#these lines suit him so well i want to cry | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

randombush3 · 5 months

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audentes fortuna iuvat

alexia putellas x reader

part one, part two

words: 9541

summary: alexia and you as posh + becks III

content warnings: there’s some (a lot of) cheating + postpartum depression. it’s more frustrating than sad though x

notes: this covers 2019-22(ish). It was SUPPOSED to be the last part. It’s not anymore. I’m gonna do a fourth to deal w the mess I have created in a more self-indulgent amount of words than the 3k i had planned. That will probably have smut in it 😛

“Y/n left me.”

The limousine you are in is completely black, save for the white lines being measured out right next to you.

“What?” says Jenni.

“She left me,” Alexia says once more. The hotel room is a non-committal beige. They lie in the same bed, the older of the two welcoming her lost teammate wordlessly and without judgement. Tomorrow, they will return to Barcelona, losers yet another time. “She moved back to london. She took Nico.”

“She can’t just take Nico, can she?”

“Y/n, how’s Nico?” Your stomach turns, but whether that is provoked by the thought of the baby boy you left crying in your father’s arms or by the white powder outlining the rim of the woman’s nostrils, you don’t know.

Your son’s creasing eyes, red face, and grabbing hands appear in front of you. He screams as you walk away. He doesn’t understand why he has not smelt Alexia in weeks, and he misses the comfort of home.

Everyone waits for your answer. No one comments on the bags under your eyes. “He's fine,” you say with a smile. “He loves it here.”

“I think she is depressed,” Alexia tells Jenni, comforted by the arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close and tightly and reminding her that she is not as alone as you have made her feel. “She told me that she couldn’t be in Barcelona anymore, but she said that without giving me a chance to come with her. Her bags were packed before the conversation started — she might as well have called me from the plane.”

“Are you angry at her?”

“Yes.”

Alexia thinks about it.

“No.”

“No,” you say when they point at your very own line. The drug holds a place of both familiarity and hatred in your heart. The fine, white powder reminds you of greatness – of being the most successful girl group in the UK – but, also, of hospital visits. It’s not a past addiction, but it could have been. You light a cigarette instead, though it will make the vehicle reek. “I can't. I have a son.”

“You’re not a saint.” They boo. “You’re allowed to have fun. I saw you the other day, and you had no qualms with any drugs then.”

“No, I'm not a saint,” you reply. You regret that night — however little you remember. “But I am a mother.”

“Is it that thing? Postpartum?” Jenni asks. “The baby blues are really shitty, I've heard, but they’re not supposed to cripple you. Maybe the relationship has other issues.”

“I'm not angry at her, Jenni,” Alexia repeats. “I miss Nico. He looks like her. He has started to look a lot more like her now.”

“He would definitely suit those sparkly bralettes.” Jenni giggles at the thought.

With an understandable lack of good humour, Alexia ponders something more realistic. “He would suit a Barcelona kit.”

“He would be made for it. You are his mother.”

“I'm not angry at her,” Alexia says for the third time, just to make herself believe it. Just to carve those words into her bones and tell herself that it isn’t anger, what she’s feeling. “I don't want to be angry at her. I think I'm going to see if I can move to arsenal.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Well, I'm not angry at her.”

“Alexia.” Jenni cups her cheek tenderly. “Ale.” She knows she shouldn’t. She’s not angry at you, and so there is no punishment needed. Not that… Not that kissing Jenni would ever be utilised as a weapon to get back at you. Or that she’d actually kiss her.

“Daddy, I can't get him tonight. No, I don't want to stay over. Daddy, I…” You hate the baby. You hate yourself. You hate that Spain hasn’t done well, and that your fiancée is disappointed that nothing is how it was supposed to be. Alexia is probably lying awake in bed, missing her son, and missing you. You expect one of her teammates to call you soon, and tell her that she needs you. You’re her person. “I'm going to get some sleep and I'll pick him up tomorrow. Probably around lunchtime, okay?”

“Alexia, bésame.”

…

You had passively bought your house. It’s how property sale works when you’re a celebrity. People are always willing to do things for you if you know the price, and it never hurts to use your name to add a new flashy level to whatever stupid business they are running. It’s a mutual exploitation, to some extent.

Highgate is beautiful. The house is beautiful.

The reception room, with its high, decorated ceilings, is your favourite place to numbly take in the twisted jigsaw of your life when Nico has cried himself to sleep. The nursery is on the first floor. He is near enough for safety, but at a distance that allows you to regret all the mistakes you have made.

You watch him roll over onto his stomach, eyes trained on the baby monitor though your fingers graze the ivory keys of your new piano, attempting to compose something worthwhile. At this rate, your solo career is going to fail just like your relationship seems to be doing.

Yesterday, while Alexia seemingly disappeared from the face of the Earth, you came out. It was an off-hand comment during the Graham Norton Show. A quick ‘my fiancée named him. She’s from Barcelona’ was all it took. You hope Alexia, wherever she may be, has heard about it. Jenni would have told her. You trust Jenni to be somewhat on your side because she always has been.

The doorbell rings just as you sniffle, wiping away the tear that slips down your cheek. “Don’t be pathetic,” you mutter to yourself. “You didn’t pay five million pounds to sit here and cry. You chose to come back home.”

Being in England – colder, drearier, lonelier England – has made you realise that your decision was not the right one. Or maybe it was. It has proven that you are as terrible a mother as you convinced yourself you were back in Barcelona, and it has also shoved the cavity Alexia leaves in your life when you refuse her entry right down your throat in the form of a constant lump and a dull stabbing in your chest whenever you think about anything past whether Nico has had anything to eat. You can’t even feed him properly, despite it being supposedly in your nature. You buy formula from the nearest Waitrose.

The doorbell rings again.

The insistence is not uncommon seeing as you are, at the minute, the English press’s number one target. You open the CCTV app on your phone so that you can decide whether or not to ignore the potential stalker, and your heart rate spikes when you see the hooded figure standing on the porch. Back to the door, it is not possible to determine the threat. A well-buried maternal instinct kicks in for once, and you ensure that Nico is still peacefully out cold before getting up to answer the door with the poker from the Victorian fireplace firmly in your grip. Just in case.

You are a mother, in whatever capacity you have decided that role looks like, and so you undo the three latches on the door with brave, protective fingers. The baby monitor’s volume has increased, and the fuzz of white noise is audible if Nico were to make a sound. The vague repulsion at the idea of it all is only an aftertaste in your silent prayer for the hooded figure to not want to kill you. Some sick part of your brain imagines Nico dead, as well. It tortures you.

The poker in your other hand, for the most fleeting of moments, is almost plunged into your chest. The imaginary, self-inflicted wound makes you think of the blood and how the baby upstairs would wail until someone found him. The grimace of annoyance on your lips is nothing new, but you have no more time to torment yourself because the doorbell is pressed again, rather impatiently.

You open the door and the hooded figure is right in front of you. “He’s asleep,” you say, the Spanish foreign on your tongue.

Alexia shrugs, and her hood falls down, revealing the brunette tendrils that hang from her slowly sinking bun. “I came for you,” she replies, so earnestly that it is as if nothing ever happened: past pain forgotten and replaced by sprouting memories of soft kisses and mornings where leaving was too hard to do. Some of them, you think, are not real. They don’t seem to be. Your blank stare is unsettling. You almost don’t believe her. “Can we talk?” she tries, and you notice the team-issued duffle on the tiled floor she is standing on. Then, from the pocket of her hoodie, she extracts a pastry box. The plastic window is filled with circles of different colours, and she holds out the macaroons to you as if to bribe her way into a home in which she is unsure she belongs to.

Stepping aside, leaning the poker against the wall by the door, you scratch at the bare skin of your neck. Alexia, while sweeping an arm down to collect her bag, fixes her gaze onto the ring you are wearing, and the diamond glistens with hope that this can all be fixed. “Would you like to come inside?”

She swallows the whine of anguish that tears her heart open at the idea that this might never be her house to live in, too, and she follows you dutifully as you lead her through hallways far more luxurious than the flat in Barcelona could ever be. This is what you left her for – the person you are, no longer in worn clothing with messy hair, is quite the opposite of the woman with her back to her moments before she had to focus on football. The necklace draped on your sharpened collarbones is new, and she does not dare believe what she has been hearing is true. Yes, there are pictures, but she trusts you. She will always trust you.

“Have a seat,” you say, gesturing to the wooden dining table. It is clean enough for her to determine that it is unused. Alexia places the macaroons in front of her, and aches at how you sit at the opposite end.

“I…”

“I thought you were going to give me all the time that I needed.” It is a statement of distance, as if your location is not enough.

Alexia, eyes widening at how unwelcome she suddenly feels, needs only to remind herself of the impending date of the wedding. It is beginning to loom uncomfortably, with the excitement of getting married drained out like a low tide on a deserted beach. “We have two weeks. If it isn’t going to happen, then you should tell me now. We have to give everyone notice so that they can cancel their flights.” Your silence spurs her on. “You will need to contact the wedding planner, because you refused to let me have a hand in any of it so I don’t even have their number. I’m sorry that you won’t be able to wear your dress. Vivienne Westwood is a big thing for you, I know. I’m sorry that it’s inconvenient.”

“But Alexia,” you whisper, “I don’t not want to get married.”

Her eyebrows furrow, head tilted slightly to the left. “I know. That is why I am saying this.”

Your voice grows louder. “No, no. Sorry, that wasn’t the easiest thing to understand.” Across the dining table, your love that has faltered, that has hesitated and been reconsidered and been stamped down over the past month, extends towards her: its final destination, always and forever. Alexia feels it grab her by the throat, wrenching the words from her before she can even formulate a thought in response, and her body is so drawn to you, in such a powerful fashion, that she pushes her chair out from the table with a grating scrape and is stepping towards you with a finality that makes her wonder if she’ll ever leave your side.

As she approaches, the idea that she is here becomes a little too real. You have played with the fantasy of it, of course, but the tenderness in her usually fierce eyes does not match the anger you had expected, and, in the most feeble fashion, you have never felt more apologetic in your life.

“I’m so sorry,” you begin to say. Tears stream down your face with freed anguish, and the words are so simple yet they bear the weight of your entire soul. “I’m so sorry, darling. I made a mistake, and I have been met with the most crushing of realisations: I can’t do this without you, Alexia.” I still want to marry you, Alexia.

The room seems to close in on your despair, attempting to bottle it, almost, and keep you trapped underneath a haze of emotions you don’t quite know how to sort through. “I… I’m beginning to hate him.” The confession hangs heavy over Alexia’s bowed head as she stands frozen in place, stuck in her journey towards you but unable to arrive. “I’m acutely aware of how cruel it is,” you continue, this next admission being what agonises you the most. It floods the room with guilt, and your voice trembles with self-condemnation that reigns harsher than any other voice in your head.

“It’s ridiculous. I’m evil and I’m wrong, and I just feel like it is inherently in my nature to be like this, as though some fault has been built into me with warning signs we evidently ignored.” You struggle to breathe. “I wish I could take back the day we decided to have him,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper, lips doused in tears, skin searing with shame when Alexia cups your cheek with a strong, calloused hand. “He should not have to be stuck with me as a mother.”

