual hangout for the thing we’re dealing with… Either way, we have to figure this out soon.” You closed the journal with a snap. “Haley is going out to the woods tomorrow. How are we supposed to protect that poor girl if we have no idea what this thing is?”
“We unload the whole trunk, that’s how,” Dean spoke. “Like Sam said—thing’s corporeal. That means we can kill it,” he dipped his head in your direction with a teasing smile, “likely with something pointy.”
Your eyes jumped to Sam in the dark, tongue in your cheek. “Corporeal? You’ve never failed a vocab test, have you?”
Sam’s growing anxiousness loosened enough to give you a dry half-smile. He didn’t spit back one of his own jokes or give you a teasing push like usual, but anything was better than nothing. He hadn’t spoken much today. He hadn’t spoken much this week.
Either Dean got tired of turning his head or he preferred you next to him, because he lent you some room to walk between him and Sam. It was a small gesture, but one that the boys did often. They could barely fit shoulder-to-shoulder on a sidewalk alone, and yet they made room for you every time, like two halves of a bascule bridge letting a little boat through.
Dean had parked the car further down the road, so Baby was a glossy white highlight against the spider-webbing of tree branches covering the night sky. The night was blue and foggy. You absently laid your hand on the metal when you came close, just to have something to touch that wasn’t groundless air.
Before he opened the trunk, Dean deferred naturally to you for the all clear signal. The separation between your senses and your Gift was thin today, so you drew closer to the Impala, blinking at the shapes your eyes were imagining in the fog. Eventually, you murmured, “We’re good.”
Dean tilted his head with a dangerous readiness, because even a second’s pause was enough to clue him in to your exhaustion. “Are we?”
“Sorry,” you sighed, “We’re good. I’m still a little bogged down from earlier. There’s no one around, don’t worry. My Gift—my thing is just a little tired today.”
“Haven’t slept much,” Sam commented.
Dean yanked open the trunk with its usual friendly creak, punctuating the sound with an unspoken order in his eyes. He quickly made it spoken: “Well, ‘soon as we get back to the motel, you’re going to, girly.”
“We’ve still got to figure out what this thing is,” you reminded. Considering you hadn’t yet found a way around Dean’s elder-sibling authority, it was a little foolish of you to think today would be the day. You put a drop of sweetened nonchalance into your voice anyway. “I’ll be alright, Dean—I’ll sleep on the drive to the ridge tomorrow. A little overnight research won’t kill me.”
Dean’s smile pinched into his cheek. He sucked in a breath like he was about to say something funny—and though Dean wasn’t exactly gentle, he never pierced you. Just prodded. “I think you’re forgetting it’s not just you n’ me anymore.”
That stopped you in your tracks.
You hadn’t forgotten. For two years, a tear in your life had grown into an absence, in the Impala’s backseat, in the empty air guarding your six on hunts. But the worst part was that sometimes the absence called you or mailed you pictures. Sometimes it would write you letters with his half-cursive handwriting, or ramble about Stanford and pre-law until you fell asleep with your head between the pillow and the phone. Sam had left an unfillable space in your life when he’d escaped, and without him in the middle you and Dean had tried everything to close the gap.
From the moment you’d picked up Sam, there was not one breath where you weren’t aware he was back. You could sense him like a limb, without looking, like you were connected to him by a hundred nerves.
But you and Dean had made a life together. For two years, there had been nothing but you and him and the rain-slick road. There were days driving between states where neither of you said a word, because hearing you breathe and feeling him drive was enough for the two of you. You sang your way through whole albums, Dean on drums and you on lead guitar; you fell asleep beside him; you wept over Dean, fingers hot with his blood; you fed him and poked fun at him and lived him, while Dean did the same for you.
“Hey.” Dean’s hands were suddenly there, settling warm on your shoulders. The night was blue but his eyes were still so green. “Sam’s here to help out now, okay? Me n’ him will do our damndest to figure out what this thing is, and you’ll do me a favor, n’ rest up for tomorrow. If we can’t figure it out, I’m not all that worried—”
A pleasant, charming smile gleamed on his face. “...We’ve got our secret weapon right,” he poked your forehead, “here.”
