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#i do not want to say hollow but i will say gutted a day by day system feels without those events ;; like im still hung up on that

carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 5 months

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Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 42

Part 1 Part 41

Steve doesn’t realize they’re not heading toward the Munson’s trailer until they pass the gaudy Loch Nora sign.

Despite what he’d argued, he’s tired – zoning in the passenger seat of Eddie’s van. He can still hear the voices bouncing off the lockers in the hallway, echoing after the strange solitude of the Upside-Down. And then the hospital. And then the Munson’s trailer.

His gut writhes as Eddie pulls into his winding driveway, putting the van in park with a world-weary sigh. His bimmer is still parked in the driveway, dusted with fallen leaves slowly turning to mulch on his windshield.

The house looms dark and empty. Just like the last time he’d been here; a mad dash from the Demogorgon. Alone.

Steve Harrington is always alone.

“What are we doing here?” he asks.

Eddie, having already opened his door and gotten halfway up and out of the van, levers his whole body back into his seat and closes the door behind him.

Eddie looks over at Steve. Steve doesn’t look back.

“We don’t have to go in.”

Steve sighs, running his hand over his head again, pushing hair back out of his face that he no longer has.

“What are we doing here, man?” he repeats, soul gaping, eyes dead.

Eddie sighs. “I thought you might like some of your stuff.”

Steve looks up at the looming specter of his childhood home. The windows are as dark as they always are. “And then we’re going back to yours?” Steve asks, scratching the back of his head, trying for nonchalance he’s not sure he ever pulled off in Eddie Munson’s presence.

When he glances over at Eddie, he’s looking up at the house, eyes focused on the dark front windows, porch light off, curtains drawn. His eyebrows are pinched together. Steve wants to smooth it out with a thumb. Doesn’t.

What does he see? Classmates and teachers alike always see it as a blessing – big house, no parents. Eddie’s not like anyone else he’s ever met.

“Yeah,” he says, breathless, looking up at the second floor like it’s haunted. “You hate this house.”

The thing is, Steve does. Always has, since he was small, tottering around after a physically present Mother, but feeling the absence like a wound.

He saw that wound reflected back at him from Tommy and Carol, dogs begging for scraps of love.

Maybe it’s in Eddie as well.

Steve gets out of the van, Eddie following his lead, walking at his side close enough that their elbows brush. He digs the hid-a-key out of the bush in the planter by the front door.

“Dude, rich people are so easy to rob,” Eddie says, looking around like he’s casing the joint.

Steve snorts, slotting the key in the lock, turning it left and pushing the door open. The sound rings hollow, like the mouth of a cave swallowing them.

Steve leads the way inside.

Eddie follows him up to his bedroom, grabs his backpack off the where he’d ditched it that last day. Steve grabs his duffel bag from the closet and stuffs clothes in at random.

Steve grabs the teddy bear off his bed. Tommy had won it for him from a claw machine on his last birthday. It was sky blue and soft. He couldn’t leave it behind, no matter what Munson said.

But he didn’t say anything at all, just stands there patiently as Steve looks around his bedroom, a pit sinking deep at how little he’s taking. How little there is that he wants at all.

He swings the bag across his shoulders, clutches the bear to his chest and walks back down the stairs at a brisk pace, Eddie trotting along at his heels.

On instinct, Steve heads to the pristine kitchen. There’s a note stuck to the fridge with a magnet, a handful of twenties stuck behind it.

They’d come and gone, and hadn’t noticed he was gone at all.

Steve plucks the note from the fridge, letting the twenties flutter to the ground, the magnet clattering on the pile loudly. Eddie bends down to gather them up as Steve reads:

Steven,

Your Father and I are off to Berlin, and will be gone for three weeks.

You’re on thin ice with your Father. We were both very disappointed by the state you left the house in. We expect better from you.

It’s left unsigned.

Eddie rips the note out of his hands and shoves it in his mouth, chewing. Steve stares, transfixed as Eddie chews and chews.

Grimacing around the mouthful, he says, “I don’t know why I thought this would work.” It’s muffled and warbling around the masticated paper on his tongue.

Steve bursts out laughing, watching as Eddie runs to the sink and scrapes the paper mache monstrosity off of his tongue.

“What the fuck?” Steve says, still laughing.

Eddie shoves his mouth over the faucet, lets the water pour onto his tongue messily and dribbles back out.

“10/10, do not recommend,” he says, voice muffled as he scrapes his tongue off with his fingers. “That tasted disgusting, dude!”

There’s something light and airy bursting from him, like the first rays of sun cutting through the darkness. No one’s ever been willing to make a fool of themselves to cheer Steve up. But the bashful slant of Eddie’s smile tells Steve exactly why this newest bit came about.

“You’re such a fucking freak,” he says, fondness leaking out at every seam.

He wants to hug Eddie, so he does. His arms slot perfectly around Eddie’s waist, pulling the other boy in. He freezes for a moment before wrapping his own arms around Steve’s shoulders and pulling him in tightly. Eddie’s fly-away hair tickles Steve’s nose.

Eddie’s digging his nose into Steve’s shoulder like he’s trying to make a home in there, whiskers scratchy, lips wet. Steve sinks in, breath shuddering out as Eddie takes more and more of his weight.

They stand, wrapped up in each other in Steve’s endlessly quiet kitchen. Together.

Steve Harrington is not alone. And when Eddie asks, “ready to go, sweetheart?” he nods, disentangling reluctantly from Eddie’s arms.

And when they drive back out onto the road from his long, winding driveway, Steve doesn’t look back.

Part 43

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#steddie upsidedown au #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #my fic

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tteokdoroki · 1 year

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*ੈ🌩️‧₊˚— skeletons + sae itoshi.

૮˶ᵕ ༝ᵕ˶ა synopsis — sae doesn’t realise how much being away from home affects him, until he hears your voice again.

⭑ warnings — please read + mdni ! characters aged up to 20s, angst, hurt no comfort, long-distance, established relationship, mentions of mental health, pro player!sae, fem!reader - not beta read !

⭑ words — 2K.

⭑ notes — hi beautiful babies!! this is the first of a few fics i have queued for my week away. i wrote this a while ago and it’s based off of skeletons by keshi !! hope you like <3 - m.list ✩

in all honesty, sae itoshi doesn’t expect you to pick up. it’s way too late for you, just breaching the early house of the next morning in japan. there’s a seven hour difference between madrid and tokyo, sae knows because he’s looked it up a million times before anticipating a call or text from you. and right now, you’re probably sleeping, you’re supposed to have been sleeping.

but alas, your phone rings and you pick up on the third— voice groggy over the comforting crackle of static on the line. “h…hello?”

for a moment, the older itoshi brother listens to you and your natural ambience. he notes your deep breathing, still recovering from the depths of sleep, and the slight whines you let out with your yawns as you stretch your stiff muscles. maybe it’s weird, but sae misses all of your sounds, he misses waking up next to them— curling his arm around your waist on nights you’d snuck over to his childhood home just to see him.

“is anyone there?”

snapping out of it, sae clears his throat— fixing his voice as it sits hoarse in its base before he speaks. “it’s me, love.”

“sae!” shifting from the sheets tells sae that you’re more awake now— alerted by the symphony of his voice over the shitty landline. “shouldn’t you be asleep by now?”

“could say the same for you, it’s four am over there.” he knows that he’s wrong, you’re seven hours ahead and it’s only ten pm for him — meaning it’ll be closer to five am where you are and sae itoshi is never wrong. he was born with impressive gut instinct and a quick mind but this time he’s wrong on purpose. he makes a mistake because he wants to stall for time, keep you talking a little longer and hear your voice for a few minutes more…because maybe that’ll keep the demons away.

keep his head floating above the water he seems to have fallen in.

sae is drowning in his dreams, and if he reaches out he can’t touch them— to him, the greatest of all time…they’re unattainable.

“five actually, and my alarm is meant to go off soon. i thought you were it and then i saw your contact…” you manage to say through a yawn, rubbing your eye’s unbeknownst to your boyfriend since he’s halfway across the globe. if he could see, if he was there—he’d probably call you cute, wipe your eyes for you and force you back down to sleep. but he’s not here and he can’t see because there’s a distance between you that can only be fixed by grainy face times on your cells.

“i wanted to call.” the midfielder clarifies, cutting you off sharply but his words coat the inside of his mouth like cotton, as if they’re hard to say — melting over the line like rice paper on his tongue.

“okay,” breathing slow, you hug your knees to your chest and let your silence tangle with the crackling static. “you don’t usually call first.”

“i needed to hear your voice.”

“i’m here. i miss you. do you want to switch to facetime?” sae has half a mind to tell you no. if you switch now, you’d worry— you’d see how hollow he’s become, how sleep deprivation eats at the pink tinge to his flesh and clings to the undersides of his dulling aquamarine eyes. you might think that he’s dying and perhaps he is. the pro player feels like he is. every day is harder, his bones feel heavier and his muscles weaker — he needs medicine. he needs you.

you’re the only drug sae would ever inject into his veins— your smile, your laugh, your heart. they make him better, make him feel alive. so he relents, “gimme a sec, i’ll call you.” he grunts and taps the button to video-call, waiting for you to pick up again.

“there you are, handsome. tell me about your day.” blue light from the early morning filters over your skin— the footage of the FaceTime call is grainy, probably because it’s still a little bit dark outside for you but you’re beautiful. to sae you’ve always been beautiful.

the elder itoshi brother makes a small effort to smile at your compliment, the expression blooming on his cheeks which you mirror, happy to see him — he misses you too. “i don’t wanna talk about it. you do the talking. i just want to listen to you.”

“alright well… i worked today— yesterday. sorry! timezones,” you miss the way sae winces at the mention of your time difference, the invisible divide between you both, as you settle back into your bed to admire him. “my shift sort of sucked, you know how it goes.” your boyfriend listens to you intently, makes faces at the complaints you make about customers, clients and coworkers alike.

sometimes, the midfielder doesn’t understand you how you devote your life’s work, your beauty and intelligence to an industry that chews you up, spits you out like dirt and drives you to the edge of falling to pieces. sae doesn’t doubt you, he knows that you’re talented and wishes you saw the same value in yourself that he did.

you deserve better. so much better.

perhaps he’s the same as you, working for someone else until he breaks and he’s better than everyone else— all in the name of becoming the best in the world.

“you hate your job. quit. i earn enough money to take care of you.”

“and you hate yours. but you won’t come home where i can take care of you.”

sae rolls his eyes at your quip because of how easy it is for you to read him despite the way he hides his emotions behind a clay mask. he’s always been like that, but he feels the need to tuck away the uglier parts from him even more of late— even if you’ve seen it all before. the late nights where he’s feeling sad and goes to bed, sae wakes up feeling even worse. especially without you but even now with your face on a screen, beaming at him the same way you have all your life— he doesn’t feel any better.

you’re meant to be his solace.

quickly changing the subject, sae nods his head as if to push you in a different conversational direction. “tell me about what you did after work.”

you hesitate, peering into his ocean eyes for a split second. “i went to see rin at blue lock. he’s…he’s doing really well, you know. you should come see him sometime. you’d be proud of how far he’s come since we were little.”

it’s not that he doesn’t care about his younger brother, but the relationship between rin and sae itoshi is probably long past any attempts at repair. you’ve been stuck in the middle for as long as you’ve known them— pulling them close despite the boys repelling each other like polar magnets.

you were the glue when they were kids, keeping the three of you together and to this day you still tried to manage the gap between the two brothers, despite their disputes. their differences.“can we please not talk about that half-ass piece of—“ you glare over the phone from across the globe and sae silences himself, pursing his lips to avoid scrutiny from the love of his life. you.

“you know, you never told me what happened when you first came home from Spain.” you blurt after a moment's quiet. “but i think i’ve always sorta known.”

“yeah?” the magenta haired midfielder challenges, brushing a hand over his tired face.

“yeah…” nodding subtly, you shift and roll onto your side— a solemn expression dancing across your features. “you changed. you hurt him, sae, real bad. rin changed too.” you say hoarsely, as if the words you’ve uttered burn at the insides of your throat like bitter liquor. “you’ve not shown that same fate to me, you know better than to lash out at me. but you’re different. you don’t smile anymore. not with your eyes like you used to — i miss that.” i miss you. is what you really want to say. not just physically, but emotionally. you want your boyfriend back, not the empty shell of skin and bones you have now.

even sae picks up on the hidden meaning behind your words— he doesn’t smile at you like he used to.

for once the eldest itoshi decides to be honest with you. he thinks to tell you how stressed out he is, how he’s scared his plan for this soccer thing might not even work out. he decides to be honest in words that he knows best and not all the details because he doesn’t want you to break over him.

“talk to me, itoshi.” you cut through his thoughts like a knife through butter.

“i’m afraid of myself, and i hate it.”

“then come home, sae.” it’s a nice offer, a tempting bribe. to be home with you when sae knows that would be the closest thing to giving up. he knew you wouldn’t get it. you wouldn’t understand how much soccer meant to him but you can’t be blamed for that. the thing you love most in the world isn’t your career— it’s him. “come home and be with me.”

your wish would be as selfish as his — you don’t want him to give up soccer for you and he doesn’t want to leave soccer to feel better with you like he knows he would.

“i need to make it to the end of the season — i have to.”

“sae, you’re tired. you look like a ghost.”

“i don’t even know if i’m going to make it.” he snaps, desperate and pleading with you not to make this more difficult than it already is. “but if i don’t try. then all of this will be for nothing. my goals have changed, but i worked hard for this and i will get what i want.” he spits out as if there’s acid on his tongue, burning through the little solace of love you’ve tried to wrap him up in. sae runs a hand through his silken locks, sighing as he briefly looks away from your crumpled face on the screen. “so stop asking me to come home for you because i won’t. it’s not worth it. you’re not worth it.”

you gasp, tears flooding your eyes. you know he doesn’t mean it, or maybe he does — it’s been difficult to read sae recently, he’s slipping from your grasp like sand between your fingers and you just have to let him. another beat of silence echoes between you both — but neither of you make the effort to speak. sae doesn’t correct himself and you don’t force your hand to make him apologise.

you care enough for him not to make him fight— to make sae choose his own battles. you’d never ask him to pick soccer over you, because you know what his answer would be regardless… but that doesn’t mean it hurts you any less to watch him destroy himself for it and to lose the boy you grew up loving to a sport you may never understand.

though, that doesn’t stop you from lashing out and bearing your own fangs either — if he was going to throw salt in your wounds, you could do that too.

“i have to go, itoshi. get some rest, you look like shit, but you that’s what you want, right? it’s worth it to you.”

you hang up before he can say a word and sae can’t bring himself to message and apologise. because he knows that you’re right, you’re telling him to pick soccer because he can’t make that choice for himself.

sae itoshi is a pro player now. he’s gotten what he’s always wanted — he’s achieving his dreams as the corpse of the man he once was. the one who loved you proper.

but that doesn’t matter anymore, whatever his team wants out of him they get.

since his skeleton’s out for the taking.

#blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #itoshi sae x reader #itoshi sae x you #itoshi sae angst #itoshi sae imagines #sae itoshi x reader #sae itoshi x you #sae itoshi imagines #sae itoshi angst #blue lock x you #bllk x you #bllk angst #blue lock angst #blue lock imagines #bllk imagines #✧ ₊˚੭ — writing #tteokdoroki

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steveshairychest · 1 year

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After defeating vecna for a second time, Steve decides he's had enough of Hawkins and all things supernatural.

After hunting around for a few weeks, he scores himself a quaint little apartment big enough for him and for Robin when she eventually moves in after college. He doesn't sell his parents' house or demolish it like Robin suggests. No, he leaves it to sit and rot. He hopes his parents will come home one day and find it overgrown and falling to pieces, hopes they'll trudge up the steps to find the note that he had nailed to the front door that says, 'Welcome home :)'. Robin insisted on adding the passive-aggressive smiley face.

They move away from Hawkins and don't think about it for years. Sure, Steve still calls their friends who decided to stay there, and he often finds himself missing their company, but he doesn't miss the place itself. Only the people. He's made it very clear to them that he doesn't intend to step a single foot back into Hawkins until he dies. Everyone knows this, especially Robin, who's been informed on multiple drunken occasions that Steve wants to be buried on top of the hill next to Eddie so that he at least knows someone else in the graveyard.

But then he gets a letter in the mail, a simple letter in a white envelope and it haunts him for days.

The letter is from Wayne. His handwriting is rough and messy but familiar; they've been sending each other letters for a few years now. The cigarette ash smudged in some corners makes him smile. Most of the letter is just niceties; asking Steve how he is, what he's been up to, if he's found himself someone. Stuff he's used to. But then the words, 'I can't be alone for it Steve, I can't do it. I need you here. It's been 5 years, and the day still hasn't gotten any easier. I'd like it if you came to visit.' They punch Steve in the gut and leave him aching for days.

It takes him an entire week to call the number on the back of the envelope and confirm with Wayne that he'll be there. Just this once he'll go back to that retched place. For Wayne.

For Eddie.

The drive passes by in a blur, one second he's on the highway, the next he's passing by the Welcome to Hawkins sign and driving along the streets he thought he'd never see again. Wayne told him over the phone that morning to meet him at the cemetery, said that he wanted to get the hard part over and done with so that they could spend the rest of the day catching up and listening to Eddie's tapes. He'd be lying if he said he didn't cry for a solid 10 minutes in the car park, the memories that he had tried so hard to forget rushing back the second he lays eyes on Eddie's grave at the top of the hill.

He still remembers the hollow ache in his chest the day he helped Wayne pick out a spot. He had gone home that afternoon and begged Robin to make it stop, to hold him and tell him that the pain would go away. She had told him what he wanted, she had held him on the kitchen floor and promised he would never have to feel like that again.

She'd lied. That same ache spreads throughout his body as he trudges up the hill to stand before the shabby grave and the tears he thought he had left back in the car come bubbling back up as he stares down at the graffitied headstone. He hasn't seen it since the day he left. He forgot how overwhelming it is to see Eddie's name carved on the headstone.

"I'm sorry I haven't visited." He says through sobs, his vision blurred by tears as he plops down on the soft grass in front of the headstone. "I miss you." The words almost choke him.

There's the sound of footsteps behind him, boots crunching against the leaves and twigs. Wayne must have finally shown up. Steve doesn't turn around, he doesn't want Wayne to see his tears. He's supposed to be here as support. He's supposed to be the one coming up behind Wayne to offer his condolences. He stops beside Steve and sighs softly.

"Hi." Steve says weakly and finally looks up at Wayne - except... it's not Wayne.

"Hi, Steve."

It's Eddie.

#DUN DUN DUNNN N #interpret this however you want <333 #steddie #tw mentions of death #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #st4 vol2 #steveddie #stranger things s4 #wayne munson

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moonstruckme · 7 months

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congrats!!!! how about fade into you with tasm!peter and touch starved!reader, in an established relationship???

Thanks honey!!

join the party

tasm!Peter Parker x touch starved!reader ♡ 960 words

When Peter gets home, you’re in another long, hot shower. With no one to witness how pathetic it looks, you’ve taken to sitting on the floor, letting the scalding water wash over your back and drip from your lashes. Your skin will be pinkish and puffy when you get out, but it won’t matter; you’ve got nothing to do other than wrap yourself in blankets and sit on the bed for the rest of the night.

When Peter’s voice comes, it sounds muffled, faraway, but you snap to attention nonetheless.

“Sweetheart?” A faint knocking. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” you say without hesitation, scrambling up and shutting off the water.

“Shit, it’s steamy in here,” he says as the door opens. “Want me to pass you a towel?”

“That’s alright.” You grab the towel you’ve hung by the shower, hastily scrubbing yourself dry and wrapping it around you.

Peter’s hands are on either side of the face the second you turn around, pushing your wet hair out of the way so he can kiss you properly. It’s a sweet, brief thing, and your chest aches slightly when he pulls back.

“Ouch, babe.” His hands feel cool as they move down to your shoulders. You shiver pleasantly. “Your skin’s burning hot. How long were you in there?”

You really should get another towel to stop your hair from dripping all over the floor, but you can’t stand to move away from Peter’s touch. “I was bored,” you reply, “and the hot water is nice.”

“Seems like it was more than just hot,” he murmurs, grabbing the other towel as if he’s heard your thought and beginning to squeeze the moisture from your hair. “Sorry I was gone so long. I never know how these things are gonna go, you know?”

“I know.” Peter had been attending a weekend conference on some scientist’s new research at a university in Chicago. He was supposed to be back days ago, but apparently he saw some fishy things while he was there that Spiderman felt an obligation to investigate. “Did you find the mutants?”