Your chest heaves, and you are finished. You have never verbalised it before now, and it is impossible to decide whether it has helped remove the lead lining of your heart where it has been bolstered against your will. Her other hand steadily rises to your face, but then, with only a second of hesitation, she is pulling you upwards and enveloping you in her embrace. You feel a little bit closer to her. “Mi amor,” Alexia murmurs, tone cracked with sorrow and regret. “Lo siento mucho. Desearía haber sabido, desearía haber estado allí para ti.”

Gently, she tilts your face upwards to meet her gaze. “You are not evil and no estás equivocada. Estoy aquí ahora, y no te dejaré enfrentar esto sola nunca más.” You collapse into her. “I’m here, cariño, and I am not going anywhere.”

The sentiment is wonderful, and Alexia makes good on her word.

When Nico begins to cry, the sound piercing through your choked sobs, Alexia realises she has missed all of her life with you. Being separated and being apart due to work, she now knows, are two excruciatingly different things. The whiny wails from upstairs visibly jar you, though you pull away from Alexia to attend to him. “I will do it,” she declares, though her firmness is not mean. “Sit down. Eat the macaroons – they’re… ‘to die for’?” You nod with instinctive encouragement. “Sí. They’re to die for. Try. Jenni says that the pink ones are the best.”

“Jenni picked them out?” you ask with a briefly regained humour, eyebrows raising. “Had to get your friend to choose your apology gift?” In truth, neither of you know what Alexia would be apologising for, but Nico’s crying grows more incessant and Alexia is climbing the carpeted staircase before the topic can be discussed.

Alexia reaches her son with tears brimming in her eyes. The failure of Spain at the World Cup is amplified by the idea that she has disappointed him, though he does not yet possess the tools to pledge his allegiance to her country. In fact, Nico has been sleeping in Manchester United attire (your father has been his primary carer of late, and he does not charge you money, so the price is obviously Alexia’s sanity). She is more than glad to smell his nappy, and delighted about the opportunity to change him into something less hideous.

“Mama loves you so much,” she tells him as she manoeuvres his chubby legs into a plain, inoffensive onesie. “I promise, petit. I am going to help her, okay? And we are going to get through this together.” Alexia forgets about the taste of Jenni’s lips and the heat between them. “Mama just doesn’t see the direction she is going in. It is like her eyes are covered, and she is telling herself that she is walking down the wrong path, but this is not true. You are the most special thing in the world to us. You are the sunrise, the sunset, and the hours of the day.”

She pauses to stand him up on his tiny feet, hands hoisted underneath his armpits. He is heavier than when she last held him, but she is stronger than before, too. Women’s football is growing, along with her muscles. Nico babbles out a vague reply, but Alexia hears what he is trying to say. “I agree. We’ll be alright.” And, with all her heart, it rings true.

…

The following day, she calls the doctor for you, script written out on a piece of paper in front of her, translated perfectly so that her concern does not waver the information she needs to tell the receptionist. The clinic is famous and discreet, and they are quick to prescribe you antidepressants before the week draws to a close. You won’t be able to drink at your wedding, and everyone might think you are pregnant again, but Alexia reassures you that it will be worth it.

Wrapped up in your own bubble, the three of you enjoy London in a way that isn’t possible in Barcelona.

Here, Alexia has no commitment to football. There are no training sessions she must rush off to, there are no teammates to pry, and no one else to interfere with your private little routine. You quite like it, and she does too. It is only temporary, before you fly out to Menorca and hand Nico off to Eli in order to enjoy your respective bachelorette parties and then, in exactly seven days, your wedding itself.

“You’re still smoking,” Alexia says disapprovingly, the sleep in her voice enough to make you feel a pang of guilt. It’s late at night when Nico has finally been soothed from his aching gums, and she has been able to climb back into bed expecting to find you asleep already. “Why are you awake?”

“I’m still smoking,” you tell her. She sighs at the way you parrot her words, but presses an affectionate kiss to the junction of your neck and shoulders despite the lingering smell of cigarettes. “If I can’t drink, I’m going to smoke. This is Hollywood.”

“This is Highgate.” Her accent curls around the name with something a little too foreign for her to ever consider this place home. “Why are you awake?” she repeats.

You look down at the open notebook in your lap, the pages either blank or full of crossed-out lyrics. “He was so loud, but I can’t seem to write anything either so, really, it has been quite redundant.”

“I had to get a glass full of ice and hold it to my fingers so that I could help him. I could have lost some very important assets, but it seemed to do the trick.” He’s teething. You’re telling yourself that the antidepressants are little pills of miracle, and have kicked in already. “Feel.” She presses two freezing fingers to your cheek, and you gasp, flinching away from her.

“There’s a teething ring downstairs, you know,” you tell her. She shrugs. Maybe it isn’t clean. “Don’t give yourself frostbite. I happen to quite like your fingers.”

Alexia’s smirk is beyond suggestive, and her lips hit your neck once more with an entirely different heat to them. “Yeah?” You push her head away. “I bet it would feel good. Nice and cold.”

“You’re delirious.”

She continues to kiss you. “I don’t know what that means,” she mumbles into your neck, until her lips reach your face and she is near climbing into your lap – notebook long pushed onto the floor. “Dímelo en español.”

“No lo sé.”

“Ah. Una palabra inteligente.”

“Claro.”

She laughs into the kiss she presses against your lips. She never has never felt like this with anyone else. Never this relaxed, or loved, or safe. “Me vas a matar con tu inteligencia y voy a sentirme estúpida para siempre.”

“I love you,” you state softly. “I love every part of you.” Alexia, in that moment, decides to never do what she did with Jenni again, and to never break your heart by informing you of her betrayal.

…

You’re married.

You’re married to Alexia, a woman who bears the beauty of a goddess and the strength and will of someone who could capture the sun and tame the fire that rages on its surface.

You admire her as she sleeps so peacefully beside you, tanned skin warmed by the sunlight streaming in through the large windows of the hotel room. Later, you will get on the ferry, go back to Barcelona, and then fly to Capri for three days alone before Alexia’s preseason starts. Aside from a few meetings with Dave, you theoretically aren’t swamped with anything. You’ll be joining her in her city with Nico with a bit more permanence than last time.

Alexia buries her face in the covers, crawling into your open arms the minute the sunlight rouses her. “Everything is sore,” she groans, her bare skin slightly sticking to yours, the sweat from last night not yet gone.

“What happened to ‘mi vida, one more time won’t hurt’?” you tease, impersonating her heavy accent over your English with enough drama to get her to elicit another grumble. This time, it’s something about being bullied. “Darling, we have to get up. We’re having breakfast with our parents, and apparently Nico has been upset that we got a night to ourselves.”

“Pobrecito,” she replies with a newfound level of English sarcasm. She spent the wedding reception avoiding the dance floor, engaged in a long conversation with your father. The topics spanned over most areas of life, and briefly touched upon how you are doing now. Alexia, with much pleasure, confirmed the improvement, however miniscule it has been. She is very proud of you, and he is too. “I only want one thing for breakfast.”

Her hands begin to roam, the band of her wedding ring hitting your pubic bone. “Mi vida, one more time won’t hurt,” she mocks you from before but in her sexier, Spanish husk, sucking at your collarbone, straddling your waist.

You replace your near moan with a thoughtful hum. “I really want pancakes. Do you think they’ll make me some?”

Downstairs, where it is brighter and impossible to conceal the hickeys on both of your necks, you greet your parents, brother, Anya, and Gio. Alexia’s mother, her sister, and Jenni are sitting at the table, too. Your baby is pretending he isn’t teething, and grinning like an angel.

“How’s married life?” Anya asks as you take a seat opposite her, Alexia to your right. The table has a gradient of bilingualism, but Gio discovered that she picks up Spanish quite easily considering she can already speak one romance language. “We’ve already found, like, four articles talking about it.”

“How?” you ask, but you are not offended.

Gio shrugs. “Drones, I guess. Nothing bad, though. Some speculation about the other bride – if the article does mention that. Most talk is on the dress.” It was a bloody good dress. “And I suspect that there’ll be a juicy little question about who was your Maid of Honour.”

“Don’t be salty,” you tell her. The MOH issue was sorted out years ago – perhaps 2015 – when you binged Friends together despite having watched it thousands of times before. Anya has been yours, Gio will be hers, and you will be Gio’s. And they say trios never work.

“I left Mia with her dad for this.”

“You shouldn’t have had a baby with a man-slag,” Anya says with a snort, enjoying her second mimosa and Gio’s grimace at the idea of her daughter having to put up with her father’s revolving door of one-night-stands. “You’re one to make terrible decisions. At least our girl over here’s married someone who looks at her like she’s hung the moon.”

Alexia turns to you with a smile, as if on cue, with Nico in her lap. You glance at his rounded cheeks and shining eyes, looking back up at your friends as though to check they are still there. Alexia leans forwards so that she can whisper in your ear. “Te amo. Nico, también. Mi familia es perfecta.”

…

Returning to Barcelona comes with one negotiated condition on your part. You buy a bigger apartment, where there is space for an office and extra bedrooms. Alexia says her teammates will be taking the piss out of her grand new place the minute she sees it, but she is more than content to contribute to the finances with her new-and-improved salary for this season. “It’s weird to think that I’m from Mollet,” murmurs Alexia, standing in the middle of the large lounge area, surrounded by boxes. Most are from your old flat, but a few have been flown in from London. Alexia wanted you to have your Grammy with you. “This place is so fancy.”

“It’s half of what the men’s team get,” you remind her, holding Nico with care as he gnaws away on a frozen carrot. His saliva drips onto you, but the antidepressants are working, and the therapy has been effective enough for you to start taking childcare in turns. (You had tried to previously, but Alexia wanted you to focus on yourself, knowing that things will change for all of you once the season started.) “Hey.” You place your hand on her shoulder. She tickles Nico’s chin. “We deserve this. You deserve this. Why don’t you host one of your team’s dinners? I’ll take Nico round to your mum’s – God knows she’d love to shove some food down my throat, too.”

She shakes her head, strands of brown unstraightened due to the stress of the move and falling out of her bun with a determination to defy her hair bobble. “They would kill me if I did it without you. They’re all far too grateful that you invited Taylor Swift to our wedding.”

“She’s a friend.” If you hadn’t been distracted by various other happenings that night, you’d have clocked that Alexia’s side of the guests were completely up to their ears in celebrities they’d never expected to meet. “Okay, so do you want me to stay here?”

“I always want you to stay here,” she answers.

“Not what I meant.”

“I won’t take it back.”

Nico babbles an incoherent yet cutely Spanish-y noise, though his words are getting closer to being said at the old age of eight months. Then, suddenly, something in him clicks. “Mama,” he squeals, his little fist scrunching up the fabric of your t-shirt. “Mamama.”