You let indecision play dramatically across your features. Then, with the air of a tradesman, stuck out your hand to him to shake.
“Only…if you hug me.”
“Why?” Dean squawked.
You shot him an evil little smile. “I enjoy watching your fragile masculinity squirm.”
Dean considered, humming. “...You’ll go to bed? As soon as we get back?”
“I’ll even sleep in,” you added loftily, just to sweeten the pot.
He stared at you for a moment longer, the rounded lines of his face briefly drawn hard with conviction. An unspoken clause was added to your contract. I’ll watch out for Sammy, too. That was all that mattered to you.
Promptly, Dean opened his palm, spat into it, and stuck it out to you.
“Fine. Deal.”
Per tradition, you spat as well. With a gross smack, you slapped your hands together, and using his grip you dragged him into a tight hug. Because Dean was a fair player, he squirmed and flustered in the same way that laughed you into stitches as a kid. Sam was witness to all of this, so it surprised you when Dean dropped the act halfway through and squeezed you around the middle; he gave excellent, cozy, leather-scented hugs, which of course were only shared at the grave cost of his masculinity. After the week the three of you’d had, it was high time you fulfilled your role as the mushy one.
(But then again, Dean was the one rubbing your back).
“Aw,” Sam said, being a very loyal minion.
Dean broke out into a hoarse coughing fit, scuttling away to safety and glaring at his brother. You wiped your hand on the sleeve of his jacket, which sent him into further hysterics, and somewhere under the yelling and raving about real leather, ___! Sam covered his mouth and giggled boyishly. Whatever argument he’d been revving up for had lost its power over him awhile ago.
That was all that mattered to you.
_
taglist: @seraphimluxe @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @williamstop @duchessoftheheart
next part: wendigo, p.2
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misspearly1 · 5 months ago
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hi, um no idea if you can just ask about stories here, but I just had a flash of inspiration and had to think of you. I'm usually a quiet reader and never write comments but I just love all your stories. You really have such a good writing style it's amazing. So my idea of ​​a story was: Joel and female reader with age gap (bc daddy issues r kicking in when i think abt joel) and then just joel comforting the reader because she has her period and it hurts? So just fluff ig? Idk I just had to think of a story like that with Joel. As I already said, I think your stuff is so good, I thought it wouldn't hurt to ask <3
Couple things I’d like to say <3
1st - You can leave any comment, message or request or even an emoji with no context in my ask box/in my dms or any where that you feel comfortable with my darling, I don’t mind :))
2nd - Thank you so much for coming to me with this request. It means the world to me and I would be delighted to write this inspiration of yours out for you. I massively appreciate your kind words, they brought a huge smile to my face.
3rd - As for being a quiet reader and not leaving comments, do not worry about that at all my friend. I see many of my quiet readers all the time and they make me smile all the same. If I have brought happiness to you through my writing, then I am happy too <33
With prompts like these I always like to do a brief idea of said prompt through The Last of Us timelines & a fictional story too. Hopefully, if this is ok with you, I’d like to cover this concept in all aspects and do just that. Shall we call it, a two in one?? Lol. Hope you enjoy what I’ve wrote, my love :D
For this part, the age gap for reader obviously ages with time. The second part (in the fictional story) I will implement it better with it being a singular event opposed to living through 20 years of the monthlies.
Warnings up ahead: Lots of menstrual cycle talk :)
Pre-Outbreak -
You’ve gotten your period again? No problem! Joel Miller is on the case. Of course he would be. Anything for his lady.
Off to the car and straight to the nearby store, no matter what time of day, Joel will be out buying the essentials.
Essentials ranging from the sanitary products you need, any painkilling meds to help with your discomfort, to candied sweets, savory foods and beverages. Any type of food or drink that he has picked up on - during the time being with you - that he knows you like. Because let's face it, chocolates are considered essentials during the monthlies, Joel knows that by now.