Peter shrugs, taking you by the shoulders to walk you into the bedroom. The air feels shockingly cold outside of the bathroom, but the warmth of his touch is enough to keep you from minding. “Sorta. It was a group of guys pretending to be mutants. Projectors and stuff combined with actual explosives to make it look like superpowered attacks.” He sits you down and begins digging through drawers, tossing you a pair of sweatpants and one of his shirts. “It was super sophisticated, had to take a ton of planning. Honestly, if they weren’t, like, bad guys, I would’ve been really impressed.”

You shrug the shirt on. “Sounds like you were impressed anyway, honey.”

“Well.” Peter makes a sheepish face. “Just because they’re assholes doesn’t mean they’re not smart assholes, right?”

“Right.” You say, standing to get the sweatpants on. You don’t know where to go from here, feeling oddly hollow but with no good reason. Peter’s here; your loneliness should be vanquished. You hold your elbows awkwardly. “So, how was the conference?”

“Baby.” Peter sounds almost disappointed, and hurt hooks its claws in your gut before you can even figure what you’ve done. “Why’re you all the way over there, huh? You haven’t even asked for a hug yet. Is something wrong?”

You hadn’t realized you were so predictable, but it is a bit odd for you not to tackle him the second he comes through the door. “I don’t think so,” you say, and Peter’s brows twitch together at your uncertain tone. “I just really missed you, Pete.”

He makes a pained, sympathetic sound, opening his arms and stepping toward you. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

And apparently that’s the permission your body was looking for. You meet him in the middle, his arms coming up slow and firm around your shoulder blades. Your chest aches again, but this time it’s almost pleasant, though you feel suddenly like you could cry. Peter seems to know, one arm tightening across both your shoulders while the other hand begins stroking up and down your back.

“Did you have a bad week?” he asks softly, breath tickling your ear.

“No,” you reply honestly. “I think…I think I just needed this.”

Peter gives you a squeeze in response, and you tighten your grip too.

“Let’s just do this forever,” you say, only half joking. “Think you could come to work with me tomorrow to hold my hand all day?”

Peter doesn’t seem willing to roll with your lightness. “Nobody else hugs you when I’m not around, do they?” he asks, and when you don’t respond, he pulls back slightly, taking your face in his hand. “Do they, sweetheart?”

“No,” you say, and you’re not sure why it feels like an admittance. You’re not touchy with your friends, and your coworkers aren’t close like that. When else would you have the opportunity for hugs?

“No wonder you get so lonely when I’m gone.” Peter’s voice is fraught with tenderness, and he pulls you close again, petting your damp hair. “I’ll hold you as long as you like, babe, but after that, we should look into getting you a cat or something.”

“A cat?” You twitch in his hold, perking up hopefully. “I thought your landlord didn’t let you have pets.”

“He doesn’t, but he also doesn’t have to know,” he says easily. “If it’ll keep you from getting sad like this while I’m away, a cat is a small price to pay. Gotta keep my girl happy, you know?”

“I think,” you counter, “that we should get a cat and you should never leave again.”

Peter chuckles, kissing the top of your head lightly. “Deal.”

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theothernads · 1 month

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𝐒𝐀𝐅𝐄 •·.·`¯·.·•

Synopsis: where you try and break up with your boyfriend.

Warnings: toxic bf (boo), guns, yandere!Jay.

•·.¯°º¤◆¤º•°

"I JUST WANT TO TALK."

When he said that, you froze up and anxiety lurched at your stomach. You're standing in his modern office like a statue. You're just frozen.

Jay gives a quizzical look and he fixed his blazer. You don't miss the outline of the gun hiding in the belt of his trousers. Your breath stops for a minute.

“Look at me,” He commands sternly, and you do. You try to hide the subtle shake of your hands and your flickering gaze, but you're afraid he caught on.

“Sit, baby. I just want to talk.” Jay sighed, leaning back against his chair. The only thing that convinces you to do so is the thick desk between you and him; it managed to give you a weak sense of security.

With a slow movement, you sat, and he poked the inside of his cheek.

You don't have the privilege of even thinking straight right now. Since when were you so afraid of your boyfriend?

Was it when he nearly bruised your wrist the other day because you gave attitude.

Or was it when he confiscated your phone because you were on it ‘too much'?

What was it?

Or was it when he confessed for the first time, eyes glittering with expectancy you never wanted to meet.

“I was looking through your phone, you know?” Jay started, opening a drawer and digging into it. You kept silent, biting your inner cheek.

“And, I've discovered something quite interesting. It's quite a shock, really..”

You don't want him to continue. You can already feel the condescending words about to prick you.

“But apparently, you want to-" he chuckled in a hollow manner.”-break up with me?”

There it was- the sound of your heart sinking, thoughts crashing over each other. Your gaze falls to your lap. Okay- now you regret even texting such words. Not because you feel remorse or guilt of saying them, but because you regret even texting such traceable words.

Unpredictable he was.

“Did I say you could look at your fvcking lap?”

With a swift motion, you glanced up at him, swallowing hard.

“Care to explain, love? These diabolical texts to your friend?” He carelessly slid the phone across the table, showing your recent messages with Minji. You have nothing to say, your eyes fixed on the cracked screen, anxiety simmering slowly at your guts.

Your thoughts formulate something to say, something that could please him, but you find nothing but the dirt of the truth.

Silence.

“Are you going to explain or-.”

“it's true,” you cut him off softly. You looked up from the phone to see his glower, his frown.

“I want to break up. I've wanted to do it for a few weeks now..” you trailed off, staring at him straight in the eye.

Jay blinked, tilting his head as he nodded, as if he understood. Though, you knew his buried feelings were igniting right now.

“Why? I give you my love, gifts, I let you even talk to your friend,” Jay listed, voice growing louder each time. You swallowed hard again, eyes flickering to the desk.

“I just need space.”

“Space? Space, did you say?” Jay stood instantly but he walked to you slowly, as if to agonise you. It was working because you flinched, breath escaping in short circuits.

“I'm your boyfriend, Yn. Since when do lovers need space from each other?” Jay scoffed, now standing in front of you. You chewed on your cheek again, eyes downcast.

“You're… controlling,” You uttered so quietly that Jay stepped closer, practically exploding with ferocity.

“What did you say?” Jay snarled, arms trapping you as they rested on the armrests of the seat. With your nerves jumping all over the place, you flinched. Though he doesn't care as he continues to stab your gaze with his.

“Controlling… you're controlling,” You said a bit louder this time, though the smallest tremor accompanies your tone. And, you thought you imagined, but you saw the small smile curl at his lips. Jay puts a soft hand to your cheek, rubbing his thumb right under your eye.

You flinched away a little, but he tightened the grip on your jaw, almost forcing you closer to his face as he tilted his head. “Darling, I'm trying to keep you safe…”

That was his pathetic excuse? His reason to build this wall around you and totally trap you in.

Inhaling sharply, you pushed his hand away, a spark of determination igniting in your eyes. You weren't going to let him do this once more. To trap you within these walls.

Jay almost glared.

“You're not… trying to keep me safe… we both know that,” you said sternly, finally holding longer eye contact.

Jay could almost laugh at the confidence, but he finds unimaginable rage washing over him, taking him to a path of darker thoughts. “You just don't understand. I'm trying to keep. You. Safe.”

And you shook your head in frustration.

“From what?” You snapped at him, and Jay smiled, eyes leaving yours for a minute.

Before he even met your eyes, you felt a cold metal push at your chin, and your eyes widened a little, a short breath leaving you. You felt your head tilt up, and Jay smiled in a cruel way when he saw the shock that swept over your eyes.

“I'm keeping you safe, baby. From this…” Jay clicked the metal, sending you to shut your eyes tight, chest tight with distress.

“I don't want to hurt you, Yn… I want you to be unscathed, safe…” Jay continued, the gun now tapping your cheek lightly and you were frozen, voice buried beneath that fear.

You didn't think your boyfriend would ever pull a gun on you, but here you were with his own nefarious weapon pressing on your cheek.

“J-Jay-.”

“Shh, baby. I know, you don't like this, but I'm proving my point, right? You and I both want you safe, right?” Jay leaned in closer, gun at your jaw, and your skin burns with terror, shoulders tensing up. When you stayed silent, he pressed the barrel at your jaw more causing you to whimper.

“Answer me. Don't you want to be safe?”

“Yes…”

Jay gave a soft smile in this dark situation, and he removed the gun from your jaw, causing you to breathe a little, but Jay leaned in, right to your ear. You flinched away, but he doesn't care.

“So, are you still going to break up with me, baby? You still want to leave my safety?” He asked lowly, threats falling over your ears. Tears stung your eyes, a shudder pricking your spine.

Biting your lip to shut yourself up, you let out a sniffle; Jay chuckled, still next to your ear.

“Don't cry… it's just better this way, baby. Do you understand?” Jay gave a deceiving gentle kiss to your ear, making you tear up more.

You can't take this anymore. You just can't. Though, he saw everything through tinted glasses and, instead of wiping your tears, he gripped the gun to your thigh, barrel threatening to bruise your skin underneath and spoke.

"The next time you have such a bizarre idea, I'll be forced to use this,” Jay said, putting the gun to your shoulder, right at the joint as your breaths became shaky.

“And I'll shoot.”

At this point, your voice was gone, it ran away from reality. You couldn't speak, to which he smiled, kissing your forehead before saying words that flooded you with distress.

“I knew you would understand. I love you, baby.”

A/n: instead of working on my smau, I diverged and wrote this instead 💀🤡

#fypシ #fypage #fyp #tumblr fyp #enhypen #enha #enh #enha imagines #enhypenet #enhypen jay x reader #enhypen jongseong #jay #kpop #story update #enhypen story #story prompt #enhypen yandere #yandere #drabble

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brisquad-unit-4402 · 3 months

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krisis wiping away your tears

i wrote a shitpost fanfic in the gc about how i put my sani pape in the microwave and somehow what was what kickstarted the urge to write as opposed to. yknow. the hour of writing and editing i did before the microwave

tags: hurt/comfort, gender neutral reader, established relationship, reader is crying for unspecified reasons

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

🧻 Vezalius Bandage

uses a handkerchief or tissue to dry your tears

a medic handles with care, just as how he gently presses the cloth to your eyes

it kills him to watch you cry alone, so he takes your hand and guides you to his lap where he can give you all his undivided attention

rubs your arm while you hiccup, and places a hand on his chest so you can calm down to the feeling of his heartbeat

when you aren’t in the mindset to vent or hear him talk, he’ll hum to you. especially if you’re so tired you’re about to cry yourself to sleep

once you’ve cried it out he insists on getting you some water, a snack, and a shower (or change of clothes) to make sure the basic post-cry needs are met

“love. when i say i care for you, i mean it. i want to hear everything you have to say no matter what, and i’ll never, ever get upset at you for it.” it looks like zali’s eyes are closed, but from where your head rests in his lap, you see a hint of gold peer through his lashes. a surgeon’s hand brushes underneath your own eyes, patting away the tears. “so let me take care of you for now. breathe in and out.”

your body feels heavy from exhaustion and emotion. you curl up closer to him as you breathe. “tired, love?” when there’s no response but a nod he rubs your shoulder and clears his throat. the melodies of your favorite songs lull your to sleep.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🔪 Vantacrow Bringer

lets you get his shirt dirty without hesitation

drops everything to stay by your side when he realizes you’re this upset

he wraps you into a bear hug the second you start tearing up. he’s not great with words and he’s scared of saying the wrong thing, but actions don’t lie

he’s not gonna break the hug any time soon while you cry, but he traces shapes along your skin and strokes you hair as he holds you

he knows you’re always doing your best and supports it, and if you did anything wrong, he’ll let you know once you’re in a state to hear it, not now when you need comfort

it’s hard to hear what vanta’s saying. it’s hard to hear your sniffles, too; it’s all muffled by fabric crinkling and the sound of vanta combing back your hair as you sob, careful not to let it get caught in your mess of tears and snot. his throat vibrates against your ear while he speaks.

“no one in their right mind would say you’re overreacting.” that’s the first thing you can decipher, and the only thing you need to hear. “no matter what. and i’ll remind you any day of the week that you’re doing fine no matter how you handle it.”

your sobs are interrupted by a squeeze as vanta holds you closer. reassurance that you’re his world even if you did everything wrong. “let it all out. i’ll be here every second.”

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🥽 Yu Q. Wilson

holds your face in his hands so he can thumb the tears away

the best thing he can do right now is let you talk, and be the one willing to listen

if your thoughts are too scrambled to explain why you’re upset then he’ll gather any comfort items you need. snacks, stuffed animals, physical contact, anything

he lets you get it all out first before he even thinks of saying anything since he doesn’t want to cut you off. instead a lot of his responses are nonverbal. he nods and squeezes your hand when you need encouragement

your breath is haggard by the time you finish spilling your guts. the storm of choked sobs has passed but now emptiness has taken its place, a hollow, dreadful feeling lodged in your throat as you hiccup. the only warmth you can feel is wilson’s jacket over your shoulders and his hand in yours.

his eyes have been closed for a while as he took in your feelings. it’s unusual seeing him so composed, but right now? it’s a welcome sight when the world feels like it’s crashing around you.

when wilson opens them again he holds you a little tighter. “thank you for trusting me,” he says slowly. “i’m not going to forget it, and i’m not going to ignore it either.

“but you don’t need to be tough all the time.” with his free hand he reaches out. his palm cups your cheek as a thumb curls around your tears, gently wiping them away. the corner of his lips curves up as he tends to you. “it’s going to work out in the end.”

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

✧. ┊ ⁭masterpost ✧. ┊ ⁭kofi

#vezalius bandage #vezalius bandage x reader #vantacrow bringer #vantacrow bringer x reader #yu q. wilson #yu q. wilson x reader #krisis x reader #krisis #nijisanji x reader #nijisanji en #4402 writes

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epicbuddieficrecs · 3 months

Text

Weekly Recap | January 29th-February 4th 2024

Ao3 history still fucked :/

Repeating again: if I've ever reblogged one of your WIP fics, consider this my permission to tag me in them!!

Complete

🔥 Say You Were Made to Be Mine by ElvenSorceress/ @elvensorceress (Canon Divergent - Different First Meeting, Soulmarks AU | 11K | Teen): It's Valentine's Day 2018, and Eddie saves a man from choking to death in the middle of a restaurant. It's only after the man is rushed away by paramedics that Eddie realizes his hands are green. The man he saved is his soulmate. And he doesn't even know his name let alone how to find him.

For hope I'd give my everything by dragon_rider/ @evanbdiaz (Post S1, CW: Eating Disorders | 8K | Mature): After the disaster of his first date with Abby, Buck’s relationship with food changes rather dramatically.

where would you rather die by tempestaurora/ @tempestaurora (Pacific Rim AU | 4K | Teen): “Care to explain why you’ve brought a child to a military base?” Bobby asked when they returned. The base was alight with celebration; the day had been saved, the world was safe for a little longer. “Uh.” Buck glanced back at Christopher, currently talking to Karen Wilson from the research division. “He was an unaccompanied minor?” “So we leave him with the social workers, with first responders,” Bobby said, a pointedly raised eyebrow in his direction. “His dad’s a cadet at the PPDC,” Buck replied. “And his grandmother probably died in the attack, so it just felt… I don’t know, morally right?”

i've been dying to catch you dizzy by diazbegins/ @evanbegins (Esablished Buddie, Fluff | 2K | Teen): Eddie and Buck go ice-skating. Oh, and Chris is there too!

🔥 The Aftermath of Liberation and Love Confessions by ElvenSorceress/ @elvensorceress (Post-S5E9, Getting Together | 17K | Teen): Still, Buck says, “Yeah, Eddie. Why don’t you teach us. What would you say if you were professing your love?” You mean something besides, “In the event of my untimely death, I made you legal guardian of my child”? ~ In which Eddie comes out, sexuality is complicated but coffee is not, Buck makes an excessive salad and is also roasted, everyone has a love confession, and December is the most dramatic time of year.

let the choir bells sing by foxwatson/ @eddiediazes (Madney Wedding, Getting Together | 3K | Teen): All at once, Eddie has an idea. It’s definitely the stupidest idea he’s ever had in his entire life, but he has it all the same, and there’s no time to come up with a better one. He puts his hands on Buck’s elbows, tugs him in closer, and says, “Kiss me.”

When You Broke Her Heart, I'm Watching it Burn by ElvenSorceress/ @elvensorceress (Post-S5E11, Buck/Taylor Break-Up | 4K | General): When Buck confesses he kissed someone, Taylor makes an assumption about who. Eddie deals with what all of it means for his own future while picking up the pieces for both Buck and Taylor.

🔥Plus or Minus by ElvenSorceress/ @elvensorceress (S5 | 10K | General): “Why are you cleaning out the kitchen? Why is my stuff in boxes?” Eddie slows, then stops. “Figured you’d want it back.” It’s quieter. Pained. When he says it. “I haven’t decided anything. So unless you’re kicking me out—” “Buck. Come on.” He’s not angry or snapping. It’s still quiet, and somehow that hurts even more. He’s resigned and defeated, and Buck is a scooped out, gutted, hollow shell. “I know how this ends the same way you do. You want to be loved, you want to be married. You’re going to leave. Might as well…” His voice cracks before he can finish and get it under control. “Shouldn’t drag it out.” ~ Taylor is offered a job across the country and asks Buck to go with her. Buck has to figure out if he wants to start over or if he has a reason to stay right where he is.

Color Him Father, Color Him Love by ElvenSorceress/ @elvensorceress (Post-S6E12 | 3K | General): “Connor was worried he wouldn’t feel like it’s really his kid. But I put him back in Connor’s arms, and I could see the way his face changed. The way he lit up and teared up and might have cried because that is his son. And all I could think was that I know that feeling. I know what it feels like to hold a kid and care about them and want to protect them. But it’s so different when it feels like they’re yours. It’s so much more. Even if you didn’t— Even if it’s not biological and you’re not. You’re not really the father. Because I hold Chris— I hold him and I feel like he is part of me.” ~ Buck has a revelation about what he is to Chris. And to Eddie.

turns out freedom ain’t nothing but missing you by Daffi_990_ao3/ @daffi-990 (Post-S6, Getting Together | 4K | Not rated): To protect his heart, Eddie pulls away from Buck when he starts dating Natalia. When he decides to move to B-shift, Buck finally confronts him and certain feelings finally come to light.

with blood in my nose by hammersmiths/ @henswilsons (Canon Divergent, S4E14: Survivors | 9K | Teen): The spray of blood hits him, first. And then Buck drops like a fucking stone. or, Buck is the one who gets shot instead of Eddie.

🔥 3 Men 1 Baby by Tizniz/ @tizniz (Canon Divergent, Accidental Baby Acquisition | 21K | General): It’s a good thing the groceries have made it to the table, because the eggs would certainly have cracked from Eddie dropping the bags to the floor. Because Evan Buckley was standing there holding a baby. A baby. OR: Buck, Eddie, and Chim get a baby. Here's what happens.

you can see it with the lights out (you are in love) by wikiangela/ @wikiangela (Post-S6, Love Confessions | 5K | General): Turns out, Natalia does see Buck, though maybe not in the way he expected. In which Natalia realizes Buck's in love with Eddie and help him see it, too.

we could be corny by devirnis/ @devirnis (Established Buddie | 1,6K | General): Or, Chim and Maddie have Buck and Eddie over for their first official couples’ game night.

🔥 Facets of a Diamond by countrygirlsfun/ @acountrygirlsfun (Canon S1-S2 | 35K | Teen): Southern California is where Buck has spent the most time since leaving Pennsylvania. Of all the places he’s lived and worked over the last few years, this place is where he decided to stay. It’s why he picked LAFD: to put down some roots. It’s warm, has the ocean, and it’s the opposite coast of his parents. So if he’s going to be here for a while, he thinks he’ll need to make an effort to let people in.

a little of that human touch by devirnis/ @devirnis (Established Buddie, Secret relationship | 1,5K | General): Buck closes his book and places it on the coffee table, pushing himself up a little more as Eddie trudges over to him. “Couldn’t sleep either?” Buck asks quietly. He wanders over to the far end of the couch and Buck moves his feet out of the way so Eddie can sit down. “Woke up and you were gone,” Eddie murmurs, pulling Buck’s feet into his lap.

you kiss me in a way that's gonna screw me up forever by heartbeatdiaz/ @loserdiaz (Getting Together, Valentine's Day | 2K | Teen): The LAFD throws a Valentine's Day charity event, there's a kissing booth and Eddie is definitely not going insane with jealousy.

🔥 Winter Prayer by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Road Trip, Buck&Bobby&May | 18K | General): When a work conflict prevents Athena from accompanying Bobby to Minnesota for the ten year anniversary of his family dying, Buck and May offer to go instead. Over the course of the trip, they all learn more about each other, and Bobby faces his grief.

Fractals from the Lightning Bolt by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/ @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (One Shots Collection | 47/54 | 87K | Not Rated): A collection of oneshots, some originally posted on tumblr. Each chapter is individually rated.