“Nicolau!” Alexia replies with just as much enthusiasm, cupping his cheeks. She kisses his nose, and then his forehead, and then his chubby knees and socked feet. “Nicolau, sí, la mama et té a las mans! Bon noi, el meu bon i intel·ligent noi.”

“Does that count?”

“Mama,” Nico repeats, tugging your earlobe. “Mama. Mama.” It is easy to forget about the (lessening) resentment you harbour when he speaks. Alexia gets him to say it as many times as she can before he goes back to his carrot, but, even then, the two of you stay in that spot, marvelling at your creation.

Slowly, she turns around in a circle, absorbing the plain walls and towers of boxes. “This is going to be good. Life is going to be good,” you declare with such a firmness that it has to be true. “Darling, let’s get to unpacking and then we can think about a date for this dinner party.”

“We are going to plan the party?” She raises her eyebrows at you. “Is this party going to start at five o’clock?”

“Not all of us shit yellow and red.” (In a national sense – you’d have haemorrhoids for United any day of the week.)

Alexia takes Nico off you, in a show of cultural dominance. You’re actually outnumbered, considering he isn’t a British Citizen, and though he shares no DNA with your wife, he has inherited the same ability to narrow his eyes just enough to serve absolute cunt whenever he so pleases. If you weren’t feeling so ganged up on, you’d be a little impressed. “Nico y yo vamos a hacer croquetas de jamón. Adiós.”

“Darling, the kitchen isn’t–” But you cut yourself off, deciding that she can discover that on her own, along with the criminally empty fridge. You don’t hide your smugness at all when she finds you in your almost-finished bedroom, wearing a look of utter disappointment and mumbling out a heartbroken request for a food delivery as soon as possible.

…

November marks three years of being together and, also, four weeks of having Alexia’s ‘DNA’ – a pomeranian called Nala, whose Instagram account is run by her favourite parent after you called it silly and told your wife you’d much rather attend to your own seventeen million followers.

Towards the end of the month, after a well-spent morning and then a family outing to Barcelona Zoo, Alexia meets Jenni Hermoso in a restaurant in what Jenni calls ‘your new rich-people neighbourhood’ in her text to Alexia.

Alexia, really and truly, is happy to have her best friend back in Barcelona. She missed her last year, when Jenni had returned to Atleti, and that separation maybe made what happened the night Spain was knocked out of the World Cup just that bit more understandable. “You’re a Culer, no matter how hard you try to fight it,” Alexia had said when she had climbed back into her own bed, not wanting to fall asleep in Jenni’s arms. “It was terrible to not have Y/n or you.”

You and Jenni: Alexia’s people.

“How’s your wife?” Jenni asks with a grin, two glasses of wine into a pleasant evening at an expensive restaurant. “You’ve left her with Nico, so something must be working.”

In truth, you have been determined to get better. There were articles released not long after the photos of your wedding were circulated, and those speculated a lot about how you are finding motherhood. The baby pictured, captured by long-range lenses and invasive drones, was the world’s first glimpse at what Nico Putellas L/n looks like, and reminded many of them that you had a child to care for when in London, yet were frequently spotted at nightclubs and parties. You rise to most challenges, however, and find it a lot easier to adapt to weekly therapy sessions and pills every morning when you have a wrongful image to disprove.

“It’s as if it never happened,” Alexia says, both with pride and surprise. “She now seeks to spend time with him. She takes him with her to the recording studio – the album’s coming along well.” It’s your first on your own. Nico plays with one mixing desk, while Dave (flown in from London with the promise that the Barcelona sun will do wonders for his wife’s misery) plays with another. “And… Jenni, we’ve been talking. The clinic that we used for Nico asked us if we wanted to reserve sperm when we first had him, and now they have called asking if now is a good time. I think… I think that she is really considering it. She told me yesterday that her therapist wants me to sit in on the next session, so we can go over how we can make this time different.”

Jenni frowns, which is not what the woman opposite her had expected at all. “Why are you two having more children? You’re only twenty-five, Ale. Isn’t this going to affect your career?”

“The men do it all the time.” She’s done a spot of research. They are younger than her when their girlfriends start getting pregnant, and they continue to play with the added admiration that they are fathers as well.

“Yes, but they have the benefit of getting paid millions. They don’t have to fight with their federation for pitches or pay, and they can focus on football without their career sparking controversy for even existing.”

“Then my children will grow up with a mother who fights for change.”

“Or they grow up with a pop star who only wants things she cannot have and a footballer who can’t spend any time with them because she is too busy speaking at various conventions so that the next league match isn’t cancelled.”

“Jenni, do you think your opinion would be different if Y/n was a man?”

This elicits laughter from the other woman, who rolls her eyes in a way that can only be described as condescending. “Alexia, you’re forgetting that I’m a lesbian too, which is a magnificent feat.” Jenni references the kiss they shared, and what happened after that. “But, no. I don’t. I want you to be the greatest footballer in the world, and you want that too. What are you going to do when Y/n tells you she wants to move back to England? Are you going to give up your future here for her?”

The waiter interrupts briefly, collecting their empty plates and carting them off with a mission to retrieve the bill after a sharply declined offer for the dessert menu. “You don’t even know if that will happen,” Alexia scoffs, though she is a little sad that her exciting news hasn’t been well-received. “I was going to say that I’d think about the name Jennifer if it ends up being a girl, but now I’m leaning more towards María…”

She is kicked under the table, and she has to hold in her cry of pain because this restaurant is one of your favourite places to eat. “Mapi cannot have this victory over me. She’d be insufferable. Ale, you simply aren’t allowed to do that.” There’s another kick, but it is more playful this time.

Alexia laughs, smiling and thankful that the tension has diffused. “I’m only joking. Y/n has a list scribbled in the back of her lyric book. She’ll probably be called Elena.” That is much more acceptable to Jenni’s ears, and she files that information away for next year, when she’ll tell Mapi that Alexia doesn’t like her name.

…

It works. Alexia and you are lucky. The doctor tells Alexia that, if she were a man, the two of you would have to be extremely careful. Your wife marvels at your ability to destroy your body and stay fertile, but she supposes that you are not the kind of woman to be a lesbian. Sometimes, she wakes up in a cold sweat, believing that you have changed your mind and left her.

The New Year is a fresh start. Alexia decides to fix the (not so) hidden cracks in your relationship. She confides in her newly-acquired therapist. She may have made a mistake once; the secret is sandwiched between her worries about your susceptibility to depression and how Nico is a decided food critic.

Though the therapist, a lovely bilingual woman named Sofía, raises her eyebrows, she does not pry. She slides a paper calling card over to Alexia. The paper squeaks along the coffee table between the two comfortable armchairs of the office. “I specialise in couples. Seeing as your wife is already a client of mine, I think you should consider a joint session.” Alexia is new to the idea of mental health. Before, she had been too focused on football to care about it. Even when her father died, any professional she spoke to was only hearing how her mind worked because she knew it was what was best for her performance. “And, Alexia.” She looks up at the therapist with a small, nervous smile. “Congratulations on the pregnancy. I am sure Nico will make a wonderful older brother.”

Morning sickness drags you out of your shared bed most days.

Alexia asks you about couples’ therapy when you have finished your dry-heaving one morning.

“I mean,” you begin before pausing, gulping down the sour taste in your mouth and hoping nothing else is trying to hit the toilet water until tomorrow. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.” She is dressed in her training kit, but she slings her jumper over your shoulders as soon as you shiver. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”

“It would do no harm.” As long as Sofía does not bring up Alexia’s confession, your statement will ring true. “You book the appointment. It’ll be easier to work around your schedule that way.”

“When are you flying back to London?” Her question is not filled with hatred for the city, but with resignation to the fact that your job involves you being stretched between here and there.

“Not until next month. I thought that I could take Nico to an away game with my dad if I got a flight for Saturday. The rest of the week would be interviews and photoshoots.”

“How’s the album doing?”

So far, your songs are only written when Alexia has paid you enough attention to swirl your thoughts and blur your vision. It is in these moments that the lingering, sinking weight inside of you dissipates. “Dave remains hopeful. It won’t fail, but I need it to be better than what we currently have.”

Shamelessly, Alexia is aware of her effect on your songs. She smirks; “Alba has been begging to babysit, you know.” With no care for your current state, Alexia’s eyes rake up and down your body. You grow embarrassed by how you are slumped over the toilet, and how she is standing above you as though she runs your world. “You look beautiful, mi amor,” she murmurs as you bashfully duck your head between your bent arms.

“You’re a flirt.” It feels too late for her to still be in the flat. “And you’re going to miss training if you don’t get a move on. There are eggs in the fridge, and Nico definitely liked the omelette you made him a few days ago. He’ll be waking up soon.”

A small sigh escapes the midfielder’s lips, but the prospect of the things she loves most in the world appearing in her life consecutively is enough to convince her to pad her way out the bathroom, swanning into the corridor with a little grin on her face as she sings out ‘bon dia’ to an impressively multilingual toddler and heads into the kitchen with the domestic intention of getting breakfast started. She leaves an omelette out for you, which you attack shortly after Alexia and Nico disappear into their daily routine. She drops him off at preschool, and you pick him up a few hours later, taking him first for lunch with Alba, and then to the studio.

You come home to a showered Alexia who is memorising her most recent match. She lets Nico slide into her lap without hesitation, but she stays focused on the football even when he tugs on the strands of hair falling out of ponytail. You marvel at the idea of having enough room in your heart for so much love. You decide that you are not like Alexia, though it is not necessarily a terrible thing. A further observation from watching your wife settle her son with a calm, muttered Catalan telling-off, coaxing him into loving football as though he does not already, is that you are so very content with your life at the moment.

But 2020 kind of sucks.

For the entire world.

You’re cut off from your home in any other manner than a digital one, and being stuck in a luxurious penthouse in Barcelona isn’t the worst fate, but it really isn’t ideal.

Elena, however, has the benefit of coming into the world with ever (physically) present parents, who could recite the java script for Zoom given that they spend hours on therapy calls. Elena, bright and smiley and the picture of her mother, spends the first few months of her life in a happy, happy family, protected by an entire football team and a fierce older brother. (And a yappy Pomerianian called Nala.)

“Y/n doesn’t like the name María,” Jenni tells Mapi when Alexia sends the first picture of your new addition to the Barcelona group chat.

“The next baby is going to be a Jennifer,” Mapi says, to both the forward and the unimpressed midfielder walking a few paces in front of such a silly conversation. “For that, I can only feel sorry for her.”

…

The routine changes the following year.

It starts with an abrupt but expected conversation. One that Alexia has been dreading.

Your album – the first one that is just you – was released two months ago, and it has done too well. Selfishly, Alexia had hoped it would fail. You have enough money, and she is earning more and more each season. Success, unfortunately, means that this little life can no longer exist. Or can it?

“I have to do it,” you whisper to her, tears in your eyes though the smell of sex still lingers. The quietness of a child-free apartment allows for you to hear her gulp. “It’ll be different this time, darling, but I can’t be here anymore. I can’t fly out to London every few days. I can’t leave you with a five-month-old and a toddler when you are training every day and playing matches every weekend. It’s not fair on anyone.”