As for pain, Joel will comfort you regardless if the meds are kicking in. He will comfort you during this regular process, just like last month and the month before that, and hopefully forever in time. You’re his lady for life and he will tell you this any chance he gets.
Comforting such as massaging, hot baths and hot water bottles. Long, tight and close contact cuddles with extra kisses, all while he whispers how much he loves you.
“There, darlin.” // “Just relax for me, I’ll take the pain away.” // “I love you, sweetheart.” // “I’ll rub your back. Anywhere you need massaging, name it, baby. I got you.”
During the Outbreak:
Nothing has changed. Joel Miller will always be there for you, front row and center at the ready.
But oof, this time period is certainly a little more difficult to tackle a monthly cycle. Without the factory production of sanitary products, pretty soon after the outbreak, those will run out and you will be reduced to old fashioned methods for protection.
Not a problem for Joel. He will still be helping in any and every way he can. Like scouting items to craft these makeshift, old fashioned, sanitary products. He’s your man, and Joel is a man that is devoted to his lady.
As well as that, painkillers are no more. For you, this is not ideal or pain-free during this time of the month, for Joel? He has the opportunity to massage, kiss, hug and comfort you even more than he already does. To give you all that extra attention that you need, that he loves to provide even without reason to.
His whispered loving remarks and caring reassurances aren’t far behind either…
“C’mere darlin’” // “let me look at yer” // “Tell me where it hurts, I’ll make it better.” // “I love you sweetheart, I know it’s painful” // “It’ll go away soon, baby. I promise.”
Post-Outbreak (Jackson Era)
20 years down the line and guess what? Joel Miller is still right there with you, easing you through this cycle. Some have been easy and light, others have been painful and heavy, but it makes absolutely no difference in how Joel has comforted you over the last two decades.
Within the walls of Jackson, the hot baths and hot water bottles are back. Even better, they have real food. Not like the junk from a QZ or living out of a tin of beans out in the open world. You’re at home now. In your own home with your man.
Joel will - if he can - join you in these baths or hot showers, holding you near and dear while peppering kisses all over your face. Rubbing soothing hands up and down your back, kneading the areas where you’re most in pain.
With the fresh produce that Jackson provides, he will be able to cook you actual flavorsome food. Breakfast in bed and extra naps, hell, Joel is joining you in those naps. Anything to be with you.
Did Joel mention this was for life? Because that’s what soulmates do. Sticking with each other like glue, you and Joel are mended together as one, and the natural - yet painfully annoying at times - monthly cycle won’t ever get in the way of him comforting and loving you.
His love and adoration never faltered, it grew more than he ever possibly could have imagined it to and living out the rest of his days in Jackson with you is exactly where he wants to be.
I enjoyed writing out this part, hope you did @chxpsi and anyone else who have read :))
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Part 2 - Fictional Story.
Pairing: Joel Miller x You
WC: 1.8k
Summary: Awoken during the night with that all too familiar sensation, your period has arrived and not long after that, it comes with the deepest, possibly even the worst yet, pain in your lower abdomen and back. Can Joel even comfort you during this heavy and excruciating cycle?
Warnings: Lots of period talk. Mentions of blood. Near accidents, (Leaking). Embarrassed reader and reassuring, loving and fluffy Joel in response to that. Kissing. Age gap between characters.
AN: Oh I really enjoyed this fic - Left a big paragraph of AN notes at the end, much love folks, enjoy the read and thank you so much for this request @chxpsi <33
Devotion
Stirring with discomfort in your sleep, you awoke with the familiar sensation of leaking and the dread of it seeping through your underwear.
Shit, I’m early!
Pulling back the covers hastily and heading into the bathroom in a panic, this action had awoken Joel too and he immediately sat up to ask, “baby, what’s wrong?”
“What do you think?” you snapped unintentionally.
Pulling down your pyjama shorts and underwear, thankfully you haven't leaked too bad but your underwear would need a few rounds with the washing machine that's for sure. The door creaked with Joel gently pushing it open and you balled up your dirtied clothing to hide your accident.
Normal yes, these things happen at times but it still feels embarrassing nonetheless.