47. But What if They Were Secret Dating (S4, Explicit)

You Can't Surprise Evan Buckley by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Established Buddie, Fluff | 5K | Mature): Ten months into their relationship, Eddie has not been able to execute a romantic surprise for Buck. But on Buck's birthday, things are about to change. (Part 2 of Birthday Surprises & Other Shenanigans)

WIP

because we'll all arrive in heaven alive by callmenewbie/ @puppyboybuckley (Post-S6, Disaster Fic | 1/9 | 7K | Explicit): During a search and rescue, Eddie disappears without a trace, leaving Buck to grapple with the sudden possibility of a life without him.

🔥 Things We're All Too Young to Know by Daisies_and_Briar / @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon, S1 through S6 | 111/? | 315K | Mature): This is a love story. Even if it doesn’t always look like it. Even if it doesn’t always feel like it. A look back on Eddie and Buck's lives up to now, and what led them to each other, interpreted from the current 9-1-1 canon.

🔥 A Minor Delay by rainbow_nerds/ @rainbow-nerdss (Post-S6/S7 Spec | 6/11 | 21K | Mature): Almost a year after the bridge collapse, a lot has changed. The team are scattered—Bobby and Athena on their Honeymoon, Hen on adoptive parent's leave, and Buck and Eddie... They may still work together, still have movie nights with Chris whenever they can, but things have changed. With Maddie and Chimney's wedding around the corner, Buck tries to make it perfect. And maybe, along the way, he might figure out why everything still feels... wrong.

if i need to rearrange my particles — i will for you. by dylaesthetics (Post-S6, Social Media fic | 1/16 | 4K | Teen): OR Buck joins a support app for first responders and matches with a firefighter who has PTSD and a kid who likes giraffes, apparently.

#buddie #buddie fanfiction #buddie fic rec #buddie fanfic #buddie fic #epic buddie fic rec #911 #911 fanfic #911 fanfiction #911 fic

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yeyinde · 3 months

Text

fever in a shockwave

pt., iii | stagnant on my betterment

“I don't want to lose you,” he's saying, and it's odd because he never really had you to begin with.

WARNINGS: angst, pining, yearning; eventual smut; trauma; grief and the existentialism of moving on; recovery; poor/unhealthy coping methods; codependency; reference to drug use (but it's just weed); reader has a backstory; spoilers for the series

WORD COUNT: 14,7k

[PREV] [NEXT] A03 MIRROR | PLAYLIST

an update; this isn't the final part lmao dangerous words coming from someone like me oops. there's probably going to be three more parts after this.

There is no sense of closure when you watch the jagged pieces of a broken man fall to the floor by your feet. The splintered edges offer no succour, no victory, when they come to rest along the scattered ruins of a delusional love affair: alcohol bottles—Kraken, Captain Morgan—and grease-stained boxes of takeaway, most unfinished in favour of satiating yourselves on flesh, sex.

(Booze, more often than not.)

Seeing him struggle to find meaning in what you say—watching that ethanol-soaked resignation filter through hazy, electric blue—brings a fresh pain instead, taking space in the hollow gaps where you expected vindication and self-worth to bleed through.

You're doing the right thing, after all. Aren't you?

Aren't you? (please, someone, anyone, say yes—)

Uncertainty is an uneasy, nauseating feeling inside your guts. Much like a broken bone, it emanates a visceral sense of perturbation through your body. Every synapse fires in protest; every nerve screaming out. They bellow one thing in unison: something is wrong and not quite right.

You feel their cries deep in your being. Each muscle twitch and frayed thought that passes carries the echo of it.

This pain, it seems, is cracking your ribs apart and exposing the rotting marrow to the open air. Slurping from the putrefying sludge, satiating itself on the sickness eroding you from within.

It's all wrong. It feels wrong.

Bear swallows. You watch the way his throat works around the bitterness that lashes across the cut of his brow; gyres darkening in his eyes. Storms on the horizon.

(You think you'd welcome the squall. Might embrace anything to get out of this place—)

“That's what you want?” He rasps, thick and gritty, and you think about the last time he sounded like that—all torn up, and broken. Words mangled in his throat. Husked out when he told you about Rip, about the boy, his daughter, and—

No. No.

None of this is what you want, and it pains you that he can't see that.

(Such a selfish, broken man.)

Inside the festering slurry of your marrow, an urge wells up. Bubbles in the putrid pools until it's frothing, raging against the walls keeping it trapped until it seeps through the cracks, leaking into your muscles, your tissue, your bloodstream.

This silly little body of yours carries it up to your heart where it sinks talons into your pericardium, subsumes the serous in this terrible essence, this idea, this whim—

(“what?” the scoff he lets out trails on the coattails of what might have been a laugh in another life. if he was another man, maybe. you, more honest with yourself. but you are just two broken people in a run-down bar. humour exists somewhere in the muzzle of a loaded pistol. “got a saviour complex or something?”

or something. or something—)

Because the thing is: you do.

You spend most weekends wandering around antique stores because you're convinced that everything deserves a home. A place of its own. You find the unwanted, the unsellable, and you let it take space in your lonely, cramped apartment.

And why not? No one else will buy it. You're, technically, helping the environment. It's a win-win.

(and more lies you tell yourself.)

These false promises are always made that one day, one of these days, you'll find something to do with it all—maybe you could learn how to make something out of it; stitch all the unuseable parts, the unwanted pieces, and create something that everyone will want—but so far, none of your rescues has ever been finished. Saved. They sit in a corner taking up space. Untouched. Unused. Collecting dust.

That insidious whim curls inside of your heart, and whispers:

it's never too late to try again. maybe this time, it'll work out for you—

It's the same one that lures you in, making you purchase a complete set of ugly-looking dolls because some ladies were recoiling at the sight of their lumpy, antediluvian faces, and you felt bad thinking that they were doomed to end up sitting on the shelf until they were unceremoniously tossed into the bin with all the other things that won't sell.

And the one, now, that stares at the terse set to Bear's shoulders, the lines rucked across his broad, the helplessness etched into ashlar, and considers that maybe all he needs is someone. A friend, maybe.

(And maybe, maybe, that it could be you—)

“Bear—” it would be so easy to swallow the words back down until you choke on them.

You breathe in. Taste nicotine in your throat; the phantom burn of a memory from long ago: one once buried under the rubble of your crumbling foundations, now rearing into this yawning abyss as you waver on the precipice. This vacuum that syphons you dry. Leaves you empty, gaping.

It’s your mum leaning over the railing of a mezzanine as she smokes a cigarette—the eighth in the last three hours, pack near gone—and tries (and fails; always, always, always) to find some temporal kinship with a higher power as you sit on the porch swing and drink in the scraps she tosses your way.

(Today, it’s the way the smoke curls in the periwinkle sky like a naked gospel; grand televangelist to a crowd of one.)

She scrambles within the ruins of her own making to seek answers to compensate for the lack of worth that slips from the cracks. Left behind again. Again, but it’s not her fault. It’s never her fault.

(You should know best, she tells you—you suckled from the shattered parts of herself before you broke away from the cradle of her arms. Genetics leaves you wrecked for company, for permanence.

It’s just not made for us, baby. We’re unloveable only because we love too much—)

An epiphany comes in the middle of her eighth cigarette, and she divines enough wisdom to come to the succinct conclusion that those broken pieces are not the cause of her misery.

(How could they be when they’re a part of her and she’s a part of everything?)

Can't fix a broken man, she murmurs into the midmorning fog, blood-red mouth splitting into a sneer. There was beauty, you thought, to be found in the pale yellow of her teeth against the pastel dusting of dawn. Rapturous, almost. You couldn't look away even as the words snaked through the underdeveloped fibres of your mind. They're like someone who's drowning, you know? They'll grab on to anyone that gets too close and try to pull them under, too. Maybe because they want to save themselves, or maybe because they don't want to die alone. Better to leave them behind.

Can't fix a broken man, (but maybe—)

Your dad tried to fix me, she adds, and it comes in the same cadence of an afterthought, blase; but the thinness in her voice, the reedy pitch of barely veiled urgency, all feigned indifference to the topic, all give her away. She's been waiting for this, you know. Gearing up in steady increments so that the blow lands harder when it's thrown.

Isn't that stupid? And he couldn't even bother to stick around. What a joke… But I guess some people are like that, huh? Couldn't be me, she scoffed, jabbing her finger in your direction. You could see the yellow of her nails beneath the pock marks in her chopped, blue nail polish. And don't let it be you, either. The best thing you could ever do for yourself and someone else is leave. Don't cheat. Don't be the other woman. Just fucking—

The bubble bursts, and in that breaking, a truth is revealed to you in some strange, hangover-induced epiphany brought on by dehydration, malnutrition, and the terrific idea of going home with a man who has never once talked to you while being completely sober. It screams—first and foremost—you are an idiot, but beyond that, you really are your father's child, aren't you?

Lost amid your memory, the emergence of a forgotten fallow, it’s Bear who shakes you awake when he reaches for you after the silence sat for too long. Fingers touching, too tender and too rough at the same time, and the juxtaposition makes you quiver as it ploughs disquiet into your being.

Tears pebble in your lash line, threatening to spill over. You haven't cried in a long time and yet, yet—

His hand folds over your wrist, tight and unrelenting. Shackles against your bones. Grinding them into soft, fine powder.

“C’mon,” he slurs, pleads; tugging you closer as if distance is what makes you say these things to him and not the heavy, overwhelming scent of alcohol wafting off of his numb tongue. “You don't know what you're saying right now—”

His fingers tighten. The midnight scabs on his knuckles tear from the strain, the stretch. Blood wells under the slit that lifts from his broken, battered skin. Pebbles like a tear-drop on the wrinkle of his bruised knuckle, and then sheds itself free. Running down the yellow mess of moulted flesh until it meets the cliff edge of where his palm rests against yours.

“You don’t mean it. You can’t mean that. Stay with me, stay—”

The alcohol makes him sway where he sits, eyes upturned but focused inward, lost to thoughts and feelings and places unreachable to you. Ephemeral lines in jaded, blue sands. It slips, too, from between his fingers. Uncatchable to anyone but the flush under his skin, the slur in his words.

Can’t fix a broken man.

The motion dislodges the droplet and it waterfalls over his palm until his blood kisses the clean, unmarred skin of your hand.

He doesn’t notice the way he bleeds on you (through you, in you; drowns you in it, in him—): outside of a thready determination built on drunk devotion, he doesn’t seem to see much at all. Clouded. Overcast. Those hazy eyes regard you with a thin, untouchable distance. Filmed over and too far gone for you to pull him back—

(and you can’t help but wonder if he even notices you or if, in those unending crevasses, an icy, broken bergschrunds, the misshapen silhouette of you strikes a different chord to him; if these slurred hymnals are just a hollow orison for someone else in your stead.)

—so you stop trying. Let it sit, let it rot. Smell the infection in the air as the wound splits apart. Gangrenous and beyond palliative help.

Something must flicker across your face sharp enough to cut through the fog he drowns himself inside because his eyes widen slightly, and his hand tenses around your wrist. Tight. Unyielding.

As his fingers dig in over your pisiform, deep enough to bruise—to mark you once more with his stain, his touch—you’re struck by the sudden thought of brittleness. It’s not something you’d ever considered yourself as—delicate, fragile—but with the way he holds you now, not at all dissimilar to the way he held on last night, fingers loosely wrapped around your wrist as he used your joints as a stress ball to calm himself down, you feel vulnerable. Swallowed whole, caught.

What once felt like a comfort, a sense of security as you moulded yourself into an anchor point, a lighthouse on the sandy, dark shore, for him to find, to swim for amid the roaring waves dragging him down, now feels like dead weight.

For the first time since you've met him, you taste chlorine in the back of your throat. Feel the pull of the currents dragging you down.

You know all too well what it feels like to drown.

You pull away. He clings tighter.

“Bear, please—”

Please, you think. Please, please, please—

(If you keep stripping yourself bare, you'll be nothing but bones—)

He doesn't even notice. Nothing, it seems, will pull his fixed attention from every minuscule expression that flickers across your face as if the mere notion of weakness, of hesitancy, will give him reason to hold on just that much harder.

“Can't just give up on this—” the words are tangled in his throat, caught on the end of a snarl, and vicious. He tugs on you, pulling you closer. “On us.”

“There's no us, Bear.”

And it isn't a lie. Of course, it isn't.

There's an empty chasm between you both, void of any tangible substance. Whatever he thinks this is, it can't work. Won't. Not in the real world. Not outside of the bottom of a bottle.

You won't be his crutch. His bad habit. His midlife crisis amid a downward spiral.

You can't be.

Won't be.

(you will not be the other woman. you will not be your father's child.)

And it isn't remotely the same, you know. Bear's wife is—

Dead. Gone.

—and yet, this whole situation still makes you feel like a homewrecker even though the home you demand he returns to is empty.

Selfish, you think, but you can't even begin to know who you're referring to in this beautifully devastating moment. Bear, for chasing ghosts, drowning them in alcohol and bad choices and vices that end with bringing strange women back to his lonely hotel room just to feel more than the vicious bite of grief in his chest.

Or you, for pulling away from this drowning man because you're not strong enough to save him and yourself at the same time.

(or—something sneers—you just hate the idea of being like either of your parents, but what can you do when you've stolen all of their bad parts for your own?)

You think of the man in the bar. One hundred dollars to send him back home. Where he belongs.

(...he can't destroy himself like this. You'd know that, though, as his friend.

send him home, alright?)

“Go home,” you say, harsh and severe. All the things that your mother wished she said to him. Regurgitated words spat out by his feet because borrowed doctrines are you've ever known.

A fissure crackles across his expression, cutting through the fog. It's anger, bitterness, pain—some strange, fantastical amalgamation of the three—and it coalesces into broken defiance where it sits, clinging to the glossy grease around his brow, his nose.

It makes your fingers itch with the urge to soothe—to unfurl the wrinkles in his brow, to tuck this grown man close to your chest until the tension in the thick set of his shoulders liquifies in your hands, and he melts into malleable putty.

(Another trinket to collect dust on your mantle.)

You swallow it down—the salt and blood, and the pathetic pulse of your heart, and all. Hurt him, you think. Hurt him deeply. Deeper, still. Push him away and run. Run. Keep running until your legs give out, until your lungs collapse because if you don’t, if you don’t, you know you’ll stay with him until he throws you to wayside, until he wakes up one morning and decides that you are not enough compared to the big, wide world just outside his door; that your walls and your roof are not big enough for him—

“Please. Go home. Go home, Bear—”

Your words land like you knew they would, and he reels back for a moment, as if struck, but the anger, the twisted pain etched in the lines of his unkempt beard, his greasy brow, make stand firm. Unmoving.

You catch the acrid scent of gasoline on his skin when he leans forward, forcing himself back into your space with his chin dipped low, eyes blazing with a defiant inferno. His scarred, battle-battered hands drop to his splayed knees, gripping tight. Holding firm.

(Or holding himself back—)

His voice is a matchstick when he speaks. Smouldering embers sparking to life. Renewed with a sense of purpose you can't make sense of. What set him off? What made him flip—

(You're not worth it. You're not worth it—)

“M’not giving up on this.”

His jaw is slack. Laxed. The words slip out slow, languid. Curling with a touch of humid derision, mordant humour, at the idea that after all of this, everything (nothing, you think—nothing, nothing, nothing), you could just walk away unscathed.

If I burn, the crackle in his throat says, promises: then you're burning with me.

“Bear—”

“I'm not giving up on us.”

He leaves, and takes another part of you with him.

(You sever a part of yourself and leave it in the mouldering hotel room that still reeks of stale sweat, cheap whisky, and sex.)

The aftermath goes like this:

A tsunami of regret and indecision dredges up terrible, awful things—phantom memories and stains in the shape of fingerprints that pollute the inside of your psyche—ones that should have been left to rot at the bottom of your buried trenches. It makes leaving harder than it should have been considering the abrupt nature of this—whatever it is.

(Untitled. Unnameable. Unknowable.)

There's betting on losing dogs, and then there's this:

Pacing all your cards, all your coins, on one that wasn't even in the race.

One foot in, one foot out doesn't apply when Bear has never even stepped over the threshold. That notion roots itself in the scorched fibres of your chest, knotweed in your alveoli, as you scent liquor on his breath when he speaks. A cavernous distance grows between want and reality.

You thought you knew him. Learned and memorised all his hard lines, his soft valleys, the thick thatches of hair that dust his body like the dark depths of a riverbed; a nebula of loosely connected scar tissue—Orion's belt made of fine, silvery lines—and pock marks from blemishes and bumps born from the rich, enigmatic tapestry of his life beyond the mere sliver of you. Crows' feet in the corner of his eyes, but only when they're crested in pleasure, twisted in that tender sort of humour only comfort brings.

It takes you a weekend to map out the burly topography of a man, and only seconds to realise you know nothing about him outside of this rapacious intimacy.

And even though you want to feel like this was the right choice—because it is, it was—you can't seem to stem the sheer brutality in which regret tears through you as you stand alone in a desolate parking lot under the waning sun. A whimpering ending to a desolate beginning.

Was it loneliness that brought you here, or just the mundanity of fearing failure? It's these unanswerable questions, these skewed thoughts, that tumble over themselves, struggling to stay buoyant in the molasses of your sicky grey matter.

(Let them sink. Let them drown.)

These distant sentiments barely echo in the gaping vacuum of that is your mind. Untethered, whispering by as you stare, transfixed, at the broad strokes of pretty pastels in periwinkle, tangerine, and bluebonnet are rapidly consumed by the darkening sky that opens like a chasm above your head. The sight of it a little too close to the colours that danced in the aether when you both broke, finally, meeting somewhere in the middle, tangled webs. Broken people coming together in a cataclysm that was always, always, headed down a single path to devastation.

(The perfect conclusion to a story without a beginning.)

It's something you shouldn't think about. Let them sink. Let them drown—

This looping, knotted thread is a dangerous one to follow—the agony of watching Bear storm off (even after asking, demanding, that you let him drive you home; an offer you quickly refused) is still raw and gaping; a pulsating wound in the back of your throat—but you're brittle enough to want it to hurt, maybe. Chasing that unequivocal high only self-flagellation brings.

Masochism in failure. In heartbreak by your own design.

And it should hurt, right? This lonely climax (not with a bang, but a fizzle) should devastate you. Cut you to the core. Leave false starts on your bones. Scars on your ribcage. A meteor shower in milky white. Something tangible. Permanent.

But instead, it feels unfinished. More of a sudden paroxysm than a defining choice you've made. Concretely. Absolutely. It's a hollow win for your bruised ego. Your battered pride. It slinks, somewhere, in the depths of this renewed pain, and licks at the tender wound made when you pierced your chest and ripped your heart cleanout.

Threw it at the floor by his feet.

Quid pro quo, maybe. Or a desperate bid to rid yourself of the Bear-shaped hole now taking residence inside.

(It's fine, though. That pesky thing, all wrapped up tight in thick layers of duct tape, has never really felt like it belonged to you, anyway—)

It's all such a beautifully horrific panoply, you find. Paradoxical. Oxymoronic. Smothering and somehow claustrophobic at the same time. Being burnt alive and dying from hypothermia.

The cudgel of pain to your chest is white-hot and vicious, but there's a seismic polynya in the lavascape of sadness that drapes through the topography of your being like a sluice, and in that little island of ice sits the unrelenting sense of flat resignation.

You left Bear of your own free will, but in the jaded fibres of your being, you know it was all—

Inevitable.

And fuck—

(fuck, fuck, fuck—)

Was it? Was it all inexorable or are you just making up flimsy excuses for yourself?

Yes, you think. And then: no. Maybe. Maybe.

(you are your father's child—

and your mother's broken daughter.)

You want to cry, and scream, and break the pain against something willing to fight back, to cut you just as deeply as you hack at it, but all you have are fragmented memories swarming you in this vacant parking lot on the wrong side of Virginia Beach, and—

(don't let it in, don't—)

—you chase it, lure it all in as you compare the blue in the sleepy gloam to the colour of his eyes, and then—

Your back against a brick wall, his knuckles sticky with blood closing around the nape of your neck, pulling you closer. Closer. The wide expanse of his palm swallowing your wrist as he led you to his truck; then, heavy on your thigh the entire—ill-advised—drive to the Motel 6 down the road where you stand now, fragile, raw, and all alone.

When this all started, when you finally had the cobbled remains of Bear’s lucidity in your arms, the flat press of his attention against your jugular, you considered it to be a victory—

(a victory in amber)

—but hindsight is a cruel, mocking laugh in the back of your head. Twisting the knife deeper, severing the fraying threads that anchor you to yourself. With a sadistic glee it tells you that while you might have won the battle over the bottle, you lost the war (—abysmally, and without even the haze of a fever in your veins to numb the hollowness of your loss).