Alexia kisses your bare shoulder, hands slipping round your waist as she pulls your sweaty body into her. Her chest presses against your back, but she is only behind you in this bed. She does not agree with you. She does not support it. But, like she always does, she bites her tongue. “If that’s what you want,” she replies, and part of you dies with the thought that she does not really care. “I love you. I want what’s best for you. For us.” And she tells Jenni all about it when she goes to see her a week later – the flimsy excuse of meeting a childhood friend for dinner enough to wrap a cloth around your eyes and leave you at home with a screaming toddler and a baby whose only flaw is that she grows distraught the moment she is put down.

In the dimly lit living room, the tension hangs thick in the air. You lock eyes. “Why can't you just move with us? Everyone will want you, darling, and life would be easier,” you plead, a month down the line. The house in Highgate has been readied for your more permanent return.

Alexia takes a deep breath, her gaze unwavering. “Why can't you get it into your head that I'm not leaving Spain or Barcelona? This is my home.”

“What about the children? School? Life? My career? Does it mean nothing to you?”

Her eyes soften. Your heart breaks, and the piece of you that has already died somehow dies again. “I'm thinking of the children. All the time, I think of them. About the reputation of my name – their name. Putellas, the greatest in the world, or Putellas, the one with potential wasted at West Ham?”

“You're being selfish, Lex,” you snap. “This is an opportunity for all of us, not just me. Think about their future!”

“Their future is here, in the culture they know, the languages they speak. I won't strip them of their identity for the sake of a 'better' life. And my career? I've worked too hard to build what I have here. I won't throw it away.” I don’t want to throw it away. Underscored by Don’t leave me again.

The room echoes with the weight of her voice. “Their identity comes from both of us.” It’s too final for either of your liking. Elena begins to cry in her cot. “I want to try it. I want you to be open to trying it.”

She gestures to the suitcases by the door. “Trying it and doing it are two different things. You’re taking them from me!”

“You’re probably going to love life without them anyway!” you shout. You feel like the crying baby, except the tears rolling down your cheeks carry much more suffering than hers. “You’ll – what? You’ll go out with your friends, and you’ll be able to go to the gym whenever you want. No arguing, no crying, no toddler to entertain, no nappies to change. You never wanted children. I forced it upon you. I regret it, and I’m sorry. We’ll go.”

“Don’t go.”

I don’t want you to go.

“I have to.”

You turn your back to her as you fly through the corridor, prepared to console Elena in a taxi. Alexia slips her ring off her finger, and clutches it in her palm instead. Desperately, she searches for a solution. There is nothing within her reach, not even you.

…

She is an island amongst a sea of happy people. She is going to be the greatest footballer in the world. It kills her to realise that she can now focus on football.

Nico starts nursery, attending the same school you once did. He adjusts to life in London seamlessly, and Elena does not seem to care either way. He learns more English every day, and his other mother calls him nightly to read to him.

With childcare more than sorted, you are free to be interviewed, pictured, and invited to events. You rake in the publicity, especially after laying so slow over the course of the lockdown in Spain.

“Alexia.” Jenni’s hands knead her tight shoulders, partly teasing her. Alexia wears a frown, eyebrows knitting together with an emotion she’s not sure she can name. “Ale, it’s the same game as always. Nothing has changed.”

“I know,” she murmurs. “I don’t understand why I feel like this.” She has continued to speak to Sofía, though your joint sessions have now come to a halt while you spend your time doubling as a singer and model. The therapist, try as she might, cannot evaluate the situation effectively enough. Eli and Alba have both tried to help, hoping that weekly dinners and the constant reminder about the invention of aeroplanes would ease the turmoil of Alexia’s mind. It does not. “I am so alone, Jenni.”

Nala is too small to fill the emptiness of the flat. Screens don’t allow for her to kiss you, or play with Nico. She is scared she will miss Elena’s first words.

“You don’t have to be.”

It only takes a month for Alexia to break, and it sort of works.

In Jenni’s bed, it works. Hips keening, soft pants falling from her mouth.

Quiet moans that stay locked in Jenni’s apartment.

Each time Alexia leaves, though Jenni repeatedly requests that she stays, she walks out as half a woman. She blinks back her tears and she checks her phone. When she calls you – not a video call – you are never any the wiser to the scratches down her back.

Alexia remains an island, but the sand beaches are tainted with the arrival of someone else.

In this way, she is functional.

She can do sex. She can deal with borderline romance. She can fill the space that you are tearing open with every passing minute spent in that god-awful country you insist on calling home. She can fix it a little bit with Jenni.

She tells herself that it does not mean anything more than a bandage means to a wound. Who wears the bandage once the gash has healed?

Where does she put the used bandage?

Why is she focused on bandages?! She’s having an affair. It’s not an affair! (It is.) Alexia doesn’t… quite… wanttoadmititjustyet.

…

The buzz of your phone is the final push that gets you to conclude the current interview you are trapped in. Before checking what the notification is, you glance at the time. You have half an hour before you need to pick up Nico, and your parents said they would drop Elena home once they returned from London Zoo.

Alexia: Jenni has had a really good idea

It’s an intriguing text amongst the more practical ones that oil the mechanics of managing the distance. Tonight, Barcelona play their last match of the season. After this, she’ll be flying out to London. You have missed her. The last time you saw her in person was after Barcelona embarrassed Chelsea in Gothenburg. Elated and filled with pride, it was incredibly nice to have the biggest room in the hotel to yourselves. Her medal was almost as beautiful as her.

You: Go on…

Alexia: Just draw a heart on Nico’s hand from me porfa. You’ll see.

You slide into the driver’s seat of your newest self-indulgent car; a Porsche. Momentarily distracted by a camera flash, your turn onto the main road is a little risky, but you manage to make it to the school in time to collect your son.

“Was he good?” you ask his teacher as she hands you Nico’s book bag. You take in the sight of him: hair messy, school uniform stained though they require the little ones to wear aprons for most of the day. “It’s a little different here. I’m hoping that he’s enjoying himself.”

“Our new assistant is from Spain,” says the teacher with a small, tired smile, batting her long eyelashes at you. “We had to pry him off her.”

You let out a laugh. “He misses his mum.”

“He’s extremely intelligent. He knew to speak Spanish to her and English to us.” Though your grasp of Spanish is near-fluent after such reluctance from your wife to try English, you know that the two-year-old has a talent for juggling the three languages he is growing up around. You’re proud of him. “You shouldn’t worry about him. And, speaking of, we have a parents’ coffee morning just around the corner. It’s always great for the parents to get along – it helps the school feel even more like a family. Will it just be you attending?” Nico’s teacher is around your age, and you can smell her rose perfume that mingles with the soft hint of ready-mixed paint. She has deep, brown eyes, and she is definitely flirting with you.

“Next week, right? I’ll have to check with my wife.”

It’s then that a toddler-sized hand grips your fingers and tugs. “Mama, me voy,” he groans; something akin to Alexia’s impatience. It reminds you of when you used to go shopping and she’d herd you out with the threat of getting in the car and driving away. “Venga.”

“One sec, sweetheart.” There are countless ways in which you miss Alexia. “My wife and I would love to come.”

Her smile does not falter on her lips, but there is a greyish disappointment that dulls the warmth of her irises. You smile as you turn your back and lead Nico to the car. You are so excited for Alexia to complete the broken puzzle.

You melt when she kisses the heart drawn onto her hand when celebrating her goal. Nico copies her, lips pursing and sloppily mimicking the action on a similar heart. “For you, sweetheart,” you tell him as he settles back into your side, careful not to jostle Elena who has fallen asleep on your chest (the therapist did wonders for you).

“It was for you,” Jenni tells Alexia after the match. Her goal is now serving as the move Alexia feared she’d make. They have changed and been massaged and done the media the are required to do (women’s football is growing): they are free to roam Barcelona if they so wish.

Her flight is tomorrow evening – “I have a flight tomorrow evening.”

“Come over tonight.” It isn’t a question, yet it is not quite a command. Mapi passes the two of them, eyes narrowing at the way Jenni has wrapped her hand around Alexia’s wrist. The defender is aware that something is going on, though it breaks her heart to imagine Alexia ever doing that to you. Not knowing they are being watched, Alexia steps in; cups Jenni’s face, brushes her cheekbone with a stroke of her thumb Mapi knows is meant for her wife. Mapi’s stomach lurches. She feels sick.

“I need to…” It’s not a ‘no’. “Jenni.” She hates that it is not a ‘no’.

“Ale.” There’s a beat. Mapi blinks twice, shakes her head, and backs away. “I’ll miss you, you know?”

…

Jenni doesn’t seem to mind when, the next day, blurry pictures of you on a family outing make rounds through the tabloids she usually doesn’t read. The fact that, up until now, no one has known that your wife is Alexia Putellas has no effect on her. She was stupid for thinking the last six months meant something. Winning together, losing together. Sleeping together.

In this deal, Alexia has fucked over both women who love her. Except, you don’t know. She hasn’t told you, though Jenni had hoped for it secretly – hoped Alexia chose her – and it is obvious. Obvious to Jenni, who is well acquainted with the blonde hair in the wings of your concert at the O2. Obvious to Jenni, who refuses to think of herself as the other woman.

She consults Mapi.

Mapi, who she has come to shamefully realise already knows.

“I can’t believe the two of you.” The defender is clear in her distaste and disappointment and, honestly, her disgust. “But I am not going to be the one to break that poor girl’s heart.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

What is she asking? What does she want from this utterly useless conversation?

“Mapi.” Jenni closes her eyes, but she sees two faces instead of darkness. Nico. Elena. She’s Elena’s godmother. You decided that – convinced Alexia to choose her best friend over her younger sister, told your wife that there’d be another for Alba to corrupt. “Mapi, I love her. I don’t know what to do.”

“She loves her wife.” The next sentence proceeds to brutally remind Jenni who that isn’t. “Tell her you’re done. Find someone else. Anyone but her.”

That is Jenni’s resolve, because she knows that Mapi is right.

…

June, July, and August pass with bliss.

Everyone says that you are a beautiful couple with beautiful children. Alexia beams with pride as she flaunts her practised English, and gladly claims ownership of Nico when he wins a prize on speech day. Every child in Reception is awarded something but that doesn’t stop her from boasting.

She explores the country with the children while you shack up in the recording studio, and brings hugs and kisses (and Red Bull) every evening after dinner. The visits are what reminds you of the sun Alexia brings, especially as the warmth follows her from Barcelona and London is blessed with golden days. Dog days.

“This isn’t permanent.” Alexia looks up from her phone, comfortable in your bed. The house in Highgate has flecks of Spain woven into the decor now, and you like it that way.

You climb into the bed beside her, and her arm lifts so that you can snuggle into her chiselled stomach (wow, she has been working hard this season). “What’s Jenni saying?” you ask, following your statement and hoping you’ll get her attention. She presses her phone screen into the duvet before you can translate the message – it is too long of a paragraph for you to handle. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you that this isn’t permanent.”