“Baby,” he soothed, stepping further into the bathroom and kneeling down to the floor in front of you, Joel held his hands to your thighs and lifted your chin with his thumb, “C’mon doll, don’t get shy on me now. You know this is ok and that it’s natural. I’m willing to bet it’s happened to everyone that goes through this at least once in their life.”
“I know,” you shrugged sadly, and Joel reassured, telling you exactly what you needed to hear, “but it still feels embarrassing for you, I know that too darlin. I will tell you every damn time if I have to, it’s ok and you have nothing to feel embarrassed about.”
That brought a smile to your face. Joel doesn’t know exactly how you feel but over the course of the last four years being his girlfriend inside the walls of Jackson, he has come to empathize with your explanations and understand every aspect of how to ease you through it.
Even at the beginning of your relationship, he understood the problems that people have to go through with this regularity each month. The very least he can do is be there for you. Leaning in towards you, he closes the gap and kisses you, mumbling into your lips, “how bout a hot bath?”
“Joel,” you pulled back and worried, “It’s three in the morning,” to which he ran his calloused hands along your thighs softly with a smile, “So?”
Leaning over the tub, he placed the plug in the hole and ran the hot water before turning back to face you, “time of day doesn't matter when it comes to running a bath when you need it, darlin.”
You smirked, “Trying to say I'm stinky, Miller?” Teasing him playfully to lighten the mood, for yourself and for him, it worked because you both began laughing. Joel leaned in again, “nope” and nuzzled his nose against yours, “you smell wonderful, girl. Always.”
Brushing his bearded lips lightly across yours and tickling you just how you like it before kissing you once more. Running heavy, reassuring hands up and down your thighs, you break off to gasp, furrowing your brows and squeezing your legs together.
“Is it the cramps or the stabs?” he asked, trying to understand which type of pain that you are feeling right now. “Both,” sucking in a sharp breath of air, you cringed to Joel and asked him to run the hot and cold water a little faster in hopes to rid the pain quickly in the tub.
Doing as you requested, he leaned back over the tub and turned the nozzles up. After a few moments, he turned the cold back off and helped you climb inside, leaving the rest to fill up with hot water.
Bringing your knees up to your chest and resting your head against them, you leaned forward while Joel dunked an arm inside, rubbing the heel of his hands into your back, “Tell me when to stop, ok baby?”
“Hm,” laughing lightly and smiling, you closed your eyes and hummed contently with his touch, “Hm, never stop, Joel.”
His reply was simple, yet heavy with love, “as you wish, sweetheart.”
Joel isn’t just your partner. He is the other half of your life, what makes you complete as one. The man is devoted to you, and you are with him. Always by your side since the moment he laid his eyes on you on your first patrol together, it took a while for either of you to admit your feelings but you wouldn’t change it for the world.
Being just over twenty years younger than Joel, the social stigma of an age gap relationship is the only reason he didn’t say something right away. While he can be closed off, quiet and broody, Joel is straight up with what he wants. There’s no sugar coating it, he will say exactly how it is and the day he met you, he knew you were for him.
After months of dancing around each other, flirting and teasing like any other couple would, it was the kind remarks that multiple townsfolk spoke that made Joel realize people weren’t fazed by your close friendship. In fact, they thought that you were in a relationship already.
After many encounters with people all around town asking him questions about you such as ‘where is your girlfriend?’ or ‘when is she moving in’, Joel realized that he has wasted too much fucking time worrying about what others think and headed straight to you, to tell you exactly how he feels.
The reason why you wouldn't change it for the world is because of how it happened. Maybe if it happened differently, you’d still hold it as a special moment but it’s hard to think of it any other way.
There was a summer dance in the town's bar and Joel strode in, taking everyone by surprise, even yourself, by pulling you with him towards the crowds of couples on the floor and slowly danced with you. It was bold, even for him but deeply memorable for you.
Ever since that night, since seeing your emotional reaction to him slow dancing with you and admitting his feelings that he had held back for so long, it became yours and Joel's thing to dance in the living room after dinner, just before bed while whispering how much he loves you.