You just can’t fix a broken man, and you certainly can’t keep him afloat all on your own when you’re too busy trying not to drown yourself.

It's just that the weight of your shared brokenness was incompatible and insurmountable to the grief in Bear’s heart, but really. You just wonder if it was inevitable that everything you offered would be passed over in favour of numbed indifference at the bottom of a bottle. For someone, something, else. And while you might have been the one to leave first, but somewhere in the misplaced hurt inside of your chest threatening to collapse in on itself, folding into a black hole that devours all of your messy, ugly parts, you know that Bear was never really there, anyway.

That thought stings more than it should because you know, you know—

It’s just not made for us, baby.

—and maybe it’s all your fault for forgetting that inevitability in the first place.

(shame on me—)

The thread you warned yourself not to chase gets tangled around your throat, choking you with the very same line you should have stayed far away from. It feels like hollow cyclicity—a gluttonous ouroboros gorging on itself—when it all, eventually, leads back to the beginning.

Your fault, again, for trusting broken guidelines in the dark. For betting on losing dogs. For picking up another stray who already had a home. Another trinket to gawk at that ended up being chock full of arsenic, killing you with every touch.

But He's gone, now, despite the fire that raged in his eyes, he still left you here to burn on your own.

(inevitable—)

You should learn when to let go, you suppose, and fight the urge to bite your nails down to the wick just to taste blood in your mouth that isn't his.

For the most part, though, you’re fine.

You’ve always been a good liar (“terrible, actually,” Bear snorts, and it’s the closest you’ve ever come to seeing him roll his eyes. “Jesus, never play poker if I'm not around—”), and especially to yourself, so after a moment of self-reflection in the form of a scalding bath and a purging cry in your car as you shoddily cut the Joe Graves-shaped cancer from your aching heart before it can metastasise and infect you further, you come out of it all standing, somehow.

It might be the pastiche of indifference you slip into; a facsimile of the one, jaded and so bone achingly tired, that fell over you when you stumbled out of the bathroom, ready for something more only to find a man half-gone already to a bottle in the span of a few moments alone with his thoughts.

Regardless of what it is, it works (—in shades, and only as long as you cling so tightly to anger that your fingers bleed and your joints ache—), and you let the familiarity of your unpractised trot to some gnarled finish line lead you forward.

A clean break, you think (—hope: plead, bargain; wishing so hard on every eyelash that falls, every eleven you come across so that something, someone, listening might cradle the delicate splinters in their arms and nurse this whim, this want, into fruition), and you'll be fine. Fine.

You have to be.

But the thing is this:

Despite your best efforts to put some sense of distance between you and the heartache that must be, at least a little bit, on par with being gutted, a clean break is never clean, is it?

Case in point—

Thinking about him makes you bleed, and you think about him constantly.

(Regret, then, is a wellspring in which the pain drinks and you didn't know a body could thirst this much.)

And it's made even worse when you realise just how bullish a man like Joe Graves can be.

Maybe it's the thought of everything that had built up between you shattering into pieces that awakens this sense of urgency within him. Clinging, perhaps, to the only form of comfort he knows. The only one who toughed it out—in part, due to your employment obligation; the rest? an unresolved saviour complex when it comes to the people even a contrarian wouldn't place a bet on. Maybe.

(Probably. Undoubtedly.

You stopped trying to find the reason why you kept picking up the strays who always bite you in the end.)

Whatever the reason, Bear is persistent. Relentless.

He makes it Wednesday (you'd left him behind Sunday evening—day of the Sabbath, you learn; how fucking ironic) before his campaign starts.

It's forty-six missed calls, half a dozen texts (because he doesn't like texting—he likes talking. Face to face. No fallacies, no bullshit), and thirty voicemails (twenty-seven of which are drunken ramblings you don't even bother to listen to, and the rest—

Pick up. We need to talk.

Listen, I—

I fucked up. I fucked everything up—

Delete. Delete. Delete.

What are you supposed to do with any of that, anyway?)

The crux of the issue that Bear seems to miss swims in ethanol and leaves behind a five-minute voicemail filled with slurred I miss you's amid a background chorus of a rowdy bar. Then, a woman's voice—a woman who isn’t you—urging him back for more shots.

You can imagine how the rest of that night unfolded.

(You wonder if the word meant for you—I miss you—was still on his tongue when he followed her back.)

It's your fault (again; always) in the end because while you don't answer him—neither text, nor call; all voicemails deleted—you can't bring yourself to block him, either.

You let it sit somewhere in the murky middle. Untouched but looked at. Longed for.

It would be so easy to just give in. To let Bear back into your life—properly this time, maybe—and to take him up on those slurred promises made at two in the morning about coffee shops on the boardwalk, and breakfast at the Gulfstream, and movies and dinner, and talking until three in the morning, fucking in the back seat of his pick-up truck—

But that's the thing about yearning, isn't it?

Everything seems sweeter when you want it bad enough.

So, you drown yourself in him. Stand as close to the fire as you can without burning alive.

Dousing yourself in the scent of ethanol cleaner. Clinging to broken pinky promises. Thinking about peanut butter and bacon staining your fingers. Prying information from rotting timber, and keeping the saprophyte that falls off the wood in your pocket for safekeeping. Filling space on a drumroll because you talk too much, anyone ever tell you that?

(ad infinitum.)

Taping the ugliest bible verses to the back of your eyelids just to get closer, to feel closer, only to come to the realisation that you have no stake in religion to care about the deeper meaning behind it all. Metaphors and imagery are hollow when they mean nothing at all.

There's no comfort, no succour, to be found in the thin pages.

(You roll them up and smoke them instead. Easier to digest that way, you find.

Bear would probably hate it, and that alone balms the hurt some. Marginally, infinitesimally, because nothing can cauterise this gaping hole in your chest so you might as well fill it up with paper mache instead. Origami cranes with how much you hate him miss him need him want him written on the inside.)

You ache. Moulder. But you let it all rot inside of you until it's a congealed mess of putrefying memories and the moulted remains of the yearning you kept locked in shackles; the one that keeps biting, gnawing at the limbs of its cage to free.

It's easier to let it all decay together in a controlled space so that you can bisect the necrosed mass in a single go. Sever the limb to save the body. It's a mantra you repeat as you call in sick to work over and over again.

The flu, you say, and if the sniffle you give is from crying, and the cough from the weed you've been smoking all morning (blue dream, the shaggy-haired kid tells you with a nod; adds: the good shit), well. No one—especially your shitty boss and his shitty work ethic—has to know. You balm the hurt in a way that makes you feel good, smoothing it all over with trashy reality television (though, the Japanese dating show you end up dozing off to is pretty good, admittedly), and junk food.

Moving on—even some sad, pathetic facsimile of it—helps. Routines forged in wilful avoidance take the edge off of the livewires inside of your body, nerves overstimulated and burning up with a fever much too hot, too vicious, for you to palliate with home remedies.

And so, you throw yourself into it. Become a human battering ram against the ghosts in your head.

Things quickly become more of a coping mechanism than a potential, but that's fine. It's all fine. It'll work in the long run until the bruises that line your flesh fade along with the want and the hope, and the terrible memories, too.

(Terrible, in the way only a desperate, all-consuming one-sided love can be.)

All of it up in flames, in smoke.

You burn through an ounce in retaliation while watching his name flicker across your screen, and then spend an hour googling whether or not weed is really addictive (it isn't, but the routine, the habit, can be), before deciding that this whole affair is stupid, anyway.

It's a carousel of self-pity, spite, and masochism that feels like it might never end. Your efforts to palliate the sickness amount to a week of paid sick time spent watching a slew of old romantic dramas on repeat, and ignoring the string of texts that pour through (talk to me, let me fix this, let me—). All voicemails are immediately deleted before you can even hear the hitch in his voice.

It's duct tape over a gaping wound. Drifting aimlessly along Lethe, careless and indifferent, but all the while, desperately reaching down and cupping water into your palm for a sip that never seems to quench the thirst in the back of your throat.

You think you could drink until you're just standing in a dry riverbed and still feel parched. Effloresced by your own hand.

(as usual. as always—)

But this wound is still raw, still tender, even beneath the tape.

Ignore it. Ignore it—

(—before the edges begin to tear. Cloved down the middle.)

Another buffer is born when you get a text message from your boss—u comin in tmrrw?—and realise you can't avoid it, work, forever.

The prospect of going back on Friday evening—tomorrow, you suppose (the days have been slipping like molasses through your spread fingers)—makes you nervous.

You're not ready to see Bear.

But more than that (deeper than it, too), you’re not ready to see Bear unaffected by all of this. Sitting in his usual spot, in their chair he barely fits in, ordering the same drink over and over and over again.

Moving on, too—in his own way. Meeting someone else.

(His horoscope holds no punches when it tells you a past relationship may re-enter your life, which may open your eyes to a world of new experiences—)

It isn't as if he usually pairs celibacy with his whisky, and with the plethora of ignored messages (read receipt turned off), unanswered phone calls, and deleted voicemails, you know it's inevitable for him to give up. To get the hint—whatever that might be. Move on, maybe?

(get your shit together and chase this properly, Bear, jesus christ—)

You consider calling in again, but without any paid sick days left at your disposal, you know you can't afford to. So, you swallow it.

(And if it takes a little longer than usual to get ready for work, then so be it.)

Even with all of the false bravado you can scrape together come Friday, your nerves are frayed. Raw. The anxiety rolls off of you in waves, noticeable enough that even the regulars loitering outside (the ones who usually try and bum smokes off of any passersby, yourself included) offer you a cigarette.

(Politely turned down, but fuck—fuck—you wish you took it.)

The first hour into your shift is spent trying to pretend you're not aware of the way your roaming eyes skirt to the door in thirty-second intervals. Traitors. Or the involuntary flinch each time the door opens.

It would be easier to get lost in the familiarity of this desolate dive bar on the fringes of town, and so, you do.

(Try to, anyway.)

Immersing yourself in the routine of it all—the motions of pouring drinks, sizing the newcomers up (profiling their personage down to a drink and a random idiosyncrasy); the astringent scent of alcohol, the mild barley and hops; the noise of hushed conversations lulling between the static rumble of the television (sports, per usual).

The clock ticks down the seconds, the minutes, hours. You pour drinks. Clock the local gossip. Listen to the patter of condensation dripping into the tin bucket beneath the hole in the roof. In between the threadbare stirrings of routine, you find yourself waiting with dread gnawing at your insides until they're shredded and raw, pulsing ligaments burning with the fever of infection.

But it's moot. All of it.

He doesn't come back to the bar.

Where you expect to see his broad shoulders slouched over the counter, head hanging low over his steady accumulation of shot glasses (a drinking challenge with only one participant; his demons the spectators), the seat he usually occupies remains empty.

And maybe you're idealistic and stupid and wet behind the ears, but a part of you expected him to. To wander up to the counter with roses and chocolate and sobriety etched into the Neptune blue glow of his eyes, and to pick you, to choose you, but—

A fairytale.

The box on the counter—complaints—$5—is picked up by some wayward frat boy, and the mocking laughter that follows makes you think of cobalt blue, and peanut butter and bacon burgers in the empty parking lot near the beach, watching the endless midnight black ocean rock against the sandy shore. Talking. Talking. Talking.

Everything. Nothing. All the things in between.

You told him about college—failed the first semester, and then my dad… well. Anyway, had to drop out for a bit. But. I went back. Stupid, I know, and it doesn't matter but—

His hand falls on your arm, fingers a little greasy from the sweet potato fries, the ones he kept sneaking from your pile when he thinks you aren't looking, and he says:

It matters to you.

And it did, but only because it was something your dad mentioned a long time ago—I'd be proud if you followed in my footsteps—and despite everything he'd ever done, his attention, his affection, was all you'd ever wanted.

Yeah, you'd said, and stared out at the vat of blue until your eyes burned. Yeah, I guess so.

Well, he had peanut butter staining the corner of his mouth when you blinked the sting from your eyes, and turned to him. What do you wanna do?

Nothing. Everything.

Your dad once picked you up from practice, hands tight around the steering wheel. He filled you in about his day (stupid fuckin' guy from upstate came down and bought all the houses we were fixing to sell), complained about your mother (god, you know, that woman didn't even tell me what school to pick you up from? Said I should know where my daughter goes to school, as if I'm not working all damn day to keep you fed, and—), and gave you the biggest piece of advice you'd ever get:

"Look, no job is better than real estate. All that crap you think you want to do? Not important. All you need is four walls and a roof, and that's it. The rest is secondary."

(If that was true, why weren't you enough for him? Why weren't your four walls and roof enough to keep him?)

A shrug. I don't know. I've never been good at anything. You think of bruised knees. Scraped skin. Chasing a car, a dream, that never once slowed down. Can't even run right, it seems.

I can teach you. He clears his throat when you look at him, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand twice but somehow misses the dollop of peanut butter tangled in his beard. M’used to training men, I'm sure I can whip you into shape. Teach you how to run. Put you through the wringer until you come out sprinting on the other side.

"Teach me how to swim instead."

The bark of laughter he let out was cut off when you held your pinky up.

His brows bounced, incredulous. "Really?"

"A Taurus always keeps their promise."

"Christ's sake," he shakes his head, and you count the lines on his forehead when he turns, and rubs his fingers against his temple so hard, you wonder if he's trying to chisel through his skull to get at where it hurts the most. "I might not even be a Taurus."

"When were you born?"

His tongue pokes out from between his teeth, chin dropping to his chest when he huffs. You watch the way his shoulders shake, the flesh softening around his neck when he dips it low, and wonder if this is what it was like to yearn.

His eyes spark, Neptune blue, when he looks up. He says nothing, but holds his pinky up to yours, the digit swallowing yours whole.

It's a promise. He squeezes your hand in three pulses. One. Two. Three. You think you might get lost in the canyons that keep dividing inside of his eyes.

"Bet you were born in April."

"Not even close." He grins, all teeth, and drops your hand. Motions to the fries spilling over your console with his chin. "Finish up."

"Oh, did you even leave any for me? Thought you ate them all."

"Watch it."

Your stomach churns at thoughts, the memories. Plagued by him, it seems. So tantalisingly out of reach, and yet—your phone vibrates in your pocket; another voicemail left for you to listen to in your car and pretend that this whole thing is fine—so close.

He's everywhere, it seems. The scent of this place makes you think of him, and the stench of sickness—

Every square inch brings back some reminder of him.

When he got too trashed the first few visits and stumbled into the washroom. His bulk falls into the cheap door frame, and sends the ugly photo of what might have been the boardwalk crashing the floor. His call of: take it outta my tab when it shattered into pieces.

(You didn't. You hated that picture, anyway.)

When he knocked over his shot of tequila when you told him you thought he'd look really handsome in a beanie—a touch too bold, high off of the ethanol that leaked from his pores—and the rubescent smear over the bridge of his nose that followed. The ruddy stain on the counter—nail polish, you think, from that time a group of bridesmaids stumbled in after a wedding on the beach, and used the washroom to freshen up—matches the shade of his blush.

You spend an hour before closing scrubbing the counter down until your fingers are cracked and dry and burning from the chemicals you douse on the cheap, aged wood. It doesn't come out. Nothing you do will ever make the table unsticky. It's too far gone.

Like him. Like—

"Whisky," a man barks, slapping a dollar bill down on the stain. "Two shots."

Four walls and a roof, right? Right. Right. Right.

The walls here bleed condensation from the humidity outside, and the roof leaks when it rains. Always. It's patched up with duct tape and pipe dreams.

(Like you—)

The box on the counter catches his attention, rheumy eyes skimming the words. He scoffs. "Funny. Make me a drink worth a tip, and maybe I'll—"

"You know what?" You snap, throwing the wet cloth down with a splat that sends droplets pelting across his abdomen. There's a vindictiveness in seeing the splatter on his smooth, unwrinkled shirt.

Your eyes sting from the bleach, the lemon cleaner. Pebbled tears in your lash line threaten to spill over, but you swallow it all down. You won't cry. Not now. Not anymore.

Your hands twitch, an aborted motion to scour the wetness from your lashes, but you stop it in time. Curl your fingers into fists instead.

(And stupidly, nonsensically, you have the sudden, passing regret over washing your hands of the blood he'd spilled on your skin.)

"I don't work here."

"Since when?"

"Now. Get your own whisky, and take your shitty tip, and shove it up your ass—"

Quitting your only source of income certainly isn't the wisest decision you've ever made—but you've never been wont to make good ones, anyway, and so, you think it's all perfectly fine, considering.

Considering.

If anything, it's better than waiting around for the inevitable collapse of this shaky, patchwork foundation of paper-mache you cobbled together (reinforced with pipe dreams) to come crumbling down around you when Bear wandered in.

(If he ever would—

Fuck. You hope he does. Hope he doesn't.

Get better. Come back—)

You sit in your car at the end of your shift—the very last one after several odd years of growing roots down into the worn floorboards, and keeping more secrets about the occupants in this town than you care to admit—and just—

Breathe.

Sort of.

It's twisted in a way that makes you entirely too aware of what everyone would think if they knew about it. So, you cup this little secret between the palms of your hands, and cradle it to your chest, only exposing it to the outside world when things become too much. It's easier to say you count to ten—in, out, in, out—than to admit that your methods of self-soothing, of quelling the visceral sense of anxiety from pinballing around inside your guts like a marble, is to lean back, close your eyes, and pretend that you're back in the deep end of the swimming at the local chapter of a YMCA.

Drowning, of course.

Or some fictive version of it.

It comes to life in smeared yellow against hazy blue. A cacophony of muted sounds in the background—exultant shrieks of children, splashes in the distance, the low chatter of garbled conversation—is all you can hear in your underwater sanctuary, but only just. Noise is distorted and strange. A warbled mimicry of noise.

Your world is pressed into a cerulean marble, untouchable and inescapable. You linger in the centre, floating aimlessly in stagnation.

Down here, nothing matters. Everything is dissolved in the heavy chlorine that saturates the cold waters, and whatever resilient pieces remain sink low to the pool floor, scattered around the yellow goggles just within arm's reach.

You sink with them. Your thoughts become liquid; mercury slinking around your head. Intangible. Nonsensical. And above all else—silent.

Or they're supposed to be.

But even down here where nothing can touch you, where no one noticed you haven't surfaced in ages, your thoughts are carried by the lulling currents. Saved from your murky grey matter, from the sap that traps them in the mouth of a pitcher plant, they buoy to the surface, unmoored now. Free to scream at you in whispers.

You think of Bear.

Or rather, you think about not thinking about Bear.

About other things. And nothing—forced white noise. Static. What you're going to do now that you don't have a job. The scabs on his bloodied knuckles. No. Work, maybe. Finishing up that degree you promised yourself you'd get, if only to fill some absent void in your chest—or a futile obligation to a man who forgot your birthdays. Who spelled your name wrong on holiday cards—on the rare occasions he ever bothered to send them.

Other things. Other things—your faucet is leaking. You'll need to call the property manager to fix it. You need to get gas, too. Groceries.

Faintly, you catch the musk of his cologne still clinging to your passenger seat when you breathe in. Hold it, count to ten. It makes you remember the warmth of his humid breath on your cheek when he leaned in close, tapping your console as he pointed out your CHECK ENGINE light was on. Had been, you confessed sheepishly, for a few weeks up to that point.

Stupid pothole, you grumbled around the electricity running down your spine when his arm brushed yours as he leaned back with a derisive snort.

You caught the headiness of white oak, musk, when he turned his face to you, decidedly unamused by your answer, and flatly told you that you were driving around in a death trap.

Things not even on its last leg—it's in the damn grave.

Whatever, you shrugged. I'll just hit another pothole on the way home and it'll turn off.

Jesus Christ—

He didn't smell terrible. Faded cologne from a few days ago. Something woodsy. Cedar, maybe. Leather, smoke, pine. Sweat from the unrelenting humidity. Loam clinging to his skin. Spiced rum around his collar when he spilled his drink down his chin (you, eagerly, hungrily watching the amber droplet roll down the length of his neck—). He always seems to smell like he had been working in a thick, taiga forest in the dead of winter. Cindersap. Evergreen. Sweat-soaked leather. Chopped wood.

It congeals in your senses. Glueing to soft tissue, embedding itself in your skin. Permanent, unshakeable.

Unwashed sheets shouldn't be appealing. Motel shampoo. Cheap soap. The muted smell of old, stale cigarettes.

And yet, in this marbleised world, you think of it.

Of his skin, and the way it feels against yours. The slight sheen of grease along his nose when it nudges the soft slope of your neck. The rough drag of his beard over your pulse. Wry curls that end up on your tongue after he'd kiss you.

Any plans on shaving?