Alexia, over the past few months, has been the most affectionate, loving, amazing person with the same smile and giggle you married. You thought she had disappeared and was replaced with stern, career-focused Alexia Putellas, jugadora del fútbol. You were wrong.

“I’m thinking January is when we’ll come back. Nico’s English will survive.” Your parents are going travelling. They’ve never been on the Orient Express before. “I want to be with you.”

It is a good thing Jenni has just broken up with her.

“I love you,” you continue. “So much.”

Alexia hums. Her heart breaks, and she does not know for whom. “¿En serio?” She is happy, she thinks. Certainly, she is glad that the four of you will be reunited.

You are.

January 2022 ruins things for Jenni Hermoso. She calls Pachuca back.

#barca femeni #woso fanfics #woso x reader #woso #fc barcelona #woso imagines #mapi leon #jenni hermoso #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas

528 notes · View notes

torasplanet · 4 months

Note

Hiii sweetheart, can u pls write smut with kanto manji or bonten Sanzu with like him being super vulnerable and hard to be with but at the same time him trying to be a better boyfriend (with fem. reader)?

Also I have a crush on ur works✋😭

❝𝙇𝙀𝙏 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙇𝙄𝙂𝙃𝙏 𝙄𝙉.ᐟ❞

H. SANZU + F. READER

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 ; haruchiyo breaks his six months of sobriety and doesn't truly understand how much it meant to you until he sees you in tears and proves to you how he's going to become a better boyfriend.

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 ; smut, fluff, lowkey angsty, drug addiction, break of sobriety, cocaine, bonten!haru, kinda sappy, haru wants to become better for u :(, worship, unediteddd, mention of other bonten members, cheating(past), haru's literally begging on his knees for you to stay, praise, soft dom!haru, crying, past arguments, p in v, unprotected, actually sad as hell i'm sorry, petnames (baby, pretty, pretty baby, etc...), haru's depression, skin color not mentioned

marls notes 2 u(*´▽｀*) ; thank u smmmm !! i wasn't considering writing for haru cuz im his biggest hater buttt this was just sooo cute and i had the best idea for it !! ignore the header being kanto haru, i just thought that was cuterr

Haruchiyo fucked up, he knew he did. He had fucked up plenty of times before but this time, he really fucked up. Your lack of presence in you and his shared apartment proved it and all his texts being left on delivered only added insult to injury.

He would like to say that he didn’t mean it and it was an accident but he knew it wasn’t. He didn’t have to go in that club room and snort that coke but he did. He saw that white crystallized powder on that expensive ass glass coffee table and went closer, even taking the time to straighten out the line and pull out a hundred dollar bill from his pocket to snort it breaking his 6 months of sobriety. He didn’t think about what would happen if you walked in on him, he didn’t really care in the moment.

Knowing that he couldn’t just lie to your face saying it was an accident and he didn’t mean it. Not after he saw the tears glazing over your (e/c) irises that he’s gazed into too many times with the same wetness covering them with whatever he did being the reason.

“Haru…?” The sound of your questioning voice made him freeze, he stopped moving and stopped snorting the cocaine. Haruchiyo couldn’t bring himself to turn around and look at you, not when he was on his knees in his expensive ass thousand dollar Versace pants snorting coke when he was supposed to be using the bathroom. That’s what he told you when he left you in the middle of the club with Kokonoi to take a break from dancing with you and it was the truth.

Until he came across this open door. “Haru, what’re you doing?” You asked standing in the doorframe in that short dress that matched his dress suit with your hands on the side of the doorframe. You had an idea what he was doing but you didn’t want it to be a misunderstanding and get mad at him for nothing, you hoped it was a misunderstanding honestly. Haruchiyo had been sober for six months with your help and he was doing so well. You didn’t want him to throw that all away.

The pink-haired man dropped the rolled-up dollar bill onto the table that was now clean of any cocaine, only small specks were left. He rubbed his nose before turning his head toward you and his heart absolutely broke seeing the way you looked at him, with such a large amount of hope in your eyes that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t doing what you thought he was. Haruchiyo wished he could stop you from tilting your head to look at the table and see the empty Ziploc bag on the table and the rolled-up dollar.

The male sat there ashamed as you looked back at him with no words leaving your mouth. He turned his body around completely and looked at you and that’s when all the regret sunk in. He felt instant regret when he saw you staring down at him your eyes becoming watery with tears “Baby, please.” Haruchiyo started beginning to stand to his feet as he saw you beginning to sniffle “You said you were sober.” You muttered your voice breaking sadly as he inched closer.

“I was-” “were you just lying to me?” You cut him off as you continued to stare at him as tears ran down your cheeks when he reached his arms out to cup your face and wipe those tears away, you backed away like you were scared and he stood still.

He didn’t attempt to touch you again and just stared at you trying to come up with some answer that wouldn’t make you cry harder but as he thought about it, there was nothing in the world that would stop those tears “I’m sorry.” Haruchiyo pathetically said.

It was the only thing he could say but it meant nothing to you. He has said those words so many times to you over and over telling you it’d never happen again and it did. Haruchiyo didn’t mean to continue the cycle of hurting you that he created himself but when he saw those pills or white powders, it was like his body moved on its own and when they entered his system…there was nothing he could do to contain himself, he lost all control of himself and what he said to you.

Most of the time he didn’t even remember what he said and those moments were what hurt him the most. Having to hear you repeat his hurtful words back to him knowing that they were directed toward you was the worst and he hated himself for making you go through that but he always begged that you stay with him and that he would change. He was really trying to change don’t get me wrong but…it was just hard for him.

“Don’t fucking talk to me sanzu.” You said angrily shaking your head before turning around and walking away from the scene with the clack of your Burberry heels that Haruchiyo insisted that you wear because of how beautiful they complimented your skin and your dress. He loved being able to dress you up, too bad he wouldn’t be able to do that after what he had just done to you.

The long-haired man’s eyes widened as he realized your lack of presence and he leaped forward and out of the room seeing you stomping away with your hands balled into fists. “Baby please don’t go!” Haruchiyo yelled out as he ran after you grabbing onto your arm and turning you around to look you in the eye. By now his green eyes were bubbling with tears like yours were and for a second it looked like you were considering it but when Haruchiyo felt something running from his nose, your gaze changed back to anger-filled and upset.

You snatched your arm away from him and didn’t say a word as you turned back around and continued back out to the club probably to leave. He had the keys to your car but knowing you, you’d either resort to walking home or calling an Uber so that didn’t matter much.

Haruchiyo’s finger went up to his nose and he looked down seeing red thick liquid smeared against the side of his index finger. You almost stayed. You looked at him like you were considering it but that blood running from his nostril was a reminder of what he had done to himself without even thinking. You needed that reminder because if his nose hadn’t started bleeding then you probably would have stayed when you shouldn’t have.

“Fuck!” He cried out throwing his fist into the nearby wall bruising his knuckles and causing a hole in the red wall. Haruchiyo stomped back into the room that had ruined everything and began to destroy everything.

He ripped the paintings off the wall, ripped the soiled sheets off the bed, shattered the glass table, and put multiple holes into the wall from his kicking and punching all while screaming and cursing gaining the attention of the people walking past.

His hands went to his hair making a mess of his pink locks that you had brushed out in the car before you two came in. Haruchiyo breathed heavily as he looked at the now destroyed room which had taken a toll on him, his knuckles were bruised and bloody, parts of his suit were ripped from glass shards cutting into the expensive fabric and his nose was still running blood dripping it onto the expensive carpet floor and his blazer.

“Woah, what the fuck happened?” Ran’s voice asked from the hallway as he looked into the room. Haruchiyo’s head snapped back at the sound of a new voice and glared at the older man with hatred but it wasn’t directed toward him, the room, or you. It was hate directed at himself for allowing himself to do this without even thinking about what he should do or what you would want him to do.

Haruchiyo’s eyes continued to stare daggers at the multi-colored-haired man as tears continuously ran down his cheeks and wet his lengthy lashes.

“Get the fuck out.”

Since that night he hadn’t talked to you at all. No one has. Well, no one in Bonten has and he was convinced that all your friends he asked were just lying to him.

He hadn’t been to work in the week that you’d been gone, wanting to stay at home in case you came by and Mikey would be on his ass and he was but for once he didn’t give a shit about Mikey or what he said. Haruchiyo only cared about you and wanted to see you again. He had spent all of this time practicing what he would say to you so he wouldn’t piss you the fuck off even more than you were or make you end this relationship. He didn’t want it to end. It wasn’t a ‘not anytime soon’ thing, he never wanted it to end.

Haruchiyo fully intended on making you his wife and he told you this but you said that you would only agree to being his wife when he was clean and that gave him motivation. Just you gave him motivation but everything you said and did for him gave him more. It made him actually believe he could get clean but all that went down the drain with one simple look.

This wouldn’t be the first time he said he was getting clean and wasn’t but it’d be the first time he actually did get clean for a while and just spoiled it. Haruchiyo decided to get clean and stay clean after an argument you and he had when he was high. He said things he didn’t remember and when you told him, he regretted it but nothing he said made it better for you. Right then and there, he decided he didn’t want to put you through that shit ever again and that determination only increased when he remembered more of that argument and how he almost hit you.

His previous mistakes determined him too. He remembered when he cheated on you when he was high off molly and drunk and how devasted you were when you found out and how he let you down after that by getting high again when he told you that he wasn’t going to. Haruchiyo made a promise to himself that he’d get clean for you so you didn’t have to go through this with him again.

He couldn’t give less than a fuck about himself and if he destroyed his body doing this. He only cared about how he was destroying you doing this and that hurt him deeply. More than anything ever had.

Haruchiyo sat there with his head in his hands as some random K-drama played on the gigantic flat screen he had bought wondering what he should do to really prove to you that this was the last time. It was. It really was going to be the last time and he was going to do whatever it took to make sure of that but he didn’t know how to prove it to you.

You wouldn’t believe him straight off the bat after that night and every other night that was just too similar to that one and he knew that. Buying you chocolates and bears wouldn’t work. You’d love it but you wouldn’t believe him with that as he had used that tactic too many times. Haruchiyo feared that this would be the last time and not because he did it but because you left him.

You were the only person that saw the good in him and the only person that could bring out that good. The only person he actually gave a single fuck about and probably the only person to care about him and he couldn’t lose that. Not when you spent so many years with him preaching to him how you believed he could do it and stay clean and were willing to help him even after the cheating, the fighting, the yelling, the heartbreaking names he called you, the everything.

Gosh, you were a fool. You were the prettiest girl in the world and yet you settled for him and stayed with him even after finding out what a horrible person he was and the shit he did. You stayed after he cheated. You stayed after everything. How dumb were you? You could probably have any guy you wanted, even any Bonten member and you remained in a relationship with him. You were a fucking dumbass for that but he cherished that because you were the only person to stay.

But he doubted you would want to stay after what he did.