Every night, you and Joel would relive that memory. Chuckling and giggling to one another with his improving moves, yours too. It's a simple gesture, maybe even a regular thing for other couples too, but for you it meant the world and more. To spend each night twirling by his hands or swaying on the spot with him.
Joel saw your reaction that day and was devoted to reminding you every chance he got at how much he loved you. To remind you every night of that feeling you got in that exact moment in that bar so long ago and hopefully for the rest of your lives together.
Unfortunately right now, he is being reminded how painful your period can be considering the hot bath isn’t easing your pain as effectively as he hoped it would. He left you momentarily to get your fresh clothes, some makeshift sanitary products and a glass of water with some painkillers.
Helping you out of the bath, you could barely stand up straight with the crippling cramps and although you didn’t need him to, he helped you get dried and dressed too before carrying you. Legs and arms wrapped around him, you buried your head into his neck while he walked to bed.
There’s something about him that makes you feel better. His proximity maybe. His body heat or just his love, but when he lay down on his back and kept laying across his chest, sleep was racing towards you quickly. It was tugging at your eyelids, stinging for you to close them and rest.
Joel knows you like the back of his hand. Pulling the thick duvet covers up over your bodies, he rubbed deep and slow circles into your lower back while kissing your cheek, “rest up darlin, I ain’t going anywhere, and you let me know if it gets worse, ok?”
Nodding to him, you closed your eyes and let sleep take over. He hated seeing you this way. Watching your face wince here and there with a stab of pain, your body shifting to find ease. After a while, he could see and feel how hot you were getting, so he carefully rolled over to switch up his laying positions.
Spooning you from behind instead, you hummed sleepily with relief when he slipped his warm hand around your front and across your lower stomach. Nestling his chin into the crook of your neck and feeling your hand find his, interlocking your fingers between his own, Joel kissed your cheek again and fell asleep with you.
-
Never say never when it comes to your period.
The pain had eased off a little and gave you a break the next day, however the flow was heavy. A part of you feels terrible for taking up so much of Joel's time while he stayed with you, but another part of you was forever grateful that he wasn’t scared off by the sight of blood.
Bleeding through your sanitary products and nearly onto the bed once again, he had to remind you for the second time that it was ok. You know it is, but you're now doubling up the protection in fear of leaking onto the bed later tonight.
Stepping out of the bathroom after a quick shower, you headed downstairs and into the kitchen. “Hey baby,” greeting him by the kitchen counter, you turned on the spot and asked, “Could you check me?”
He slapped your ass, “All good darlin, I promise,” eliciting a teasing shake of your head with narrowed eyes to which he threw his hands up in the air, “Hey, I had to make sure.”
Humor was another tactic Joel liked to use to help you. He’s quite funny on a mellow level anyways, but you’ve noticed that he amps it up a little during your period. Laughter is always good in raising one's spirit, right?
Pulling you in for another morning kiss to the cheek when you walked over to the sink, Joel wrapped his arms around your front and rubbed your stomach, “How are you feeling?”
“Much better than earlier, thanks to you,” lolling your head back to his shoulder with a smile, he swayed on the spot with you and replied, “my pleasure, baby. Can’t allow you to be hurting like this.”
Humming together, you brought your hands down on top of his, closing your eyes while he peppered light kisses to your neck. Periods can come short and quick, painless and make life easy but other times, they can be very heavy, extremely painful to not only your body, but painfully annoying in mind too with the drastic spikes in hormones.
You suck it up and plod on through them but Joel Miller makes even the hard ones much easier to go through, and swaying right here on the spot with him in the kitchen on your home together, you're thankful that your period sparks such intimate and loving moments with him.
His devotion to you matches no other.
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AN: Growing up with lots of sisters, it was quite an open and honest atmosphere in my household, so going through the monthlies for myself personally, I was never alone. I only hope that this fic can provide something like that for anyone who reads and finds themselves alone during this time.