He dragged his cheek over your collarbones, eyes lidded, heavy. None at all. That a deal breaker?

You hold your breath until your lungs start to quiver, to ache; until you're dangling precariously on the verge of hypoxia with ink blots splashing across your vision in a garish Rorschach (they're all butterflies. with knives. what does that say about me, doc?). Phosphenes scatter in a nebula of colour. Your throat constricts around nothing, empty. Empty. The urge to swallow follows on the coattails of a pitifully fleeting euphoria. Temporal and untouchable, but you still reach out, grabbing and grasping with straining fingers because you'll hate yourself forever if you don't try. Scrambling, desperately, to catch cosmic dust on the tips of your fingers. To imbue your disjointed cracks with the chemical makeup of a Magellanic cloud until your broken parts burn incandescent. Kintsugi in cuts, scraps, of Andromeda.

But for as much as you want to shatter your lungs into infinitesimal pieces, and scatter them across the universe, your body has a failsafe against stupidity.

It forces you to gasp, gulping down thin, crisp air until you feel the burn in your chest from overexertion.

You open your eyes, and wish the world around you was still draped in teal and hazy yellow. That you could taste chlorine in the back of your throat. It's a brutal awakening to find a gossamer of silken midnight draped over the parking lot in the back of the dive bar. Empty, barren, save for yourself and the chef. A man you guess you'll never see again.

Soft, crushed ochre smears a hazy ring in the east. The dawning sun of a new day.

Leaning against the old leather of your car, your eyes cut to the console briefly. The CHECK ENGINE light is off. You made Bear groan, out loud, when you hit a pothole on the freeway and it flicked off, like you knew it was. Problem solved. More duct tape over what is probably something wrong with your engine (probably dented the filter in your catalytic converter, Bear grumbled, and you nodded along, pretending like you knew what that meant).

A light catches your eye. Your phone buzzes on the dashboard, screen illuminated in the reflective surface of your window.

You could pretend you were getting a call from RAEB if you tried hard enough. Answered it, maybe, and feigned ignorance while you chatted away to him like nothing happened. Like you sometimes don't try to drown yourself on land.

You reach for it, fingers tingling at the last vibrations before the screen cuts out, and bring it close.

It takes a second, but the voicemail icon pops up in the notification bar beside a text from your friend sent hours earlier begging you to come out next weekend (haven't seen you in forever okay?? come out w us!!).

You don't know why he keeps trying. Why he's so persistent over something that is, quite decidedly, nothing.

The icon taunts you. You hate seeing it—always have. It can't be swiped away. Can't be hidden. It irks you somewhat, seeing this little symbol.

Make it go away—

You shouldn't. Not when your insides are this raw, this fractured. Broken. But you turn your phone over in your hands for a moment, mood mulish and itching for something. A fight, maybe. Something to be angry about, justifiably. To vent your frustrations.

You tap it before you really think things through, watching as it dials VOICEMAIL and the automated message pops up after a ring.

Please enter your password—

You have one new message. To play your messages, press one—

It starts shaky—like he's moving. You can hear the shuffle of his body, the rasp of his shirt. A door slams. He huffs.

Look, uh. I'm not… I'm not good at this kind of thing. I was hoping—hoping we could talk… but. I guess I, uh. Anyway—

It goes quiet. You reach up to hit SEVEN on the keypad, delete the message like all the others, but a noise stops you. The screen hums under your finger.

I've been thinking lately. About a lot of things. The team, myself. You. I made—some bad calls. Got some good men…uh, into some trouble. The kind of trouble you… don't walk away from.

It made me think about Rip. I told you about him, right? In the—the motel. Rip is—Rip was… important to me. To us. Saved my life. In Iraq. Mosul. Bullet nearly hit me but somehow, he pulled me back just in time, took the bullet instead. Right in his stomach. And you know, he, uh—he huffs. It sounds like a laugh, but one he's choking on. He got right back up and took the bastard out. Just—wasted him. I owe him my life. Always have. It's muffled, as if he has his hand pressed to his mouth, keeping the words in. Should have saved him, but I couldn't. Couldn't do a damn thing to help him. I let him get that bad and I knew. I fucking—I knew. I saw it. Watched him spiral. And now—shit. Now I'm—uh, talking to your voicemail at four in the morning—

You think you catch what am I doing before the line cuts out.

Fog settles in the midmorning dawn. You lean against the headrest, clutching your phone, and try not to think at all.

(wash, rinse, repeat)

The hole in your chest, filled in with clay and papier-mache, crumbles under the seaspray.

What am I doing. It stays with you.

These flimsy excuses become a house of cards.

It doesn't surprise you much at all when they wobble, falling on top of you.

It's his name flashing across your screen—just Bear—as you lay in bed days later, pretending not to think about him that starts it all.

(again, again, again)

This is all a cruel sort of timing, you think, and feel the harsh thud of your heart so strongly against your rib cage that you wonder if the silly thing might break through them yet.

You shouldn't answer. Know, without any hint of uncertainty, that Bear has the potential to pull you back in—fish to a pretty, glimmering lure—and that the moment you acquiesce to one thing, others will immediately follow in rapid succession, much too quick for you to keep up with.

There will be no stopping the deluge once it breaks.

And yet—

What did you expect?

The words thrown back into your face echo in the small of your flat as the walls around you wobble, teetering on the edge of collapse.

Like most things when it comes to him.

After the second buzz, one that sends a thrill through your spine that you refuse to give attention to, you hesitantly press your finger against the green answer key and slowly bring the phone up to your face, inches away from your nose, before stopping. Abruptly.

You can handle Bear at a distance, you think, and so, deciding better than to have him murmur directly into your ear, you quickly tap the speaker button, and stammer out a muzzy greeting.

“...Bear?”

There's a sharp inhale that threads through the speaker, and you know, all at once, that he hadn't expected you to pick up. Was, instead, ready to meet and reluctantly embrace the cool, blithe distance of your voicemail.

“You answered,” he hedges, and you wonder if the wariness in his tone means anything deeper. “I didn't think you would.”

Despite his honesty, there are shades of derision tainting the gruff timbre.

“I wasn't going to,” you volley back, matching the fickleness of his misplaced scorn with your own.

“Then why did you?”

“You know why,” you admit quietly.

No one is around to see your boundaries crumble. To watch as the cards you kept so close to your chest dip once, quick enough for him to glimpse them, to see what is tucked in the palm of your hand.

In that loneliness, you find a sense of freedom that you had been missing. One tinged in the bitter coat of nostalgia.

It feels too much like those nights spent arguing about the meaning behind the perfect pour (and why yours would always be trash), and showing him abysmal creations on Instagram in a thinly veiled attempt to make him see that you weren't, objectively, the worst at it.

Back when you held the patchwork remains of your bruised, duct tape heart out over the countertop that never seemed to ever be clean as an offering to a man who bluntly looked down into the nozzle of his bottle instead.

He huffs a little, then. Put-off, maybe, by the distance you pitch when giving in is always just within reach. “I don't see the problem.”

“Well, yeah…” you mutter, shuffling in bed to get comfortable. You drag your knee to your chest, as the other stretches out in the sheets, and lazily wrap your arm around your shin, fingers digging into your flesh. Bruising, biting. It centres you, this fleeting pain. “You wouldn't, but I'll have you know—”

It's comfortable. The thought is a battering ram, one that hits hard, vicious, and dredges up the realisation of just how much you missed this. And just how easy this all is with him, even know when your heart is in tatters and you can hear the slur in his words (though, that might be his usual mumble—the man is hard to understand on a sober day, what with his penchant to grit words out between his teeth, as if he needs to tear them to shreds, to chew on them, before forcing them out), the normalcy in all of this, or as normal as this abnormal situation can get, is a bludgeon to your resolve.

“...what, huh? What'll you have me know?”

You'll get suckered back in again, but this time, all the way to the event horizon. Inescapable.

“You know, Bear.”

It's flimsy when he huffs, and sounds too much like relief when he growls: “Then why fight it?”

“I don't want to talk about this right now.”

The line goes still, but you catch the hitch in his throat all the same. “We should. I can fix this. We can fix this. You can't just decide—”

You can, you think, and drop your forehead to your knee, letting the phone slide down the valley of thigh and stomach where it comes to rest on the clothed crease of your hip bone. A prison. Your body is the cage.

Not being able to see him gives you some sense of power back, and you reach for it. Needing to wield something decisive and distant before the rough timbre of his voice, his desperation, scoured your resolve into thin powder.

“ Just give up, Bear. It's over. There's nothing to fix because there was nothing there to begin with.”

“Nothing there, huh? Is that what you think?”

Overtaking the bitter resignation is anger. A bone-deep fury that simmers to the surface, dredged up from the bottom of the bottle you thought you lost him to. You can hear it in the sharp breath he takes, the little growl he lets out.

“Fuck that,” his viciousness stabs into your defences like a battering ram. Unrelenting, dizzying. You make to step back, but he fights you on it. Keeping you close. Blazing anger so hot, it nearly burns you. “You waltz into my life, chasin’ after me and then, what? You just decide it's too much for you? I warned you. I fucking warned you, didn't I ?”

“I—I know. I just—”

What, you wonder. What? Because was it ever as simple as wanting a hurting man to be a little less lonely in an empty pub?

It's moments like this that make you contend with your self-sabotage, the unmaking of yourself (morality, compassion, kindness) by your own hands. Your complicity in all of this is staggering, and suddenly the idea of a clean break feels vile.

How could you drop a man you spent months pursuing, expecting him to change overnight?

Your faults, and flaws, soften the part of you that wants to run, fleeting into the dark to avoid the consequences of your actions.

It takes two to tango, and the idiom bludgeons through the headache like a battering ram.

“I guess I just wanted to help, at first. To be your friend. You seemed so—” lonely. Sad. One bad day away from slipping too deep into the bottle that he couldn't climb out again.

His laugh is ugly, biting. “What? Pathetic? A sorry fucking drunk—”

“Alone.”

It quiets him, this soft confession.

“Can't save everyone,” is what he says after an agonising beat, and you think of the priest he tore into viciously for uttering the same sentiment. Bruising with his words, his tone, instead of his fists. Creating walls from the craters it left behind.

“Doesn't mean you can't try.”

“Wasted your time, don't you think?”

“No.” The word is immediate. Forceful. “With you? For you? No. But Bear. The thing you don't get, what you don't understand, is that you can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. And maybe it's selfish, and honestly, I know it is, but you always risk your own life whenever you try to save someone from drowning, and I know I'm not enough to help you.”

He's quiet. “Reading up on being a lifeguard?”

“In my spare time.”

A huff. It's barely a ghost of laughter. “Yeah. Yeah. Well. Hope it all works out for you.”

You can imagine the grim twist of mouth as he says it. The downward pitch to his chin, dipping in his misery.

“I hope the same for you.” You whisper, and it feels like finality.

Moments ago, the thought might have brought a sense of bitter relief to you, but now it just feels sickeningly like loss all over again.

“Shit,” Bear grouses suddenly, and then draws a sharp breath once more. “I miss you,” he rasps on the exhale.

You don't know why he would, but you understand, maybe, because you do, too.

(So much, so much, so much—)

“I miss you, too, Bear.”

The tentative words seem to shake him, and all at once, he's commandeering again. Authoritative, in that way only he can be.

“I'm getting better,” he rumbles. “I gotta. For the—for the team—”

It's the wrong thing to say, though, and he seems to realise it midway through. A quick course correction comes with a rushed, and for me, too, that reminds you too much of all the times you heard this same thing from behind the counter as you topped up their third, fourth, fifth glass.

You know better than to believe in this hollow gospel, this midnight epiphany, and for the most part, you don't. It's all empty words. False promises from a prophet, spoken as a defence mechanism against the ugly reality of what happens when people catch on to their bad habits.

But it's Bear.

Out of everyone who murmured the same phrase in that exact tone, you believe in him just a little bit more than the rest.

(Stupid, stupid, stupid—)

It's his intense tenacity. That gritty determination seems ingrained within his very being. Inseparable.

You wonder when you started divining truths from its scripture.

“I don't want to lose you,” he's saying, and it's odd because he never really had you to begin with.

“Bear—” It's late, and your thoughts are just running themselves aground. Turning into a tangled, indecipherable mess. “I need to get some sleep. Can we—can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Will you answer?”

It's deserved, of course, but you know that particular knife twist hurts him just as much as it does yourself, and whatever little vindication he finds from it is swallowed, quickly, by regret.

“I just…want to talk to you.”

You imagine that somewhere between the lines, the things unsaid, sits the glaring truth of his sudden devotion, his obsession:

there's no one else.

(never anyone's first choice—)

“Sure. Okay, yeah, we can. We can talk. You're—” you need distance. You need space. A minute, maybe, to sort through the ugly thoughts making webs in the back of your head. “You're my friend, Joe. We're… we can be friends, again.”

“Friends?”

It's not what he wants. That much is clear by the threadiness in his tone, but at two in the morning and with your thoughts liquifying into syrup, it's all you can offer him, all you're willing to give.

Friends. It makes you remember the limbo you sat in before, the murk and heartache of watching him ply himself with overpriced liquor and then stumble out the door, sometimes with company but most often, all alone and with just ten minutes to spare before closing. The yearning. The pining. The want that made you feel sick to your stomach with guilt for some unseen, unknown woman back home.

(“Dead. She's dead—”)

It sickens you even more to think about that. The ring he kept, the sadness that draped over his shoulders in a swath of agony. The one he didn't take off, not even for you. The warning signs were there.

You just ignored them all.

Friends, you murmur again, and wonder where, in all this, you went wrong. The beginning, maybe, when you looked at him and couldn't bring yourself to look away. Friends. We can be friends, Bear.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Best friends,” you echo back, hollow and thin. “With matching bracelets and everything—”

“Thought it was a tattoo?”

“That, too.”

“Okay,” he acquiesces quietly, but you can hear the threads of obstinacy in his voice when he says it. The combativeness, the steadfast refusal to fully submit, rears in the things he doesn't say, pitching bivouacs in his tone. This isn't over, it says. You're not over. “Friends.”

It's scornful, and you hate the way it blisters under your skin. Burning hot, the same feverish delirium that turned you incandescent with just his touch.

Everything about Bear tells you to relent. Submit.

It would be so easy to just give in.

And the thing is:

You want to. Desperately, achingly.

His certainty, his acuity in all of this, has a way of dismantling your sense of reason. Or, at the very least, your rationale for why you're keeping him at a distance. It's not just being diametrically opposed, though; this is the unerring knowledge that your complicity needs to be curbed. That you are, in small parts, responsible for this barren husk of a man. For aiding and abetting in his spiral, sure, but mostly for expecting him to greet you with sobriety when he woke up, as if spending an entire weekend between your thighs was enough to negate all the demons clawing at the walls of his skull. Scarring bone. Chiselling into marrow.

Simply put: you're not enough. You knew this, and yet—

Pursued, persisted. Laughably, even echoed the same words you repeat now to a man on the verge of going nuclear under the pressure of his rage, his grief.

It's impossible to make a levee out of skin and bones, and no matter how much Bear might want to try—maybe has tried with his late wife, with a bottle, with vice, with bloodied, bruised knuckles and a chip on his shoulder deeper than a canyon—it's just not feasible.

Too bad, you think, that this bone-weary epiphany didn't come sooner. That you didn't kick him out when you realised those beautiful valleys in his eyes were really just trenches.

Hindsight, of course.

(How were you supposed to know that the rough growl in his timber wasn't a security blanket against the world but just the aftereffects of inhaling too much artillery fire?)

You should have, though. Your mum was a how-to manual on the things to avoid. She could channel wisdom directly from a man's marrow, and you—made in her spitting (vitriolic) image—seem to have learned nothing at all about divination.

And you—forgotten ilk—can barely tell the difference between a portend and good fortune when you sift through clumps of barley tea at the bottom of your cup.

For all of her stolen wisdom, you make a promise to yourself that you won't tear yourself into pieces just to make a safety net for him out of your flesh. Or set yourself on fire to keep him warm.

(Not anymore, anyway—)

But then, cruelly, viciously, you wonder if you ever really helped him at all, or if this is just a manifestation to assuage your own guilt. Doubtless, you find. What have you done for him that wasn't, in some part, mutually beneficial? All this time, you've been gambling equivalence with a broken man, and then ran the moment those jagged pieces cut you.

And maybe a little bit of this hesitancy is rooted in fear as well. A fickle thing you try to ignore in favour of something that makes you seem more altruistic than you really are, but still lurks in the shadows, in the words you, too, won't say.

Things like:

He's never met you sober. Not completely. And certainly not in a way that counts.

Each interaction is marred with some form of a buffer between you both. Distance shaped in sips of his (fourth, fifth) beer; a shot of whisky.

What if he doesn't like what he finds sober?

You heard enough jokes at the bar about falling in love drunk and then waking up sober. If this is that, you don't know how you'd regain any sense of ground back.

The precipice you clawed your way up to is endlessly steep, treacherous, and yet: you still let yourself fall. Still took the risk in opening your hand just to show him your still-beating heart.

Return to the sender, you think a touch hysterically, deliriously.

In the suffocating silence, his voice rings out. Quiet, rough, as if his vocal cords were made of charred wood, smouldering embers, and not warm, wet tissue. It's just your name, but the sound of it seems to drag you down to yourself, if only in increments.

“You good?” He asks when you hum noncommittally in response.

With your forehead braced against the slope of your knee, it feels like bowing your head in a confessional when you whisper, paper soft, “I'm tired, Bear.”

It sounds like he is chewing on glass when he sighs. Throat torn, raw. The ghost of it whispers across your chin; fingerprints tapping over a tender bruise.

“Haven’t been sleeping much these last few days. Been thinkin’ of us. Of you. And the team. All the people I let down—”

“Bear…”

“And I—I want to see you soon. When you're ready. I'm not going to rush things this time. Not gonna mess it up again—”

He speaks like this is settled. Over. As if you've already climbed into the palm of his hand, and all he has to do is just close you up tight in his fist. A little flower he can carry around in his pocket. Kept safe. Kept close.

It's—

A lot. Overwhelming. He sounds sober enough, and you know that he's not wholly dependent on drinking—it’s palliative; a coping mechanism to numb himself from the reality of everything else that happened to him—but there's a real crutch there that can't be erased by determination alone. But thinking about that—the future—makes your chest feel like it's going to cave in on itself; collapse and become another black hole in the Milky Way, swallowing everything down.

You need to breathe. You need to think—

“You should get some sleep, Bear. And—”

Don't drink. Stop. Get help. Talk to someone.

But the words are empty. Hollow vessels to placate your sense of responsibility. Your own guilt.

Coward. You've always been so good at running—

“Take care of yourself.”

“Yeah,” he rasps. The hushed timbre makes you tremble. “You too. Get some sleep. I'll talk to you in the morning.”

And so, this delicate dance made of putting duct tape over fractured promises and palliating the sickness in patchwork hope begins again, working in pieces.

There's a distance that lingers between the folds of you both, unspoken hurt and distrust—a lingering symptom of letting yourself get swept away by the idea of a man rather than the flesh and bone cut of one—but despite it all, each misgiving that passes your mind when you see Bear’s name flash across the cracked screen of your phone, it works.

Somehow, somehow.

It isn't as deep as missing puzzle pieces, because as much as you and Bear seem to connect on a level beyond sex, and booze, and fleeting highs to numb a phantom ache in the pit of your chest, the idea of soulmates seems to be frangible for your fractured selves; with all of your jagged, sharp edges, something so soft would break into pieces, shatter apart. But it is something.

And that might just be enough. So, you let it root. Let it grow limbs, and leaves, and curl around you like gentle, strangling wisteria until it reaches up to your chest.

This delicate, fragile thing makes a home, again, inside the empty landscape of your heart.

(shame on me, you think, but still pick up his call as this tender, soft thing you're nurturing snakes across your jugular where it's the warmest, leeching heat from the fever that thrums under your skin.)

Despite his bold declaration, though, he seems to waver on a full pursuit. Content, almost, to maintain this idea of closeness without shattering the bubble you've reconstructed.

It's odd, though.

Bear is a man who seeks logic out but always ends up relying on his hunches. Emotional in the sense that he places all confidence in himself beyond the scope of what he might be able to deliver. If his determination can't bring him across the finish line—well, then it was unwinnable from the start.

For a man so tenacious, so driven, his hesitation in all of this surprises you.

But something has to give eventually.

It always does.

Bear isn't terrible at texting, but he prefers phone calls. Something he admits has less to do with his occupation (no, I won't have to kill you for telling you this, you need to stop believing what you see on tv), and is more just a way of gleaning nuances he can't with written word.

Though, not always.

There's a softness when he speaks tonight, a quality you're unfamiliar with, as he confesses on a hushed memory, half musing aloud when the world is dead asleep and the sun is a distant idea in the back of your head, that he used to write letters to his wife whenever they weren't on the phone talking. Or Skyping each other.