Haruchiyo ran his fingers through his hair stressfully as he leaned back onto the couch letting out a sigh but the sound of the front door beginning to unlock made him shoot up to his feet. Was that you? It had to be, no one else had come to this door except for Ran and he didn’t have a key.

When the door slowly peeled open revealing you. Still in the dress from that night, your eyes were puffy and red, and the makeup he had watched you put on was gone and you just looked exhausted. Your exhausted eyes turned to shocked and saddened when they landed on his form.

There was silence for a minute as you stepped in and closed the door behind you, he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if he should let you talk first or not or just not say anything at all “...I didn’t know you’d be home. Thought you were at work.” You whispered raspily looking away from Haruchiyo and at the floor as you took your purse off.

“I didn’t want to go. I…I wanted to see you when you came back.” The male said softly as he watched you look him up and down taking in his lazy attire and messy hair that had tangles and stray hairs sticking in every other direction “Did you want to see me?” Haruchiyo continued scratching the palm of his hand nervously afraid of your reply. He was afraid you’d yell at him for even thinking you’d want to see him ever again. That you’d pack your shit and leave without a word and never come back.

You didn’t stare at him hatefully, or sadly, you stared at him tiredly looking like you were just going to sigh in response “Not really.” Those words upset him but he couldn’t take that out on you because he knows that was only because of what he did wrong after he promised you that he wouldn’t.

Staring at you made Haruchiyo regret everything he did even more, you weren’t actively crying but your red eyes were a reminder that you were and probably had been crying before you came here maybe even every day after that night “I really am sorry (y/n). I am.” Haruchiyo apologized not knowing what else to say. There was no point in small talk or asking you more questions when all it’d end up in was him apologizing over and over again.

When he walked closer to you, you didn’t step back this time and just stood still which was a good sign “Then why would you? You promised me.” You asked your voice breaking as if you were going to start crying again and Haruchiyo didn’t want that. That was the thing he didn’t want the most.

He stood there watching as tears welled over your eyes once more completely silent almost as if he was ignoring you “Tell me! You owe me that haruchiyo!” You shouted startling him and smacking him out of his thoughts. He tried his hardest to come up with something that was the truth and something that wouldn’t make you upset but he reached a dead end. There was nothing he could say to you that’d make you happy and wasn’t a lie.

“I don’t know. I…just saw it and I couldn’t hold back. It wasn’t an accident. I did it on purpose and I’m sorry.” Haruchiyo didn’t even know he could apologize like that or at all until he met you. You gave him reasons to want to apologize when one was needed. You were the first light in the darkness of his life and he didn’t want you to disappear, he didn’t want your light to go out.

So he apologized after everything he did to you and that made him regret when he did something new to hurt you and have to give a whole new apology which was eventually going to lose its meaning from how he was using them and going back on them. Not very a good idea if he was trying to keep your light burning.

He saw your light flickering on and off through your teary eyes and it scared him “Please. Just don’t leave. I need you.” Haruchiyo begged growing closer to you grabbing both of your hands and holding them as he looked at you with pure sorrow in his eyes and need, need for you.

“You lied to me. Again.” You said trying to resist the urge to start sobbing uncontrollably as you continued to stare into the green pools that belonged to your liar of a boyfriend. You knew how hard it was for Haruchiyo to stay clean and you were there for him every step of the way, even when he relapsed, even when he cheated, even when he lied over and over.

You stayed because you loved him and wanted to see him get better. The only thing that was keeping you going with him was your love for him and the idea that when he got better eventually, it’d be different. Your relationship would get better as he did and you believed that. But of course, you had to know that with these beliefs and hopes, your relationship would falter and get worse every time that pill slid down his throat or that white powder shot up his nostril. You just didn’t know it’d happen so often.

“I know baby, I know but it’s the last time I swear. Please you gotta believe me.” Haruchiyo pleaded as he dropped to his knees in front of you now looking up at you through his messy strands of pink blocking his eyes as his hold on your hands grew tighter, he didn’t want to let you go and he was sure you wanted him to.

Globs of hot tears began pouring out of his eyes and down his face and red cheeks with his gaze still on you. These weren’t alligator tears, they were real. The tears only started to become real when you came along “I fucking need you. I know I fucked up and I’m sorry but please don’t leave. I’ll do better I swear. I’ll go to fucking rehab if you want me to, anything you want just…please. I’m trying.” Haruchiyo pleaded loudly his words speeding up as if he were saying it all in one breath and it appeared he was.

He was basically hyperventilating as tears dropped on the floor and your heels. You didn’t want to give him another chance, any person with a brain wouldn’t and would just dump him but looking at him crying, begging for you to take him back just broke your heart and you’d break his even more if you didn’t give him another chance. You wanted to believe that Haruchiyo would get better even if there was a chance he’d ruin you and himself in the process.

Your hand came to his cheeks wiping the tears off his face as he sniffled, snot running down his nose like the scarlet red liquid that was doing the same days ago “Haru, I won’t leave.” You said and his eyes brightened at the statement, his arms instantly wrapped around your legs and he hugged you closer as more sobs left his throat but your hand came to his forehead and pushed his head away so you could look him in the eye again “But this needs to be the last time. Or I will leave. You hear me?” You finished pushing his hair back so you could see his full face as he looked up at you with wide and watery eyes and his pink and chapped lips parted slightly.

He was looking up at you like you were an angel. Like you were his savior and you were. You knew this too. Everyone in Bonten had told you how soft the man had gotten for you, how he was a fucking druggie before you came along and convinced him to at least try to get clean, and how since you were in his life, he seemed happier and not crazy happy when he killed someone or did something horrible. Like pleasantly happy. Always in a good mood when he came in.

Ugh and don’t even get me started on how they’d fake vomit and gag whenever you came around to the Bonten hideout or went out clubbing with them. Haruchiyo kissing all over you, following you like you were a goddess, and to him, you really were. They had never seen Haruchiyo like that, especially considering he hated smothering people but he ended up being smothering to you and he always talked about you and how awesome you were. How you made him breakfast whenever you woke up before him, laying out his suit for him, brushing his hair for him, letting him dress you up, letting him pick the colors of your makeup. Just everything you did brightened his life and he made sure everyone knew that and everyone that knew told you every single thing that he said.

You remembered all the things Kokonoi and Rindou would tell you about Haruchiyo talking about you with scowls on their faces. ‘She’s my future wife’ ‘She’s fucking amazing’ ‘The best girl ever’ ‘Sexy ass girl’ ‘My baby’ All those things he said constantly when talking about you and that made you believe he was really going to change and that it was just hard. You were giving him one last try. One last try to better himself or you’d leave. If he can’t do it with your help, he’d probably never be able to do it.

“Yes, baby I do. I promise you this is the last time, I swear.” Haruchiyo said nodding rapidly as he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He saw the hesitation in your eyes and his brows arched down, your silence was killing him just as much as your eyes were.

The pink-haired man stood to his feet face to face with you again and looked you in your eyes “I can prove it to you. I’ll check into rehab right now, I’ll quit bonten. I’ll call Mikey right now!” He stammered loudly, the mention of giving up Bonten made your eyes widen.

Haruchiyo could be killed if he left Bonten because of how much information he knew and he was willing to risk that just to prove to you that he’d really get clean this time. Your hands came to the sides of his face and you pressed your lips against his as tears ran down your face “Don’t do that. Just stay here with me.” You muttered breaking the kiss and staring him into his green eyes which were full of more love than sadness now and you were sure that yours were the same now.

Haruchiyo nodded more slowly now his hands coming to your waist “I can do that.” He said impatiently before leaning forward and kissing you again for rougher and sloppier than the first one was. He was deprived of your love incredibly and he couldn’t blame anyone but himself but now that he had it back, he wasn’t letting it go.

His arms wrapped around your waist holding you tightly close to his body as he continued to kiss you “M’ gonna make you feel so good pretty. Like you deserve.” Haruchiyo muttered in between kisses quite literally devouring you and not letting you get a single breath in. His hands didn’t go to your ass like they usually did when you two had heavy make-outs but they rubbed up and down your back comfortingly.

It wasn’t lust he was feeling, it was love, and touching you was the way he loved you. It didn’t have to be sexually touching, just the little things. His hand on your back, his lips pressing against you not leaving a single part of your face untouched, his finger trailing down your spine, his legs tangled in yours when you two lay in bed together, holding you close to his body. All of that was how he showed his love for you and not his lust and by the way he was just rubbing your back and not groping you, you knew this was love.

Haruchiyo’s hands lowered down to the back of your thighs before lifting you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his torso after so many times of him lifting you up either because you didn’t want to walk or he didn’t want you to walk. Haruchiyo could be sweet when he wanted to and that was all the time. Well, the times he was sober.

“I’m sorry for making you cry, my pretty baby,” Haruchiyo whispered into your skin as he placed gentle kisses on your cheek, jawline, and neck while carrying you down the narrow hallway that led to your shared bedroom “It’s fine, it’s okay.” You said through rushed breaths as you held the back of his head while he continued littering kisses all over the sensitive flesh of your neck.

Haruchiyo let out a soft whine “S’ not though. I shouldn’t have did that to you.” The pink-haired man said softly as he walked through the open door of your bedroom and walked over to the king-sized bed that you both shared. The bed he hadn’t slept in since he got home from the club because he didn’t want to sleep in it without you filling in the coldness of your side and cuddling up to him.

He gently placed you on the sheets, the shocking coldness of the bed surprising you and making you flinch a bit. The feeling of the silk sheets moving against your skin with every movement you made and dip in the bed made you let out a sigh of pleasure “I missed this. I missed you.” You muttered opening your eyes again to peer at the man that was hovering over you seemingly waiting for you to open your eyes.

“You got no idea how much I missed you. Was sleeping on the couch staying up waiting for you.” The green-eyed man whispered with a whine escaping his throat and you smiled up at him as you kicked off your heels onto the floor and your feet were dangling off the edge of the bed “Show me how much you missed me haru.” You said bringing your hand up to touch his face and you saw tears start bubbling in his eyes once more at the small gesture of affection.

You’d really forgiven him. He wouldn’t have cared if you didn’t want to have sex but the fact that you did showed you believed him and weren’t still mad. You hadn’t given up on him.

It shouldn’t have been that surprising, after all, lights only stop emitting light when you turn it off or use it too much causing it to burn out but Haruchiyo was almost convinced you were getting ready to burn out.

As he worked on getting his pants off, you slid your legs up opening them widely, and sliding your panties off tossing them somewhere in the room. Haruchiyo turned back to you observing your form and letting his eyes trail down to between your legs as your dress bunched up at your hips.

He was the worst person ever. He had a girl willing to go through all of this for him, she was so pretty too, and yet she forgave him when she really shouldn’t have. Haruchiyo swore on everything he cared about which was only her that he’d get better. He’d be a better person and a better boyfriend so he could make up for all the time you had to suffer dealing with him and truly deserve you.

“Why do you love me? I hurt you so much.” Haruchiyo asked blinking back the tears as he placed his hands on your knees while he sat back on his knees. You were taken aback by his question and just stared up at him as you continued to lie back on the silk sheets but you sat up leaning on your elbows to look him in his wet eyes.