I know people may say ‘it’s just a period’ but for some (like myself) it can be a harrowing experience in many ways to go through each month. They're natural, normal, fucking awful at times too, and I hope this fic of Joel comforting reader through this provides everything that you needed to hear. Even if you don't suffer with terrible monthly cycles, I still hope you find some comfort when reading this. Much love my friends, have a wonderful day <33
Tagging:
Permanent Taglist (All story Updates): @marydjarin @kirsteng42 @supernaturalgirl @supernaturalgirl20
All Joel Content: @extraneous-trip @luvmeijii @readsalot73 @pale-gingerale @joelsflannel @something-tofightfor @readsalot73 @dinsangelx @ponyosmilfmom @hb8301 @squidwell @spideysimpossiblegirl @mooraakath @michele131 @chxpsi
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harriethattie · 11 months ago
Text
Outlander star Sam Heughan on embarrassing selfies and his red-carpet kilt
AUGUST 1, 2017
By John Koski
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‘I’m wholeheartedly a cat person, although it’s not practical for me to have one at the moment,’ says actor Sam Heughan
Guilty pleasure? A lazy weekend in bed watching box sets, especially anything American and sci-fi. I recently got through Netflix’s Stranger Things.
Where is home? Wherever my suitcase is, because I’m away so much for filming. I had a home in London for 12 years and now have a place in Scotland, which is where I’m from.
Career plan B? I’m really into sport, so perhaps a professional sportsman.
Who would play you in a movie of your life? Sean Connery.
Biggest bugbear? People littering the natural environment. Hiking is a great passion of mine and I find myself picking up empty bottles.
As a child you wanted to be… A magician.
Earliest memory? Playing in the grounds of a ruined castle in Balmaclellan, Southwest Scotland. We lived in converted stables on the estate.
Secret to a happy relationship? As I travel so much, I would say that being on the same continent certainly helps.
Your best quality? Stubbornness – you’ve got to be pretty strong-willed in my business.
And your worst? The same. Being stubborn doesn’t always help.
Last meal on earth? I wholly promote the omelette as a meal whatever the occasion, especially your last one.
Dream dinner–party guests? Elon Musk, who is fascinating and inspiring, the tennis player Martina Hingis, who I was obsessed with as a youngster, Michelle Obama and the astronaut Tim Peake.
Advice to teenage self? Just relax.
Cat or dog? I’m wholeheartedly a cat person, although it’s not practical for me to have one at the moment. When I was growing up, we had cats, dogs, guinea pigs, rabbits, goats, chickens – a whole menagerie.
What do you see when you look in the mirror? I spend so much time in front of mirrors as part of my job that I try to avoid them outside work.
Starstruck moment? Meeting Formula One champion Lewis Hamilton on a flight to Los Angeles last year. I was very embarrassing and asked him for a selfie.
Big break? Appearing in a play called Outlying Islands at the Royal Court Theatre in London in 2002, my first job after leaving drama school.
Career highlight? The 2014 New York premiere of the first season of Outlander, my biggest role so far.
Most embarrassing moment? Being on stage at the premiere in a kilt and giving the front row a sneak peak.
Favourite tipple? Single malt whiskies from Islay.
Hangover cure? Hair of the dog.
Top of your bucket list? To go to base camp on Mount Everest and go hiking in Nepal or Tibet.
Secret skill? I can juggle pretty well – with balls, clubs and, if pushed, knives.
Philosophy? Trust your gut instinct.
Last film that made you cry? The Light Between Oceans, which is extremely moving and well-acted.
Most extravagant purchase? Taking a flight to Thailand for Christmas on impulse two years ago.
Biggest regret? Not playing rugby for Scotland.
Biggest fear? Getting the sack.
Celebrity crush? Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters.
Happiness is… Climbing a Munro [a Scottish mountain over 3,000ft].
Celebrities are asked the same sort of question on many occasions and what might have been the answer last year won’t necessarily spring to mind the next, e.g. Sigourney Weaver, not Jessica Rabbit! Sean Connery bc although he was 50 years older than Sam, he’s a hero. The answer that chimed most with me was ‘biggest fear’, bc for many of us ‘getting the sack’ would be the answer and probably doesn’t change until we have achieved a degree of financial security.
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