“Deployment with a group of guys doesn't leave much room for privacy,” he says, as if he hasn't just unravelled this hidden part of himself at three fifteen on what was meant to be a rather mundane ending to your Thursday. “They're not really, uh, sensitive to that. We're on top of each other for most of it, anyway. Asking a whole room to clear out just so I can talk isn't happening. So, uh, we—uh, me and Lena, we wrote letters.”

There's a stutter in his voice when he relays this to you, and you're struck numb by it all. Lena, you think, putting a name to a concept.

“Oh,” you say, and you're not sure what to think about it. So, you don't. You tuck it aside, where all the other things you've learned about Bear go. The ones revealed to you in shambles. “That sounds— romantic. ”

It makes him scoff, and it's this terrible, broken thing. “Romantic, huh? Is that what you think?”

You hum, taking it in. The grand reveal of his ex-wife (she… we, he corrects and clears his throat like it burns: we decided to separate. See, uh… see other people), and his marital problems, you connect the dots lingering in the foreground.

You're not completely ignorant of his intentions.

It's the first move on a fresh chessboard: a show of his commitment to this—whatever it might be—and how serious he's taking it all. Where you'd been the only one to dare pry open the rusted nails keeping your secrets at bay before, he's taking the initiative to do so now, to meet you somewhere in the middle where the olive branch still grows. Placing his bets before the race. Offering himself, and his secrets, up as collateral in this strange game you found yourself in.

But does he know that you can still hear the slight slur in his voice when he speaks, or notice the way he seems to skirt around the conversation of his drinking habits on the days when it must be hitting him harder? Surely, he must.

And yet, he still calls. Still decides to gamble with your devotion in maintaining a strange facsimile of friendship with whisky on his breath, slurring his words, and gives out the pretence of playing for keeps under the table.

Maybe he knows you'll still give him the chance to keep playing no matter how many times his luck runs dry. It makes sense, considering.

You'd always had a weakness for men like him.

(Stupid—)

Outside of the tipsy phone calls, you've yet to hear him completely gone. A testament to his dedication, maybe, but you know the first week is always the easiest. When the high of the epiphany roars through their bloodstream, and the weight of the world doesn't feel as crushing as it once had, it's easy to make deals you don't have the means of keeping up with. But the debt is insurmountable to those who aren't fully invested, and the collectors are vicious.

Still. Still.

This is as close to sobriety as he's ever been, and you soak up his unbridled attention like you're starving for it.

And in all honesty, you are.

Bear is a strange, complex web of a man. Full of grit, anger. Misery curls in the corners of his eyes, hidden there amongst the powder keg of obsessive devotion just waiting to go off. You scented kerosene on his skin—napalm drenching his pores—when he'd lifted two fingers up and nearly snarled his order from across stained cedar wood.

Having the brunt of his fire listing your way is a character study in restraint, in penance. It taps against the delicate binds holding everything back, and loosens the ties with every piece of him you're given.

It's hard, you think, to stay so far away from someone when you're wobbling on the brink of devotion. Love, in shades of obsession. The taste of which settles in the back of your throat like a sickness, aching each time you swallow.

You're not sure what it is about Bear, about this particular brand of miserable, angry man, but his very existence feels like it was constructed, handspun, to make you hunger for a taste.

And then, you know. It's just that, isn't it? Miserable, angry man.

(saviour complex, maybe. maybe, maybe, maybe—)

It feels deeper than that, though. It might have been the cause for this unravelling, this unmaking between you both, but the rest—the helplessness and the anger and the worry; answering his call even when you swore you wouldn't, leaving him in the motel room like a bad dream smeared across your pillow only to pick him up again, another bad habit in a sea of others—is than just a simple desire to fix problems that are not your own.

(especially when they aren't your own.)

“Never really been the romance type,” he rumbles, shattering this strange, introspective reverie you've fallen into.

“You seem to be doing okay for yourself, though,” you volley back, a touch too cautious compared to how it all was before. When you'd read him his horoscope, and pester him about trying your audacious food combinations he'd complain about, but eat, anyway.

“Is that what you think?”

“It's what I know.”

You expect him to pick up your jab, turning it on you instead. Something caustic, something severe. Something equally mean and mordant in the way only Bear could be. But he doesn't. He lets it fall to the wayside instead, humming under his breath in something that might be acquiescence, or maybe avoidance of the topic entirely, and shifts back into neutral territory.

How was your day? He asks, as if that wasn't one of the first things he'd said to you when you answered the call.

“Fine,” you hedge, breezing the word out between your teeth. “It was okay. Bear—”

“I, uh, have a meeting tomorrow,” he steamrolls through your concern like it's made of paper instead of the broken remnants of your heartache. “Another eval., to see if I'm fit to return to training. Make my way back to being an Officer.”

More secrets are revealed to you in the slow dawn of his unfurling fist. Held out like a beacon, a piece of candy. Good job, it says when you reach for it like the good, obedient dog you are.

Pavlov's finest.

“That sounds…” You're not really sure what it means, in all honesty. Words coming together to form a sentence. The meaning is absent from between the lines. You could infer, but you've never been good at guessing. So, you stagnate. “Good. Um, really good, Bear.”

He huffs, and you take it as a laugh—or as close to one you'll get from him. “Gotta pass the eval first.”

“Should be easy for you.”

“Should be,” he mumbles, and you catch the faint end of a muffled groan. “But I've been slacking. Put on extra weight. Need to burn it all off before I can really get into the old routine. Gonna fall behind worse than a newbie.”

Newbie being growled out in his flat intonation makes you snort.

“You find something funny? ”

“Ha, no—” his words turn over in your head—put on extra weight—and, damningly, you remember what all that extra weight felt like, stretched out beneath you; arched over your body, heavy and suffocating, and—

Fuck.

Bear catches the hitch in your breath, and makes a questioning noise in response. You can't let him ask. Can't let him know that you keep painting a picture of his hairy belly brushing against yours in the forefront of your mind. His biceps. Burly is what you'd thought of him before. Thick. Husky. A heavy man, in more ways than one.

The softness around his waist belied the hard muscles below. You could feel it pressing firm against your palm when he rolled under you, bracing your hands over his chest as he let you ride him.

That's it, sweetheart. Just like that—

“No,” you swallow around the desire welling up inside of your throat. “Nothing.”

He hums, and it's tainted in disbelief. Like he knows, somehow, what you were thinking of. What you keep thinking of—especially after these phone calls, his voicemails, when you're lying in bed with your fingers whispering between your thighs—and you almost expect him to call you out on it. To demand an answer.

Instead, he offers a tender truth that nudges against the soft pulse in your throat.

“...Not drinking as much helps.”

You almost want to call him out on the as much he tacts on to the end of his confession, to question the logistics behind those two words. To quantify it in a number, in tangible data. Something concrete you can plinth your hope on. But the answer scares you.

Too much and you'll fall all over again. Too little and you'll have no choice but to run.

So, you retreat in the face of his truth. A coward.

“That's—It's good. That's good, Bear—” and it is. Of course, it is. Great, even. He isn't even yours and this silly notion of pride staples itself to the front of your chest for the world to see. “I'm, um. I'm proud of you.”

It sounds hollow, pyrrhic, coming from you—repentant enabler—but the airiness in his voice strikes something deep inside. Pulses against a dormant place that comes alive, fecund with the bittersweet stirrings of hope germinating in the fibres.

Skingraft over the wound.

“Proud, huh?”

And the sound of his voice cuts that thread as soon as it forms.

His voice is pitched low, throaty. He draws the syllables out as he says, at length, “I, uh, keep thinking about you.”

You should warn him away. Tap the impish fingers sneaking to the cookie jar—a thorough chastisement to keep wandering hands in check. Bad dog, is the passing thought, and you try to swallow down the hysterical giggle that bubbles in the back of your throat.

You should.

But you don't.

It comes out breathier than you intended when you say his name, and it sounds much too malleable in the face of this tactile man.

“Been thinkin’ about you a lot.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. Too much. Too much. “Same. Uh, me too.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Going out with some friends. Probably going to get dinner. Watch that new movie that just came out. And, um, have a few drinks after.”

“How're you getting home?”

“Taxi, most likely.”

He hums low, throaty. The sound seems to reverberate through the phone and tremble deliciously down the length of your spine. “That so?”

“I'm not going to be drinking much.” You weigh the ethics of discussing your intentions to drink, to get completely wasted, and maybe go home with someone who isn't Bear, who doesn't even so much as look like him, before waving the thought away before it can take shape. “It's just—social. Getting caught up. Haven't seen them in a while because of school and stuff.”

And because you've invested so much of your free time spinning in circles around a man who didn't even really seem to look at you (who insisted on calling you kid to force distance and indifference between you) until a few months ago, letting your social life dawdle on the wayside.

Not that there was ever much one. It's easier, sometimes, to push people away than to explain the inner workings of your borrowed scar tissue.

He hums again—and he really needs to fucking stop doing that before you do something stupid, something reckless, like remember the way he sounded when he lifted his head up after coming deep inside of you, panting in your ear from exertion, and groaned just like that when he shifted forward, inching his softening cock further you, seemingly content to stay like that as you melted into the mattress that reeked of stale sweat and sex.

“I'll drive you.”

Your breath catches. “You don't have to.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, but it's decidedly noncommittal and comes completely undone when you catch the crackle of iron in his mulish tone as he adds: “but I want to.”

And he will, is the underlying promise that brims to the surface, wrapped up neatly in a way that brokers no real room for a counterargument. Not that he'll give you the chance to make one.

Still. You try, if only to snatch at some modicum of control that slips, gossamer thin, between your fingers.

“It's fine. Making you go out all that way is kinda…”

“Don't worry about it. Beats paying for a cab, anyway.”

“Bear…”

It's firm when he says: “let me drive you home. Make sure you get there safely.” Final. But to soften the blow, he adds, voice tender like a bruise: “Just let me do this for you.”

And how are you supposed to stay no to that?

“Okay, Bear.”

(Answer: you don't.)

#joe graves x reader #joe graves x you #bear graves x reader #joe bear graves x reader #joe bear graves #barry sloane #joe graves #six (2017)#seal team six #history six #bear x reader #bear graves x you

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thechaoscryptid · 6 months

Text

my writing warm-up today got a little out of hand so pls enjoy some Tav/Astarion (reads gender neutral but you can see my Tav under the cut) hurt/"Astarion's best attempts at comfort but they don't land real well bc he's still not sure how to Relationship and Tav is Unsure About Their Status Generally" from after clearing the Waning Moon (did I accidentally trigger the fight, yes). Takes place before The Hug Scene, but he can have some touching, as a treat.

"I don't think the fire's going to give up any secrets, dove, but you can keep glaring if you'd like." Astarion piles himself at your feet, hesitating only slightly before leaning back between your knees. The camp is silent save for the echoing, animal chittering in the surrounding forest, but you know the tension that lines his shoulders—he does not trust the quiet.

To relax is to bare your belly for gutting; to be vigilant is to survive.

By now, you have had enough of survival to last a lifetime.

The flames crackle, and the embers that dance their way down to the dirt do little to catch your bleary eyes. Exhaustion sings through you, echoing off of your ribs like a dirge from cathedral ceilings.

"Darling?" Astarion's fingers are cool against your ankles. They ease the ache that's built up over the last several days of sprinting across gnarled roots and crumbling brick. The Shadow-Cursed Lands take no prisoners, and though you are by far the weakest among your not-so-merry band, you will not be the link that breaks the chain.

There is too much at stake to fail.

Your dry mouth works as Astarion twists to look up at you, but no words come to mind. The furrow between his brow deepens when your fingers tremble atop his head.

"You're practically falling over," he accuses. "How in the hells do you expect to make it to bed? Why haven't you gone already?"

You shake your head once, mouth twisting in a smile that lands like a slap. "I took first watch."

"You—" He scoffs. "Gods, is everyone in this damned camp a fool? Don't answer that," he continues when you take a deep breath. "'We're all a team, Astarion; we need to look out for one another, you prick.' You've made the point so many times that I think about it when I trance." Draping himself across your thigh, he reaches up to cradle the plane of your throat. "How much magic did that...that beast take out of you? Wretched creature—you should have taken the drink, you know."

"All of it," you rasp. "And quite a few scrolls, in addition."

Astarion curses. "And everyone's all left you alone."

"I volunteered."

"They have eyes. They should use them." Astarion rises, all fluid grace and towering ire as he looms, carding a hand through your mussed braids. "Let me guess—you told them you were fine."

Though you butt your head into his palm like that cat at Last Light he was so enamored with, your eyes narrow as you glance up. "I am. Look, I can stand."

And you do, admirably steady for all of half a second before he pushes your shoulder and your calves knock against the felled tree you've dragged in for a bench. The sudden stop when Astarion grabs your elbows and pulls you into him sends a jolt down your already-frayed nerves.

"Anyone could walk up and take you, and you'd be defenseless," he murmurs. His hands slide down the length of your forearms, and then skim up to your jaw. You allow him to tip your head from side to side, but cannot meet his eyes—you've always found it hard to reconcile their emptiness with his professed concern.

You say, "Is that what you want? To take me?"

And he says, "No."

"Are you hungry, Astarion?"

"Not for you," he says, and he sounds so disgusted that you flinch. "Oh, not—" He clicks his tongue, then sighs. His whole body sags as he attempts to meet your eyes. "Look at me, darling. Chin up."

Though his touch is gentle, there is a poorly-concealed tremor in the fingers that curl in the hollows below your jaw. You look at his mouth, though it's impossible to read when it's lying.

"Oh, you are haunted by something tonight. I'm sorry, if that makes a difference. I only meant I want you strong tomorrow."

You list to your left and whine—it feels pathetic, even on a night such as this—at the undercurrent of sincerity in the apology.

"Come to bed," he says, softening. "Rest. I'll take watch."

"I promis—"

"Look around—no one's going to come for your throat about taking a night off." The world whirls as he twists you in his arms, then wraps them around your stomach as he nuzzles against your pulse. "I might have to get territorial if they did, you know. I do appreciate your willingness to offer it up; I'd hate to see it ruined. It would be a dreadful mess to clean up around camp, wouldn't it?

"And..." he continues, abandoning your neck in favor of walking you a few steps forward, away from the fire and toward his tent. "You sleep so soundly in my bed. I enjoy watching you come alive in the morning."

Your face heats, and you mumble, "Not that soundly."

"You snore."

Smacking lightly at the back of his hands, you squirm back around to face him. What you see does nothing to untangle the tight knot of feeling lashed to your chest: wide eyes gone soft with concern, a hint of mirth in the lines that frame them, and the beginnings of true fondness in his smile.

"What?" he asks when you avert your gaze.

You bite your tongue against the confessions borne on the leaden wings of exhaustion; this is not the place to delve into desires. It is easier to choke down I want more and I love you and We are the same shape of broken—to let them fester where they're branded on your bones—than to watch his eyes shutter against the words.

"I'm tired," you say instead, and it is the truest truth you've ever uttered, "of having to protect everyone."

"So don't." Astarion bends to rest his temple against yours. "Let me be your sword and shield, if only for the night. Rest, dove—you've more than earned it."

Bonus: my Tav, Kestra! She's a human sorcerer specializing in necromantic and cold damage, and based off of one of my original novel characters 🥰

#astarion x tav #astarion x reader #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 spoilers #baldurs gate 3 #my writing

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hwasdvlly · 6 months

Text

Happy Hollow-ween | c.san

↠ summary: a classic yet fun activity for the season is to carve a pumpkin.

↠ pairing: san x fem!reader

↠ genres: family, fluff, and slice of life

↠ word count: 0.6k words

↠ warnings/tags: none. established relationship, idol!san, non-idol!reader, married couple, sannie is husband/father material

↠ a/n: yesss!! another of the choi family which is personally one of my fav writings

“Appa! I want this one!”

“Isn’t that a bit huge? It’s bigger than your head, Mimi.”

The beloved Choi Family are at the pumpkin patch, where they’ll find the perfect ones to carve. It’s the autumn season, too. The weather has cooled down, and everyone dressed in cozy outfits.

San picks up a pumpkin that his baby is pointing at. He grunts and uses his strength from those gym workouts because it is heavy. “Y/N! What do you think?!” He calls over his wife, who is busy taking pictures of the lovely area. You turn your attention to your husband and see him struggling with the object. You let a giggle, “It’s almost the same size as The Great Pumpkin from Charlie Brown.” You walk up to the love of your life and your little angel. You assumed it was Sangmi’s choice.

“Okay, I guess we’re taking it.” San tries to look strong, but, for real, his arms are about to break. You know your hubby by heart that he’ll act differently to impress you and Sangmi.

“Do you need help, Sannie?” You snickered. San didn’t hesitate to deny it. “Nope! Nope! I got this!” The man waddles his way to the parking lot. Sangmi holds your hand. “Appa looks funny.” She laughs at her penguin dad. “You know how appa is, aegi (baby).” You tell your little girl. San will do anything for his angel.

Once they arrived home, the Choi Family layered old newspapers on the balcony. San and Sangmi are wearing matching Halloween shirts and plaid sweats. You came out of the kitchen after unboxing the utensils to check on your family.

“Gotta scrape all of the guts out. Like how you pick your nose.” San makes an absurd comparison.

“Ew! Appa! I don’t pick my nose.” Sangmi rebutted and giggled heartily.

The man smirks, “Oh, you don’t? Then what’s this?” He reaches over to tap Sangmi’s button nose. She continues to laugh her head off. You melted by the sound of her angelic voice. Maybe she will become a singer like her dad. You joined the duo by helping them scrape the pumpkin guys.

San sighed tiredly, “Why did she choose this one? It’s going to take ages to carve.” He spoke in a low voice to prevent Sangmi from hearing his complaint. You replied, “Well, you did make a promise to her the moment she was born.” You looked at him with a knowing look. “Promises can’t be broken, I guess.” San meets your gaze, and he shows his cute pout.

No matter what age or how long you’ve known this man, he is forever a sulky child.

“Alright! We are done!” San cheers because it did take ages.

You went to sit with Sangmi and wipe her messy hands clean. “How do you want to carve the pumpkin, Mimi?” You asked.

“Can we do Kuromi?” She looks at her parents with the prettiest cat-like eyes. How can anyone say no to that?

San nods his head with a wide smile. “Yes! I like that idea.” He agrees with his daughter.

When it comes to arts & crafts, San will do it as if it’s a major task. Even though Sangmi wouldn’t mind if it came out ugly, her appa doesn’t accept imperfections.

The hours went by, and the day was now night.

You grabbed a small candle to light up. “Here, sweetheart. Our masterpiece won’t be complete without this.” You handed it to Sangmi. She holds the candle and uses her tiny arms to reach inside the top of the carved pumpkin. She places it in the middle before San grabs the lighter.

“Watch baby. This is a magical moment.” He turns it on, and the flame burns the wick.

Sangmi’s face brightens like the Kuromi pumpkin. “It’s pretty!” She claps her hands.

San shifts his body to the masterpiece in front of him. “Appa did good, right?” He gives you and Sangmi a smug expression.

You rolled your eyes yet smiled at your self-righteous husband. Sangmi just happily nodded to indicate that her appa did a beautiful job.

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anystalker707 · 4 months

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I'm fine

Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x [gender-neutral] Reader Summary: Sanji knows there's something wrong, but he doesn't know how to approach you. Tags: comfort / soft / he's doing his best

Requested by anon ["Hello !! <3 I saw that your requests are open, may I request anything with Sanji ? You can decide the prompt or format, I was just thinking about (mostly Opla, a little bit of his pauses and deep thinking from the anime moments)..."] A/N: thanks so much for the request! I hope you have a good day and that you enjoy this

MASTERLIST

Sanji was way more attentive than he seemed to be, mind working on a thousand tasks at once whenever he was quiet and not drooling over anyone or dwelling in thoughts. He was aware of everything that went on in the crew, ignoring or managing things however he could, whether by forcing himself to remember he wasn’t responsible for everyone else’s problems or just making someone a special dish to brighten their day a little.

It wasn’t obvious, and you weren’t in the right place to notice it either, unaware of Sanji’s attentive gaze following each of your actions through the days. He could see the nap breaks were getting longer, and the way you seemed to slip into a daze sometimes, which only made the hollow in your gaze more evident. Despite watching you for a while now, he still couldn’t identify what was bothering you so much, but it didn’t feel like it was the right time to approach the subject yet, at least not directly.

The idea had been in Sanji’s mind for quite a while now, so he decided to ease his thoughts today, a little bit. He prepared a small portion of one of your favorite snacks with a suitable drink to follow, making sure to use one of the special plates and your favorite glass—you probably thought no one knew, but he noticed it when you always chose that one or stole it from someone else.