“Because I see you.” Haruchiyo’s lips parted slightly in surprise from your answer but he remained silent waiting for you to continue your explanation “I see past these…” You muttered reaching up and running your fingers over the scars that decorated the sides of his mouth “And I see Haruchiyo, not Sanzu…I know you can do better and I wanna give you the chance to.” The tears haruchiyo blinked back reappeared and quickly found their way to the tips of his long lashes and his cheeks.

Haruchiyo sniffled as he peered down at you “You’re the only person to believe that. Not even I do.” He said below his breath as his head lowered down to your collarbone his pink locks spilling all over your shoulder and chest. You reached your hand up and placed it on the back of his head comfortingly “I’ll make you. I know you can do it.” You said pressing a kiss to the side of his head comfortingly which made a sob escape from his throat as he was fully crying now.

Haruchiyo had cared for many people in his life, he cared for Mikey, and a split moment in his childhood, he cared for his sister and his brother but he stopped when he realized they didn’t care about him. His care for Mikey had never stopped but he wasn’t dumb. He knew Mikey didn’t care about him like he did. The only person in the world to care about him just as much as he cared about them, maybe even more, was you.

“I’ll do it for you. I’d do anything for you.” Haruchiyo muttered through his wails as he aimed himself up at you not even having to look, a small gasp escaped your lips as he pushed inside of you and you gripped some of his hair as he bottomed out letting out a groan as he did so.

Haruchiyo wasn’t lying. He’d do anything for you. He’d kill a thousand people for you and if you didn’t want him to do that, he wouldn’t.

“I love you.” He said as he lifted his head allowing you to see his red eyes and matching red and wet face. He squeezed his eyes shut as he threw his head back starting to thrust in and out of your warm and wet cunt but his head didn’t rest there for long because you grabbed his jaw and sloppily kissed him as you dropped back down to the sheets.

As much as you hated Haruchiyo for relapsing after promising he’d do better, you still missed him. All the days and nights you spent at your friend’s house needing time to compose yourself, you missed him and wondered what he was doing hoping your runaway didn’t make him spiral deeper into his relapse and so, you came home earlier than you were planning to and earlier than your friend said.

Your legs were basically shaking when walking up to the door in fear of what could be lying behind it; It wasn’t because you were scared that when you got home he’d yell at you because of his high, you were scared that he’d hurt himself.

It was stupid…you were more worried about him than yourself after he lied to you and broke your trust in him even after all his mistakes. But you can’t hate yourself for worrying about him because no one else was going to. The other Bonten members would simply watch as Haruchiyo killed as many people as he wanted and snorted every drug in the fucking world, all they’d tell him is to clean up his needles when he’s done if he did spiral or they’d try and call you to pick him up so the only person who cared was you so you couldn’t stop caring. Even if you wanted to.

“I love you too haru.” You said through the heated kiss your arms wrapping around Haruchiyo’s neck as he continued to thrust in and out his speed growing faster and faster with every second. He parted his lips from yours leaving you to crave more of him “I’m glad you do.” He muttered as he leaned back on his knees grabbing the back of your knees as his thrusts got rougher and sloppier with the new angle.

Tears were still streaming out of his bright green eyes which were now squeezed shut from how you were squeezing his cock “Uhn…” You moaned lightly throwing your head back against the sheets and closing your eyes letting the darkness consume you and going off only from the pleasure in your lower stomach and the sounds of your boyfriend whining in enjoyment from above you.

Haruchiyo hated this. He hated how sensitive you made him and how vulnerable he allowed himself to be around you because you accepted him with warm arms and it made it all the harder to love you knowing how horrible he’s treated you. “Ugh! Needed you so bad…” The long-haired man muttered as his fingers dug into the flesh of the back of your knees while he arched his back while hitting that spongy spot over and over not missing a beat.

Your stomach began to feel full like a balloon was in your tummy just aching, pleading to pop but it wasn’t. Just not yet.

Your fingers pulled at the back of his hair using the length of it to your advantage, his neck snapped back making his Adam’s apple pop out moving as he continued to moan probably making his vocal cords sore from how loud he was probably allowing all of your neighbors to hear him. You can’t count on both of your hands how many times you two have gotten a knock on your door complaining about the noises.

Haruchiyo tapped the side of your thigh rapidly signaling you to wrap your legs around his waist which you did as soon as he began tapping your leg “You so pretty, wanna see more.” He muttered his hands going to the end of the dress you had completely forgotten that you were wearing, it was more like a shirt now because it was bunched up at your hips exposing your entire lower half.

He slowly slid it up revealing your bare abdomen before pulling it off of you completely leaving you bare in front of you, he didn’t say anything and just stared at you his eyes windering from your eyes, your lips, your tits, your tummy and last but not least your soaking cunt that was continuously sucking him in squeezing the life out of him “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.” Your face got hot at his words and you got embarrassed bringing your hands up to your face and covering it so he didn’t so the flusteredness in your eyes.

It was stupid, he was quite literally hitting your cervix right now but you didn’t want him to see how embarrassed you were at his compliments “Don’t do that. I hate that.” Haruchiyo said softly with a bit of a mean tone, he grabbed your hands, and yanked them away from your face allowing you to see the frown he had on his lips, his forehead crinkled and his brows creased while he looked down at you.

“I hate when you do that, I love to look at you.” He said intertwining his fingers with yours and pining your hands beside your head, you didn’t respond as a very rough hit to your cervix sent you screaming and arching your back into the air “Haru!” You moaned shamelessly digging your nails into the back of Haruchiyo’s hands. Your moans were like music to his ears especially because he was the reason you were making those pretty noises.

The fair-skinned man leaned down with his hips slowing their once fast pace, he started to litter kisses all over your jaw and your neck biting down lightly making small teeth marks in your skin.

His swollen lips continued their work marking up your neck and coloring it purple “I love you, baby, I love you so fucking much!” You moaned out quickly as you breathed heavily feeling that balloon grow more and more with the teasing thrusts he had, going slow and slower and then breaking his rhythm with a rough hit to your cervix slamming his hips into yours. It kept growing, bigger and bigger as if you were bloated until it popped.

You yelped as you let go cumming all over his dick digging your head back into the sheets, you were sure the sheets were dampening with your juices “I’m almost there baby, I promise. I’m almost there.” Haruchiyo muttered desperately as his thrusts continued going faster as if you cumming brought him closer to his edge.

“Uhn! Ugh!” Haruchiyo moaned out into the skin of your next as if he was the #1 watched pornstar in the world, his hips continuously snapping into yours as you continued to breathe heavily still trying to come down from your orgasm but that was pretty hard when you were still receiving pleasure but you were going to let him ride out his orgasm.

You moaned with closed eyes at the feeling of thick and warm ropes spurting into your womb that you were oh so used to, you felt so full with him inside as he came but his face remained in your neck. You felt his heavy breaths on your neck as his back raised and fell with the pattern of his breathing “I promise you I’ll get better.” He said lowly but because of his face being buried in your neck, you heard it clear as day.

“Haru-” “No.” He lifted his face from your skin and rose once more looking down at you with a softened expression “Listen to me. I promise you that I will get better and treat you like you deserve.” Haruchiyo continued his brows furrowing in determination, he wasn’t crying this time when he said it, he didn’t look sad, he looked determined. He was going to do it and he was going to make sure you absolutely knew that.

He gave a quick peck to your lips before looking you in the eye again “And then I’ll marry you.” Haruchiyo said sweetly making a smile appear on your lips. He’d said things like this all the time but you knew he meant it this time.

You could see it in his eyes and in the way he talked to you that he meant what he said and he was going to get better. That was a promise you were looking forward to being fulfilled.

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#torasplanet.ᐟ #tokyo revengers x reader #marls-fics.ᐟ #haruchiyo sanzu #sanzu haruchiyo #sanzu haruchiyo x reader #sanzu haruchiyo smut #haruchiyo sanzu x reader #haruchiyo sanzu smut #tokyo revengers smut #bonten!sanzu smut #bonten!sanzu #so sappyyy #◛⑅·˚♡haruu~#thank u anon

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nyrandrea · 7 months

Text

Restless

Summary: As your sleepless nights start to catch up with you, you turn to a certain vampire who might just be able to help.

Also available to read here on A03!

Word Count - 2.7k

Enjoy!

xxx

Sleep had always been something of an illusion to you.

Each night, as the world succumbed to slumber, you lay in your bedroll, with eyes wide open, gazing at the twinkling stars of the endless night sky. It was as if the world had pressed pause, leaving you to confront the shadows of your own thoughts. Your insomnia was a relentless adversary, a cruel warden that held you captive in the prison of wakefulness.

The nights stretched on endlessly, and as the hours ticked by, your exhaustion grew more profound.

Your mind raced with thoughts, a relentless carousel of worries, hopes, and regrets. You would toss and turn, your body tangled in the sheets, seeking elusive comfort. Come morning, the birds seemed to mock you, a constant reminder of the passage of time that slipped away while you lay wide awake.

By the time everyone else was up and refreshed from a good night’s sleep, you were still lying flat on your back, your bloodshot eyes stinging as you stared up at the pale morning sky.

“Darling, it’s time to get up,” Astarion said, standing above you with hands on hips, his expression somewhat bemused. “Honestly, you’re so lazy, just like Gale.”

He muttered that last part, glaring towards the wizard’s tent as a rumbling snore emanated from it and echoed throughout the camp. The vampire suddenly smirked, and you rolled your head to follow his gaze, only to see Karlach sneaking towards the tent with her hands out, ready to pounce.

The snoring was cut short with a high-pitched scream, followed by a roar of laughter, and a lot of cursing on Gale’s part.

“Good, at least that’s one of you up,” Astarion said, turning back towards you. “Now, are you going to follow suit? Or am I going to have to stoop to Karlach’s tactics? Brash as they are.”

“Hey! My tactics are quite refined, thank you very much,” Karlach rebuked, stabbing a thumb in Gale’s direction, the poor man stumbling to find his cloak. “Got him up, didn’t I?”

“That you did, darling.”

“I’m up,” you muttered hoarsely, wincing as you slowly pushed yourself up off the ground, your body feeling about a hundred years old. “I’m up.”

“Oh dear,” Astarion grimaced. “Looks like someone didn’t get their beauty sleep last night, hm?”

His tone was light but there was an almost... concerned note to it, as if he was prodding. You felt a pang in your chest; he only spoke the truth; your eyes, once bright and expressive, now bore the heavy bags and dark circles of sleep deprivation. Your skin had dulled and paled considerably over the past few weeks, and your hair was dishevelled and unkempt.

You almost certainly looked as bad as you felt.

Part of you wanted to blame the group: Astarion for nearly sucking you dry of your blood, Karlach for being so damn loud all the time, Gale for making demands of you every ten minutes, Lae’zel for very nearly causing fights everywhere she went with her brashness, Shadowheart for her condescending demeanour and Wyll for craving validation from you every time you had a chat with him. The only sane person here seemed to be Halsin, and even he was starting to grate on your nerves for just looking so damn well-rested and perky.