“My dear,” Sanji’s soft voice brought you back to reality, and he looked at you for a moment, as if he could figure out what’d been going on through your mind as you sat at that small table on the deck and stared into the horizon. He couldn’t, but he felt good for being able to ground you for at least a little while. “You barely touched your lunch today, so I thought you’d like to have something now.” He paused. “More like you should have something now.” Despite the light scolding tone, there was also tenderness that he hoped to reach you and give some comfort.

You furrowed your eyebrows and pressed your lips together as if you were going to say something, but only silence followed as you suppressed a sigh and brought the plate closer to inspect it. It felt like forever—Sanji’s eyes followed every little movement as you looked at the food and the drink. He could imagine the way you felt, throat clenching just at the thought of food, but he also knew you needed to eat to make up for the past days and remain healthy.

Sanji was startled when your eyes met yours, and for a moment, he wondered if you could perhaps hear his thoughts, but the feeling dissipated when he caught the confusion on your features.

“What’s up, Sanji?” You asked before finally taking a bite of the food—his shoulders dropped a little as he felt relieved just at the simple gesture.

Ironic. He should’ve been the one to ask that.

Sanji pressed his lips together for a moment and shrugged. “Nothing, really, I’m just… bored.” It was the first thing that came to his mind. He wasn’t really, not with all the stuff he had in his head, but it sounded fitting. “Are you… bored? You’ve been… just sitting there,” Sanji said, stumbling over words. He didn’t want you to know he was aware of your current state because something in his gut told him you’d immediately dodge it.

You were silent for a long moment. You took another bite of the food, swallowed, sipped on the drink, placed the glass down… “Something like that.”

The situation was delicate. Sanji had to think very well of what he was going to do, and he imagined it all as a hunter trying to approach a hare without making his presence known among the bushes. He followed your gaze to the sea for a moment before he grabbed the chair and placed it next to yours with a sigh, sitting with his hands over his lap.

“Oh, uh, I hope I can sit with you,” he said quickly, about to stand up again when you waved a hand in dismissal.

It was awkward. The silence that sat between the two of you was unsettling, but Sanji suspected he was the only one to feel that way. His hands were sweating a little. He wiped them away on his pants. He was just worried about you. Nothing else.

“You know,” you suddenly said, making Sanji immediately turn his head to you, “I… I really like your rings. They really suit you.” Your eyes met his a couple of times before your gaze averted to the sea again, and you sipped on your drink, almost finishing it.

It took Sanji a moment to process your comment—when he finally did so, he raised his eyebrows lightly and looked down at his own hands, fidgeting with his rings now that he was reminded of their existence. “Oh, thanks,” he breathed as he brought them closer to inspect but shook his head lightly and offered his hand to you instead. “I’ve gotten some of them as gifts, others were—” His voice faltered when your fingers touched his, and you held his hand close to your face to observe the beautiful carvings into silver metal. “—Were just bought around,” he continued in a quieter voice tone, eyeing you.

Your thumb traced one of the rings before you slid it off Sanji’s finger; he was startled at first, but he let it be, since he trusted you anyway. He was happy to see you doing something that wasn’t obligatory nor motivated by whatever bothered you, heart fluttering a little bit. Your fingers traced the rim of the ring, but you never put it on, just observing it before returning it to Sanji.

“They’re very nice,” you added with a hum, observing him put the ring on again.

“Thanks,” Sanji whispered with a small smile. His tongue peeked out to wet his lips as he shook his head lightly to get some of the strands off his face, and he exhaled softly. Despite the pleasant moment, the anxiety still bubbled under his skin; the unsaid words formed a lump in his throat that threatened to jump out at any second. He tried—he really tried—, but it was stronger than he was.

“You know that you can talk to anyone anytime, right?” Sanji blurted out. It was classic, cliché, but he hadn’t had time to think about anything else. “I mean, I must not be the right person in your eyes, but I reassure you that I try my best.”

There was more he wanted to say, but the look on your face made Sanji shut up. He’d stepped on a twig, and you were about to run away.

“Yeah, that’s what it is all about,” you whispered with a hint of… disappointment?

Sanji didn’t know what to say—or if he should say anything at all—, heart heavy in his chest as he held his breath as if the slightest movement would ruin all of it.

“You don’t need to be nice to me just because you’re worried,” you said, putting the glass and the plate back on the table without finishing the meal; it’s not that you didn’t want to eat, but the hunger just diminished with the way the situation evolved. “I—”

“No, it’s not—”

“Then why now?” You cut Sanji off with a sigh, but interrupted yourself, seeming to reconsider. “I mean, I see, but… Now is not the right time, Sanji. You’re nice and all, but right now isn’t the moment.”

Sanji couldn’t blame you for the annoyance that laced your voice and the sudden change in your demeanor, so he tried to rationalize the situation first to avoid stirring unnecessary problems. He furrowed his eyebrows and looked at the ground, trying to imagine what could be the problem, but the signs you gave were still too vague.

“I… appreciate what you did,” you practically forced the words out while standing up from the chair slowly. It looked like you were going to say something, but you just walked away, leaving that incomplete silence behind that made anxiety crawl under Sanji’s skin. He couldn’t shrug off the guilt that started growing in his chest while watching you leave.

“Hey, no need for that! The glass didn’t do anything to you, man!” Usopp threw his hands in the air lightly when Sanji put a glass on the table with more force than necessary, sending the hollow sound cutting through the galley.

Sanji widened his eyes at Usopp when he saw him there, but soon sighed as he shook his head, grounding himself—he didn’t want anyone to worry about him, or to make a mistake in the recipe. “Maybe it did, you don’t know that,” Sanji breathed with a chuckle in an attempt to lighten up the mood.

Usopp raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. “Keep your secrets, then.” He walked past Sanji with a chuckle, grabbing a clean glass to have some water. “Good night, dude,” he said after he got everything he wanted. “Don’t forget to call God Usopp in case you’re afraid of anything during the night!” He grinned and winked before walking away, and Sanji was thankful he didn’t look back to see the way he rolled his eyes. Sanji liked Usopp, yeah, he just had too much in mind right now, and his plans didn’t include coming off as rude.

Being on the night watch didn’t seem like the best option at first, but Sanji thought better and decided that, if he hadn’t, his night would’ve been resumed to tossing around on the hammock. Cooking helped him clean his mind and get himself together, so that was something, really.

The guilt was still evident in his chest, bothering Sanji just like a misplaced object in a small space. He felt like he was the odd one out, actually, not knowing what to do with himself as he did everything automatically until he almost threw the eggshells inside the bowl instead of the whites and yolks.

“Holy fuck,” Sanji said as he tossed the eggshells inside the trash, cleaning his fingers before he pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a break to breathe in deeply. He was almost finished. He could make it.

Everything was in the fridge or covered, waiting to be finished tomorrow, so Sanji sat at the table out on the deck and pulled out his cooking book after lighting a cigarette. He could at least relax a little while he sipped on a cold drink and checked his notes, feeling the somewhat-comfortable burning in his lungs. It always helped him set his thoughts in order—or at least try to.

There wasn’t much that Sanji could get done. He spent most of his time staring at the pen and trying to get his mind off you because, after all, he didn’t have anything to do with what bothered you. It wasn’t his responsibility nor did it affect him directly, so he shouldn’t be so worried about it. Regarding the minor disagreement, it didn’t matter—you two would get along well again because arguments just happened.

Sanji didn’t know what time it was, but the sea higher and calmer than it was during the day, only illuminated by the already waxing full moon that hung high in the sky, since the ship’s lights weren’t turned on strongly enough to illuminate anything beyond the decks. He wrote a few lines on the yellowish pages, not even finishing the sentence before he caught himself lost in thoughts again. Damn it.

The sudden sound almost made Sanji jump on his chair, but he just used it as an excuse to procrastinate making his notes more, and observed the darkness until someone showed up, and your identity was revealed only when you turned the lights of the galley on, walking in. Sanji’s heart almost jumped out through his throat when he saw you there, and his thoughts raced in an internal debate. Should he approach you? He didn’t know if he could bear once again that face of disappointment that you’d made at him, but the current situation wasn’t very helpful either. He wanted peace of mind.

With a sigh, Sanji stood up. All he could do, initially, was stand in the doorway and watch it as you drank a glass of water, still feeling out of place. When you turned around and tried to leave the kitchen, he couldn’t move either, staring back at you with the words erased from his brain. All he could do was look into your sleepy eyes, trying to identify anything beyond the grumpiness of getting up in the middle of the night. He pressed his lips together, breathing in deeply as he looked at you and decided that this should finally be over.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. No one else was awake, but maybe things would be ruined if he spoke a pitch louder. “I wanted to help you. I didn’t want to see you upset and wanted to help. I know you didn’t ask for it, but please know that there was absolutely no pity in what I did. It was my way of expressing that I’m here for you. If it made you uncomfortable, I can—”

A soft groan came from you as you hugged Sanji and buried your face in his chest. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but he did nothing for a while, just in case, and only hesitantly wrapped his arms around you after he decided you wouldn’t move.

“Thanks.” Your words were muffled against his chest as you practically melted into him. Were you too sleepy? He really didn’t know how to handle this. “I am sorry about the reaction. I didn’t think it through, but thanks anyway.”

Sanji raised his eyebrows as he processed what you said and let out a faint hum, patting your back gently. “It’s okay,” he whispered as he pressed his cheek to your head for a moment, slowly relaxing as he found comfort in your arms. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you replied, a little too quickly. “Nothing is wrong.”

“But—”

“I’m fine.”

.𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟.

#one piece #one piece live action #opla #sanji vinsmoke #x reader #x male reader #x female reader #gender neutral #sanji x reader #sanji x male reader #one piece x reader #oneshot #imagine #scenario #fan fic #fan fiction

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inoreuct · 7 months

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For writing or just headcanons, zosan + caring for the other after theyve had too much to drink? 100% no pressure tho, it's ok if that's not ur vibe or u dont feel like it ilysm❤❤

ooh i actually have a hungover zoro drabble in the works so i’ll do hcs for this one 🤭

sanji’s a sad drunk. an existential crisis, sit-in-the-corner-stare-at-the-wall drunk. he doesn’t drink for a reason; alcohol brings up everything he hides behind his smile and his snark, dissolves the carefree grin he wears as armour. it’s not fake, per se— he just uses it to hide everything that he doesn’t want others to see.

a little bit of wine at dinner is fine. tipsy is fine— especially if he’s in a lively environment. but when he passes that point he gets all quiet, and it’s so far from his usual personality that it’s concerning.

the first time zoro sees sanji properly drunk he freaks out a little (a lot). sanji’s sluggish, listless, slow to respond even when zoro shakes him and when the cook finally looks away from the ground his eyes are dull.

zoro kneels and holds sanji’s face between his palms so the cook can’t look away, but sanji’s eyes flutter shut even as his head lolls into zoro’s touch. yep. he’s not having fun anymore. the party’s still buzzing around them but zoro hauls his sad, quiet, drunk boyfriend back to the ship; gets some fluids in him, changes him into clean clothes and carries him to bed. he’s just about to turn out the light and leave, but he leans down to press a kiss to sanji’s forehead and sanji’s fingers wrap around his wrist. “zoro.”

“yes?” he replies immediately, because this is the first thing sanji’s said in hours and zoro latches onto it with a rush of relief. the mattress dips as he sits down by sanji’s hip, brushing fine blond hair away from his face. “hey, baby. what’s wrong?”

“dunno. i’m so drunk,” sanji slurs, giggling a little before it dies and leaves hollow silence. his eyes are haunted. “i’m sad, zoro.”

zoro knows. he knows what sanji’s gone through. knows the invisible weights the cook carries on his shoulders. “i know,” he breathes, fingertips lingering by sanji’s temple. he doesn’t know what else to say.

sanji turns his face into zoro’s palm, closing his eyes with a tired sigh. “don’ go.”

and how is zoro supposed to do anything else? so he changes out of his dirty clothes and slides beneath the covers. sanji’s already out cold, but he reaches for zoro in his sleep; his breathing is deep and even, back rising and falling against zoro’s chest. zoro falls asleep to the sound of the cook’s heartbeat.

in the morning, sanji is back to normal; shivery, pale, and puking his guts up, but normal. zoro is rudely awakened by his boyfriend wrenching himself out of bed and hightailing it to the bathroom, and he finds sanji with his head in the toilet bowl and goes to fetch painkillers from the galley.

they don’t talk about it. but sanji has a gleam in his eye as they get ready for the day; an extra layer of softness to the way he kisses zoro before getting started on breakfast, and zoro doesn’t push. sanji will talk about it when he’s ready. he can wait.

now, ZORO. zoro’s a touchy drunk. a huggy huggy feely feely drunk. that man is TOUCH-STARVED. his tolerance is crazy high but if he drinks enough he gets all clingy; a little grouchy, but also draping himself over every one of his crewmates he can find.

he’s got enough sweet summer mead in him to make him stumble when he stands; his coordination is shot, and he groans when he topples into someone tall, blond and handsome. he tells the man as much and sanji chuckles, hauling him upright and getting them both back to the boat.

“you’re pretty,” zoro mumbles, face-planting into the bed before rolling over as his eyes widen. “s’nji?”

“mhm.” sanji’s trying not to laugh. he hides it behind his hand before zoro’s tumbling off the bed, magically able to walk (mostly) straight again as he grabs sanji and kidnaps him to cuddle and sanji almost screeches bcs wtf?? he hasn’t showered, he’s in his crusty dusty musty street clothes, hell he’s still wearing his SHOES

but he realises real quick that he’s fighting a losing battle. zoro’s like a goddamn octopus. he resigns himself to falling asleep while being hugged like a bolster, still in his suit and half-squashed under zoro’s bulk, but he’d be lying if he said it was unpleasant.

and of course the next morning the swordsman has a splitting hangover. he spends the day with his pillow over his head, only poking his face out to sip at the broth sanji brings him through a straw.

as you can see both of these idiots have HORRIBLE hangovers when they push their limits too far.

they both don’t like others seeing them drunk; sanji doesn’t want to burden his nakama with his past (even though he knows, realistically, that he isn’t a burden) and zoro has a tendency to run his mouth. his filter just goes poof. it’s highly entertaining but he always feels like putting his head through a wall when he remembers how emotional he gets 😭

one time sanji wakes up face-down on a bar table, feeling like his head’s being cracked open, next to the girl he’d spent the night crying and being miserable with over margaritas and french 75s. she pats him sympathetically on the shoulder as he stumbles out, face buried in her arm, and he smooths a commiserating hand over her hair and tucks a wad of bills under her elbow to help her make sure she gets home safe. they end up being den den buddies and call each other occasionally to spill tea and gossip.

food and a cold shower helps sanji; bread and cheese is his go-to, whereas zoro just likes to hide in his bedding and die for the rest of the day. god bless his liver capacity.

that’s all for now,,, thank you for the ask anon!

#zosan #one piece zosan #zoro x sanji #roronoa zoro #one piece sanji #black leg sanji #one piece zoro #one piece #ino’s ask box

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miheartsedthings · 1 month

Note

Idea - Billy spending his time with someone else while the reader is crushing on him from afar, sees their relationship unfold into something the reader wishes they had with Billy, but Billy's just doing it to distract himself from his elevating feelings for her while she's trying not to feel crushed by this massive crush.. happy ending :>

Thank you so much for being patient while I worked on this! Hope you like it! 😘

“To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.” ― Federico García Lorca, Blood Wedding and Yerma

SFW, Angst, Fluff, Hidden Desire

Backing away, trembling, eyes filling with tears as his mouth babbles softly ‘No, it’s not real. This can’t…it can’t be happening…please…’ but it is happening. It has happened. Billy Hargrove has fallen in love, and much to his despair.

He wakes every morning from a nightmare of this all-consuming feeling. It’s terrible the way your face lives in his mind. You’ve replaced so many darker images and for that, he’s so grateful, but now there’s the cloying need for you. The Flayer’s voice used to echo in his skull. In the years since leaving Hawkins, it’s quieted down and now only one message remains, tacked to the back of his mind in perpetuity. No one will love you it says No one will stay.

This is the strongest because it’s the one he already believed. The ‘truth’ he already knew about himself. His being unloveable. He thought he’d made his peace with it. He thought he was satisfied enough to have survived the Flayer and made it back to California. For a time he found a kind of happiness. A hollow, sugary calm that left his days empty. There was booze again, and a slow reentry to weightlifting. His appetite for women was slowly returning. He’d made a couple of friends and attended a couple of parties. He was creating a new normal and it was okay that it didn’t feel exactly right.

He could live with the waves of loneliness that came over him at night. He could handle those dark memories and the nameless sense of loss. He would’ve been fine with it, if not for you. He saw you in class one morning. The dawn of another semester, another summer left behind. His skin was still warm from days on the beach, his head ringing with a hangover. Then you spoke and it was like you’d called his name with just the sound of it. He looked at you and listened to you, and every next thing you said spelled out his ruin. Every day the feeling sank further and further until he was bashful of looking your way.

As if that wasn’t enough, you kept showing up all over campus. You were in the student center whenever he went, and at parties he attended looking so fucking good in everything you wore. You passed by each other on your morning walk to separate classes and you always waved. Always with that lovely smile of yours. It got to the point where the thought of moving around campus made him anxious about running into you. He thought of you when he picked out his clothes, for fuck’s sake. Things couldn’t continue this way. He had to find peace from you. So, when Lauren asked him out one day after the class you shared, he said yes.

You’re trying to ignore the twist in your gut when you see Billy and Lauren walk in together. They’d always sat together in lecture, so you suppose it makes sense they’d start dating. But that doesn’t make it easier. You’d noticed Billy on your first day in class. He sat near the back, classically handsome and easily the most interesting person in class. When he talked, everyone listened, not just because of the way he looks. The way he speaks is filled with intention, right down to the gestures he chooses to accentuate his words. Whatever he feels he means it and he never shies away from that.

At the same time, you get the sense that what he says isn’t useless fluff, but based on something. Whatever he’s been through has changed him. You find yourself wanting to go up to him after class and ask him where he gets his confidence. You’d listen to his whole life story if he cared to tell you. But every time you thought you’d worked up the nerve to speak to him, those pretty blue eyes turned your nerve into vapor.

You’d always been a little shy, but with Billy, it was a new kind of nervousness. Even boys you’d had crushes on in school hadn’t made you feel the heart-stopping terror of his full attention. Maybe it was for the best that Lauren had taken him off the market. Now, there was no need to be nervous because there was no chance anything could happen. So why doesn’t that make it easier? Why, instead of relief when you see the pair together, do you only feel a queasy swell of envy?

“Count off when I point to you. Evens will be one team, odds will be another.”

You think nothing of it when the professor presents the group project. Then, you realize that you’re number three and Billy is number seven, and you’re flooded with fear.

“Oh nooo,” Lauren whines, hugging Billy’s arm to her chest. Billy says something softly to her. He’s always gentle with her, paying attention to every little thing she says. If only he’d look at you with the same care. He wears a lot of denim and smokes so much you smell the leftover cigarettes on him when he walks by. He’s always lost in thought when you see him. Something dark and cloudy behind his eyes you find yourself curious about. The distance is what kills you.

It feels unnatural that you can’t just go up and ask him what he’s thinking about. But you can’t. You watch the gentle way he pulls away from Lauren, telling her she doesn’t need to miss him since she’ll see him after class. You can’t blame her for being clingy, if he was yours you’d regret every moment apart.

His eyes lift and there you are, making his heart race. You look down to your notebook. Your two other group members have already arrived at the two seats beside and diagonal to you, leaving the spot across from you for Billy. He plops down, his face the perfect mask of indifference. He doesn’t even look at you. Your stomach hurts.

The professor explains the assignment and you turn in your seat to watch and listen, but the words are going over your head. Billy gives off a blazing heat and you can’t ignore it to save your life. After class the four of you agree to go right to the library and talk about the assignment.

In the library, only you and Billy show up. Of course, Lauren is there, too.

“Y/n, how do you get your hair to do that? It’s so cute!” Lauren smiles at you, twirling a lock of her auburn curls around her finger. You try to be lighthearted, but your face is burning.

“Just practice. And Youtube.” You chuckle. Billy sits there looking down at his phone. He’s still yet to speak since the three of you arrived in the library. Instead, Lauren has been acting as his mouthpiece.

“Very cute,” she says again, then nudges Billy. “Isn't her hair so cute, BB?”

Finally, his gaze lifts and he looks at you. You awkwardly smile and look down at your paper.

“Sure,” he says.

Lauren chastizes him, saying he’s supposed to agree with her and always compliment a lady on her appearance.

“It looks like the others aren’t coming,” You say, breaking into the conversation, sufficiently embarrassed and ready to escape. “We should try again later this week.”

In your hurry to get away, you snatch Billy’s pen from the table, shoving it into your bag with everything else. You don’t notice until you get home and quietly curse yourself. The next day, you see him in the student center when you go there to study. You smile and wave like you usually do, but then, wave him over. He hesitates a moment, his usual cool demeanor chipping a bit as he saunters over. Damn, even the way he walks is hot.

“I took this on accident yesterday,” you say, producing the pen. He smirks, flashing the sharp tips of his canines.

“Shit, you could’a kept it. I didn’t even notice.”

Right, he didn’t notice. Your neck goes warm.

“Sure, of course, I just thought…it’s yours, so…”

“Right.” He says.

“Right…”’

An oppressive quiet falls over the two of you, while you’re still holding the pen out to him and he’s still yet to take it and sweat is prickling the back of your neck because you’re not sure what to say or do. You’re certain the wrong move would ruin everything. Finally, a flicker of awareness snaps you out of it and you pull back your hand, unfortunately, it’s at the exact same moment he decides to reach for the pen.

“Oh,” you say, and extend it again and at the same moment he pulls back his hand. Both of you produce an awkward chuckle and he shifts onto his other leg.

“Keep it,” he says with a handsome little grin.

“Alright.” you clear your throat. “Did you ever hear from our group members?”

“Shit, no,” the two of you share a laugh, more comfortable this time. “It’s probably gonna be all on us.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” You’re chewing your lip, considering a bit of honesty you’d never had the nerve for until now. “Ya know, if I’m being honest, I don’t even remember what the assignment was.”

He cocks an eyebrow.

“You don’t know the assignment? Little miss answers every question?”

“Oh come on, I only answer half. You get the other half.”

He rolls his eyes, a playful chiding.

“Alright,” he slides into the seat opposite you. “I’ll explain it once so you better pay attention.”

“Swear.” You say, smiling brightly.

The assignment is abstract. As Billy explained it, you both found yourselves chuckling at your professor’s philosophical nature. It was a communications class, yet the assignment required in-depth study of your group mates in service of a short, but thorough introduction. You were to present your classmates as if they were receiving something like a Lifetime Achievement Award. Your speeches were to be “thoughtful, informative, and intimate”.

Billy explained all this and you enjoyed the uninterrupted view of him so up close. You were getting used to the way your stomach fell flat against your pelvis when he laughed, and soon enough you were joking right back. You asked him a few things you’d always wondered. Where had he been before Cali? Did he live in the dorms or off campus?

You talk about things you’ve overheard through dorm walls and about small towns. You tell him about friends back home and he tells you (In such vague terms that it only makes you even more curious) about his streak of trouble that almost killed him. He talks about the town he came from like it’s a dark blip on the map of his life.

“Should make Christmas fun, right?” You ask, joking.

“Fuck that,” he says. “I’m not going back.”

The mood turns somber and your smile fades. You take up the pen he gave you and take note.

“‘Hates Hawkins more than he loves Christmas’. Got it.”

He smiles.

“Nice. Very accurate.”

“Thanks,” you say “And if it makes you feel any better, I won’t be going home for break, either.”

For a moment the two of you are quiet, taken off guard by how natural it feels to be in the other’s company. You both let your eyes wander as you never had before. A small indulgence. Then his phone rings and you’re both reminded of the reality of things. It’s Lauren, asking where he is.

The next day, your group members still don’t show up to the library. Lauren’s meeting up with her own group, leaving you and Billy alone.

“What do you think she means by ‘intimate’?”

Billy looks up from his draft of your introduction. He looks extraordinarily handsome today and you've been having trouble holding eye contact. You try, of course, locking eyes and waiting for the rush of nerves to pass. His lids are tapered, and now that you think of it, every eyes you've ever admired have been tapered, just like his. His expression is thoughtful.

“Shit, I don't know. More than personal. Yeah, more than superficial. Something that lets em feel like they've known you for years.”

What would it be like to know him for years? You start to imagine the depth of understanding you'd come to have about this person and your heart starts to race. You're beginning to really appreciate this assignment.

“And the trick is doing it in two weeks.” You say, leaning back in your chair. “Well, I'll tell you my secrets if you tell me yours.”

He chuckles.

“So you can go blab about them in class? No thanks.”

“I wouldn't blab,” you say through a laugh, “I just wanna get a feel-” your nerves catch up to you right then. At the worst time. He cocks an eyebrow, making you cringe.

“You wanna feel.” He teases.

“No, no, not like that.”

“Uh huh.”

“I'm curious about you, that's all. You're interesting.”

“Hm.”

“Nevermind, forget I said anything.”

He's smirking, and writing something in his notebook.

“This is good,” he says “you're givin me plenty to work with.”

You groan, now fully embarrassed and he laughs again. Your eyes drop to your paper and you read over what you have so far.

“So,” he says, “Ask me something. If you're curious.”

You consider this invitation for a moment and decide it's now or never. You lean forward, folding your arms over each other.

“Well, in class you're always saying you don't like non-verbal communication. It's cheap and sneaky-”

“Lazy,” he corrects you. “It's the shit people rely on so they don't have to open their mouths.”

“Well…I just wonder if you might be oversimplifying things, and maybe if you don't like non-verbal communication from people because you don't know how to read it.”

His brows raise in a look of mock surprise.

“Yeah? What, you think I can't pick up on shit?”

“It's just a theory,” you say, laughing “But there's something to it. Non-verbals are valuable.”

“Depends on what they are,” he says.

“True. They're not all equal, but why hate them? I mean I know what you've said in class, they avoid the point, people use it as a crutch, but why do you think that?”

He sighs, leaning back in his chair, his eyes finding the ceiling behind your head. He sits there looking into the middle distance, pacing through thoughts. Making sense of something.

“You can't go through life...making people read your mind about shit.” He says, hesitating over a few of his words. You can tell this is harder for him to say. More honest. “People need to hear things…if they don't, they assume. And if you're stuck up your own ass trying to hold shit in, you never set it straight. What they think about you stays…”

You're watching him as he speaks, gesturing in order to help bring the words out. He brushes a curly lock of gold out of his eyes and as his voice peters out your gaze lingers on his parted lips.

“You are very non-verbal.” His eyes shoot up to yours, snapping you out of your spell. “Not in a bad way,” you add.

“In what way?”

You shrug.

“I don't know.” He doesn't look away, his eyes are fixed on you in a serious look of curiosity. “You talk with your hands. And to me that speaks to how genuinely you feel about things. Which is nice. You have an easy smile, it shows up as soon as you're amused and disappears the moment you're not. So, there's honesty in that, I think. You're very present.” He's watching you with a softness in his eyes that makes you warm. “And Lauren.” The mention of her name changes something in him. He looks away. “You uh…you keep your arm around her chair. It's protective.”

A moment passes where neither of you speaks, and you feel a quiet sadness settling over you.

“Anyway,” you continue, looking at your paper now, “Why hate it so much when it says so much about you?”

The longer you sit there in silence the more agitated Billy seems to get. He says he has to go and starts gathering his stuff. You assume it's because you've crossed a boundary by bringing up Lauren and you part ways with a gnawing guilt making your eyes water.

The next time you see Billy, you're at a party in the apartments near campus. People are crammed into the tight space, but the atmosphere is lively and warm. You and your friend stand in the kitchen, leaning against the island, cups in hand, already buzzed.

“Didn’t she say where he’d been?” Your friend asks. Her eyes are covered in sparkly purple eyeshadow and dark liner. Her signature look.

“You know my mom. She’s cryptic. All she said was my dad’s back and I need to come home over break.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Lame.”

“Lame is one word for it.”

You drain your cup of its contents and then refill it, not enjoying the thought of being around your parents for the holidays. It’s not like they’re bad people, they just expect a lot which can be hard to stomach when your dad disappears whenever he wants to. Your mom doesn’t make it any easier by demanding you be the perfect child to him whenever he decides to be home.

Your cup is mostly vodka with just enough cranberry juice to change the color. You slam it in less than a minute, making your friend laugh.

“Fuck,” she giggles. “That’s better. Let’s talk about that fine-ass classmate of yours.”

“Let’s not,” you answer, but your face is already warming thinking about Billy.

“Is he still with what’s her face?”

“Very much.”

“I don’t get that.”

“What’s not to get? She’s a nice enough girl and he’s about the most scrumptious guy I’ve ever seen.”

She shakes her head.

“Something’s off about it. Remember the episode of Catfish when it was really the dude’s cousin?”

You laugh.

“She was mad because he called her a fat-ass Kelly Price?”

“Yes! I knew, remember? I knew it was her all along! And when I think about you and this boy I get the same feeling, like the call is coming from inside the house.”

The two of you are laughing about this when you glance over into the living room and spot him. You can’t help gasping and your friend quickly follows your gaze. He and Lauren are just arriving, looking around, Lauren spots a group of girls she knows and goes shrieking over to them with her arms outstretched. You turn before Billy can catch you looking.

“Shit,” you mumble, taking another drink.

“No, this is good,” your friend says, “You have to get to the bottom of this.”

“There is no bottom of it,” you say, the reality of the situation hitting you again. “He has a girlfriend, there’s nothing left to do.” You glance over your shoulder and see you’ve lost track of him. “In fact. I’m avoiding him.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’ll be back and then we can leave.”

You don’t listen to your friend’s pleas to stay, you move away in search of the bathroom. It’s at the end of a short hall, but as you’re on your way there, you see a bedroom door cracked open and movement catches your eye. Curiosity gets the better of you so you peek into the room, noticing a little black cat licking itself on the edge of the bed.

If you hadn’t been drunk, you would’ve kept moving, but you were drunk, more than you’d realized a second ago, and you couldn’t resist. You pushed into the quiet bedroom, gently closing the door behind you. The cat gave a curious, curling meow and watched you as you sat down beside it.

“Hey kitty,” you called, softly.

It rose, curling its back into a stretch and then bumping its little head into your palm. It meows again, eagerly arching its body against you.

“So sweet,” you coo, “Such a little sweetie baby, huh?”

The cat meows and cranes up to sniff as you scratch under its chin. In your fuzzy vodka brain, it makes perfect sense to lay back and let the cat curl up on your belly, which it promptly does. It’s lying there purring when the door opens and you bolt upright, suddenly terrified that the person whose room this is has caught you. Instead, you’re terrified to see Billy.

You sit there with the cat in your lap, your body filling with warmth. As good as he looks at school, there’s something entirely different about him in this kind of setting. Something loosened. A sly smile spreads across his lips.

“I knew it,” he says.

“Knew what?”

“You’re the type to be at a party and go snooping around for the pet.”

You laugh at yourself.

“Well, this actually happened by accident.”

“Sure.”

There it is again: that comfortable stillness you keep feeling between the two of you. How can he just stand there not saying a thing and make you feel at home? You remember Lauren and look down at the cat. Its fur is so smooth and ink-black. Its eyes are an uncanny emerald color.

“So, turns out I am going home for Christmas break.”

“Couldn’t resist.”

You smile at his sarcasm.

“It’s really a favor to my mom. My dad’s home so it’s…I don’t know, it’s stupid. But I’ll be there ‘cause it’s family.”

You don’t look at him, but if you had you’d see such conflict in his eyes.

“Figured out another thing I hate about non-verbal shit.”

You look up then, as he crosses the space to sit beside you. The cat is immediately curious, stepping across your lap to carefully sniff and then headbut Billy’s thigh.

“What's that?”

“It leaves it all up to the other person. You make em’ watch you and read into everything. They end up feeling like a stalker. Then if they get it wrong, it’s like, this whole fantasy they had is just empty bullshit.”

He’s tan, bringing his faint freckles into contrast. He smells like shampoo and cologne, and he’s warm. You can tell that when his hand brushes your thigh when he offers his palm to the cat.

“Funny,” you say, your voice has fallen soft and airy, but you don’t notice. You’re focused on his eyes “My introduction to you is all about how no-bullshit you are.”

He smirks, but it’s without the usual mischief.

“Better change that,” he says “I’m so full of shit I can’t stand it.”

You stare at him for a moment, and he comes into focus then, in a new way. You understand something new about him and just as you expected, it feels incredible.

“I get it now,” You say “The real reason you hate non-verbals.”

A little glint of apprehension passes through his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“You hate them ‘cause you-”

The door opens, and Lauren is there. Her smile falters into a lopsided grin.

“There you are,” she chirps. “Not in the bathroom.”

The two of them leave quickly, Billy tossing plastic parting words over his shoulder as he rushes away. You’re left in a stillness that doesn’t end when you get up to leave. It stays with you, burning and hollow.

You’re having trouble focusing in class on Monday. Your professor is more than a little surprised to see you being so quiet, and when she asks if you have anything to add to the discussion you quietly explain that you’re not feeling well. She asks if you’d like to leave early and you take her up on the offer. Anything to get away from Billy and Lauren.

She’s been all over him, even more than usual and it’s hard to stomach. You keep thinking back to the party and your encounter with Billy. What had it meant? You felt like it was on the tip of your tongue but you couldn’t make anything crystalize into shape. Your head was drowned.

Later, in the student center, you stare down at your paragraph. Nothing about it seemed right anymore and you kept re-structuring it. The paper was clogged with scribbles and strikethroughs. Your head was down, your hands framing your eyes as you stared down at the page and you didn’t look up when he sat down.

“Finish what you were saying the other night,” he says.

“I don’t remember.”

“Of course you do.”

“I was drunk, Billy. Forget it. Please?”

You hear him sigh and adjust in his chair.

“It’s over with Lauren.”

You look up and find his eyes are stone-cold and focused. His brows pinched.

“Did you…?”

“I’m done with the bullshit, Y/n. Fuck bein’ scared. Fuck the non-verbal shit.”

A jolt of energy zips up your spine, pulling you straighter in your seat. Your heart is pressed against your lungs as you watch his eyes, full of a new determination.

“What does that mean?” you venture.

His eyes take in your features, slowly, savoring the look of you.

“I don’t have a fuckin letter of this speech written down because I’m such dogshit at explaining who you are. Maybe if I had a year I could get started but it’s impossible right now. So I’m failing this project. Which is fine. But I want that year, if I’m not getting the grade.”

You’re stunned for a moment, until a ripple of laughter breaks the quiet. You share the joy, his smile evidence of an understanding.

“Just a year?” You ask.

“Enough to get started,” he says “That’s maybe half a sentence.”

“How much time would it take?”

“How much do you have?”

You laugh again, a palm over your heated face.

“I can’t believe this,” you say, then look at him, astonished. “I was right. You’re total shit at saying how you feel.”

He smiles and shrugs.

“Told you.”

“Yeah," you say, "that you tell me.”

Dividers from saradika-graphics

Photos from Pinterest

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #stranger things #billy hargrove imagine #billy stranger things #fanfic #story #miheartsedthings

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lemmetreatya · 1 year

Text

home and away - coworker!toji x fem!reader

thank you for another follower milestone!! 🫂❤️ i love you all so very much and yet again im sorry i couldn’t do an event for it but i hope you all enjoy the holidays 🫶🏾💖

contains: smut, fingering, voyeursim, pen.(fem)

currently thinking about how your voyeurist coworker!toji would be once you’ve gone on a department business excursion.

how he protectively slipped you into his room after the first day of group dinner, your other coworkers a bit too sloshed to notice the sneaky pairing.

or how you’d laugh aloud once you saw the balcony extension past his hotel room curtains and how you knew exactly what he had in mind in bringing you here.

how coworker!toji is able to finger your soppy cunt from behind as you held onto the balcony railing — two fingers pumping in and out of your squelching mess as you writhe forwards in pleasure.

“uh, ah! dont run from me, sweetheart!”

a shit eating grin would plaster his face as his other hand grabs you by your hip, fingers digging into your squidgy flesh as he watches your pussy subconsciously dribble onto his palms, his fingers drenched with your aromatic fluids.

coworker!toji loves having you like this, especially since he gets to hear your wet cries of pleasure call out into the noir night sky over the balcony of the hotel room. he knows the room below and to the right are occupied so his intentions are not to be discreet with you.

“i want everyone to see how well you come over my fingers. how y’er always so weak for me.”

he continues to pump in and out of you, his fingers curling so that they’re able to briefly brush that gooey spot hidden inside of your guts. the picturesque scene of your naked back and the far away lights of the city neighbourhood burning into his brain.

“they’re so clueless. the way they don’t know that we’ve done the same thing in their coffee lounges and offices. they dont know.”

he says more to himself than to you. coworker!toji reminisces the hard-ons he sometimes pops throughout the day when he sees a colleague casually use a desk he knows hes lapped your squirt off of or a chair he knows hes fucked up into you in. hollowing you out like this in the open air with the chances of anyone of those people peeping out to see what you were both doing was turning his cock rock solid.

after hes made you come once, he’s definitely going to fuck you over the balcony.

“to-to-to-toji…”

your words slurred, mind unable to process or harvest anything worthwhile. all your body could produce were whoreish moans of wanton and sticky fluids from both your lips, dribbling everywhere.

“thats it, darling. just mess everywhere for me. i know you’re close, i can feel it. just let go, don’t worry about anything else.”

coworker!toji would finger you to completion as your orgasm noisily waves over you and your cunt pushes out a spit of frothy cream in sync with the heartbeat of your climaxing pussy.

coworker!toji would shower you with praises of ‘good girl’ and ‘well done’ before telling you it was now his turn.

#toji drabbles #toji x reader #toji smut #toji fushiguro #toji x black reader #toji x you

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thebramblewood · 3 months

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If the Vatores stand united on one thing, it's their absolute disdain for Old Man Vlad.

Previous / Next

(Psst... there's some bonus lore under the cut for those who can't get enough.)

More on the Vatores' complicated relationship with Vlad to come, but for now I will say that settling in Forgotten Hollow despite hating his guts was absolutely a (petty) power move on Lilith's part. Vlad doesn't have any qualms about killing humans. In fact, he has little interest in the affairs of humans at all. But what he doesn't care for is Lilith's ostentatious style. He's very old-fashioned and set in his ways regarding how a "proper" vampire should behave and doesn't like when they draw too much attention to themselves because he believes it puts vampires as a collective at risk. He once hoped to mold Lilith in his image, but that obviously didn't work out, and he now finds her indiscreet, disrespectful, and lacking manners, and he finds Caleb a wimpy annoyance who should have never been turned.

I also wanted to explain a bit more about vampire telepathy in my universe. There's a psychic link between sire vampires and their children that allows them to communicate internally (as we've seen Lilith and Vlad do before - and we'll explore the circumstances of her turning in the future!) and also to probe each other's thoughts/memories (which, for example, is what allows Caleb to track down Helena). Physical distance weakens the link, and stronger vampires can establish barricades against intrusion (like Caleb is trying to do now with Lilith). It's also not a constant thing. It's an active choice to enter another's mind. Caleb is considerate (yes, even with his sister), so he does it sparingly and accesses only the information he needs. Lilith and Vlad couldn't care less, so they'll shamelessly dig for secrets. Most vampires are also able to wield telepathic powers over humans, although obviously this takes skill and practice. Humans' minds are more vulnerable and as such more susceptible to hypnosis. This allows vampires to control humans for feeding and other purposes and also to erase or alter their memories. I don't think any of this greatly deviates from what you would expect, and I've tried to imply most of it through the storytelling, but I just wanted to explain it all in one place.

Caleb: [stiffly] Straud.

Vlad: It seems you’re out and about these days more than your sister is. How is Lilith anyway? I can’t imagine she's finally come to her senses and decided to practice moderation for once in her life.

Caleb: Why don’t you rummage around in her thoughts and find out for yourself? She picked up that habit from you, after all.

Vlad: She’s learned how to keep up her guard against me. [pointed look] As I’m sure you’ve learned your own tricks against her. No matter. There are things in that girl's head beyond description. I’d rather not get mired in her depravity. Surely you know what I mean.

Caleb: I never acquired a taste for extracting people’s secrets without their permission.

Vlad: Of course not. You’re a peculiar creature, aren’t you? I warned her you wouldn’t be suited to this life. Well, in this case, you’re likely better off. Maintaining blissful ignorance is undoubtedly more pleasant than holding the eternal knowledge of all she’s done.

Caleb: [impatiently] Is there something else you wanted to discuss?

Vlad: That man - what is it, Benali? - and his charming little book… It’s not going to cause trouble, is it?

Caleb: I haven’t seen any angry hordes yet. This is your town, old man. There’ll be no trouble so long as you don’t let it in.

#ts4 #sims 4 #ts4 story #sims 4 story #simblr #story: hzid #vladislaus straud #caleb vatore #vlad said “yeah i'm evil but lilith is the DEVIL incarnate”#LISTEN i can't do too many scenes with him because i have no idea how to dress him lol!!#it's hard enough with caleb #i just don't have enough non-modern/sporty male clothes #also the book mention is a distraction #you should be more concerned about the rest of the conversation ;)

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