The other part of you wanted to cry, to apologise for being such a failure and run away into the woods to never be seen or heard from again and just succumb to whatever fate the mind-flayer parasite had in store for you.

Instead, you forced a smile, and lied.

“Just had a nightmare, is all.”

“Hm,” Astarion hummed, a simmering concern etched into the lines of his face. In that moment you felt a soft push in your mind, and the tadpole behind your eye squirmed as if responding to something. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken emotions, a palpable tension that seemed to hang between you both.

It was only when you winced that the vampire averted his gaze, and the unseen force retreated from your mind.

“Terribly sorry,” Astarion said as you rubbed your head. “It would seem that my worm wanted to talk with yours; perhaps it was... concerned. Ooh, do you think that they’re best friends?”

“I doubt it,” you muttered, a little annoyed at his giddiness. “Maybe tell yours to mind its own business next time.”

“Of course, apologies again,” he said with that smooth voice and puppy-dog eyes of his, it was enough to make your irritation melt away. “But should a nightmare ever arise in that darling head of yours again, just know that you can seek me out.”

You blinked, a little surprised at the open invitation. You couldn’t quite tell if it was genuine; it was always hard to tell with him. The only times you had ever been intimate was whenever he sought you out for a bit of casual fun. He seemed confused as to why you never wanted to initiate, but you tried to explain that while you enjoyed your time together, you never wanted to invade his privacy as you respected that camp time was everyone’s chance for a bit of peace and were entitled to such.

This only seemed to confuse him further.

Still, this had to be a big step for him, to ask you to his tent -his sanctuary- and you didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

“I-I will,” you stutter. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, my dear,” Astarion smiled. “Now, shall we see what chaos today brings for us? It’s been far too long since we’ve had to kill anyone.”

You bumped his shoulder playfully. “We killed that group of bandits only yesterday.”

He returned the gesture with a sly smirk. “Exactly.”

During the day, you continued your journey with a fragile facade of normalcy, sipping on coffee like it was the elixir of life, desperately trying to stay awake. Your interactions with others were tinged with a weary detachment, as if you were viewing the world through a foggy pane of glass.

Emotions played hide-and-seek within your very soul. Frustration lurked just beneath the surface, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation. An innocent quip or question would trigger an unexpected wellspring of tears, followed by nervous laughter, leaving everyone in the group perplexed. You merely brushed it off as the tadpole messing with your head, but even that raised a few eyebrows as nobody else was acting up—it was a good thing you were persuasive.

You tried to avoid battles wherever and whenever you could, opting to take the longer roads or attempting to sweet-talk your way out of a sticky situation. However, some fights were unavoidable, and this was when your sleep deprivation was really put on show for everyone to see; your movements were sluggish, enemies were able to get more hits on you and you had to be helped back up to your feet on more than one occasion.

The others insisted on setting up camp a little earlier than usual so you could rest and, despite your trying to tell them that you were fine and wanted to keep going because these tadpoles weren’t going to remove themselves anytime soon, they wouldn’t take no for an answer.

So, here you were again, on your back, staring up at the stars. Another night of having an existential crisis while everyone else slumbered on peacefully. Rinse and repeat.

You had tried everything to conquer your insomnia. Experimented with herbal teas, soothing music, you had even consulted a sleep specialist back in Baldur’s Gate who prescribed a cocktail of medications. But the battle persisted, night after night.

Sitting up and rubbing your dry, stinging eyes, you decided to try something else.

As you crept through the camp, you were careful not to wake anyone else up as you approached Astarion’s tent, tentatively peeking in through the flap before reprimanding yourself; even though he had invited you, boundaries were important, you couldn’t just go barging in. So, you gently knocked on one of the wooden beams that supported the tent.

“Astarion...?” You softly whispered, waiting for a response.

Only silence followed.

You knocked again, wincing slightly at the louder noise you made. For a moment you thought about abandoning this whole silly idea and going back to staring into space for the next eight hours, but desperation made you persistent.

Mercifully, you heard a faint shuffle come from inside the tent.

“Come in,” Astarion’s husky, muffled voice answered.

Nervously, you slipped inside, and a wave of warmth immediately washed over your face as you were greeted with the sight of a bare-chested Astarion sitting cross-legged on his bedroll. You were grateful he at least had pants on, otherwise you would have been out of there like a shot.

A mischievous smile spread across his face as he watched you squirm uncomfortably. “Whatever is the matter, darling?” His lips formed a perfect pout. “Come to ask me for a little cuddle to chase the bad dreams away?”

Your nostrils flared as you glowered down at him while he smirked smugly back up, because of course he would tease you about something like this. You should have known that he wasn’t going to take you seriously.

“Forget it,” you said, making a sharp turn to re-open the tent flap. “I-I never should have come here, I’ll just... leave you be.”

You missed the flash of panic on his face as he quickly got to his knees to reach out and grab your wrist before you could make it out.

“Wait!” He said, stopping you in your tracks. “I’m sorry, come back in, please?”

You slowly turned your head.

“I promise not to tease you.”

Begrudgingly, you allowed him to take your hand and escort you back inside, guiding you to sit down beside him on the floor.

“You’re having trouble sleeping again, I presume?”

Nodding your head, you squeezed the bridge of your nose and sighed, trying to swallow down the overwhelming urge to break down in front of him and cry in pure frustration.

“I... I’ve been struggling with insomnia for a while now.”

Astarion scoffed. “Well now, that’s a revelation.”

You had half a mind to slap him.

“Sorry,” he said, holding up his hands in a placating manner. “No teasing, of course, but come on darling, it was pretty obvious from the start.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled, your gaze cast downward, wondering why you even came here in the first place if he was just going to insult you.

“You’re still beautiful,” he said, softly caressing your jaw to angle your face towards him. “Very beautiful indeed.”

Your heart thumped wildly as the tip of your nose brushed his, and you would have crumpled into his well-tuned act of seduction if it were not for one burning question suddenly on your mind.

“How do you do it?"

“I- do what?”

“Elves don’t sleep, right?” You said, blinking curiously. “How do you... not sleep?”

“We uh... meditate, darling. Wait, how do you not know this?” he asked, pulling back with his eyebrow raised. “You must have seen me doing it at some stage or another.”

“...I always just thought you pretended to sleep,” you hummed in thought. “Now that I think about it, the way you lay down was always kind of strange looking.”

He snorted a laugh at your brutal honesty, and feeling a jab of guilt, you tried to back-track on your word vomit.

“Sorry! Um… no offence?”

"None taken, darling,” he said, waving a nonchalant hand. “I can see why my eloquent poses would look strange to you, but for elves, meditation is a common practice. Helps us to… calm down; be in the moment, as it were.”

A comfortable silence fell between you.

“Could you show me?”

Astarion gave you a questionable look. “You want me to show you how to meditate?”

You nod vigorously and cross your legs with your arms resting on your knees to show that you’re serious. It takes you a moment to figure out which fingers were supposed to touch together but you get there eventually.

With a bemused smile, the vampire shrugs. “Alright, I've had stranger requests.”

You wanted to question that but put a pin in it for another time.

"Are you ready?" Astarion asked. You nod, your heart fluttering with both anticipation and trust. “Now, clear your head.”

You give him a dry look.

He rolls his eyes back. “Yes, admittedly a little hard, what with the little residents living up there but just... trust me, alright? Close your eyes.”

You complied, and Astarion began to guide you, his words soft and rhythmic, like a gentle lullaby. "Breathe in deeply," he said, his own breath aligning with yours. "Feel the air fill your lungs, expanding your chest, and exhale slowly, try to let go of any tension."

You followed his instructions, your breath matching his like a perfectly choreographed dance. With each inhale and exhale, you felt a growing sense of calm washing over.

"Thoughts may arise, like passing clouds," Astarion murmured. "Acknowledge them but let them drift away. Return your focus to your breath.”

You found yourself navigating the currents of your thoughts with newfound ease, like a sailor guiding a boat through calm waters. The more you let go, the more profound your sense of inner stillness grew. You felt the weight of your worries begin to dissolve. The burdens of your leadership, of the mind-flayer tadpoles and the problems that came with it seemed to retreat into the distance, leaving you with a newfound clarity.

"Good," Astarion whispered. "Now, focus on your body. Notice any tension, any discomfort. Let it go with each breath. Feel your body becoming lighter, more at ease."

Minutes passed like hours, and the tent seemed to fill with an ethereal stillness. You and Astarion remained connected through your breath, it was as if time itself had become irrelevant, and you were both suspended in a moment of pure existence.

You could feel the tension in your shoulders and neck melting away. It was as if the cares of the world were simply slipping through your fingers.

Slipping...

“...Darling? Are you-? Oh.”

Astarion’s eyes widen, and he winces a little when your head falls into his shoulder. He catches you gently by the arms, so you don’t slip and go face-first into his lap; it was a delicious thought but for another time, when you were conscious and ready.

But right now, he isn’t quite sure what to do with you. He certainly knows he can’t hold you like this all night; it would be uncomfortable for both of you. His eyebrows crease as he frowns while he tries to slowly lower you to the ground.

To absolutely no avail; unconsciously you end up pulling him in closer.

“Oh, for Gods's sake,” the vampire huffs incredulously. “What am I, some sort of glorified teddy bear?”

Half-asleep and still nestled into Astarion’s chest, you mumble something incoherent in response, your breath warm against his skin. You snuggle even closer, your head burrowing into the crook of his neck.

For a moment, Astarion felt a flicker of irritation, his desire for a good night's rest warring with his affection for you. He yearned to stretch out, to find the perfect position that would allow him the bliss of undisturbed meditation. But as he looked down at the peaceful expression on your face, all traces of weariness and anxiety erased, he just couldn't bring himself to disturb you.

Reluctantly, he wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer still. He could feel the gentle rise and fall of your breath, the slow, rhythmic cadence of sleep. The warmth of your body against his own gradually seeped through the cracks in his defences, and his irritation gave way to an overwhelming tenderness.

In that moment, he realised that the inconvenience of being your living pillow was a small price to pay for the privilege of holding you close, of being the one you sought comfort in. As you drifted further into slumber, Astarion closed his eyes and surrendered to the serenity of the night, the gentle weight of your devotion for each other enveloping you both, anchoring him in the moment and reminding him of the beauty in life's simple, sweet sacrifices.

xxx

Yyyyyeah I know this one has the same beats as 'Everything's Fine' but what can I say? I'm a sucker for begrudgingly soft Astarion ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Let me know what y'all think!

Links to my other Astarion works

'Everything's Fine'

Request - Astarion kills everyone in his path to get to you

#astarion x reader #astarion x mc #astarion x tav #astarion bg3 #my writing #tw insomnia #fanfiction #baldurs gate 3

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planete777 · 8 months

Text

꒰ RED LINES .:. LN4 ꒱

( lando norris x fem!reader )

IN WHICH. y/n finds her fate hidden within two red lines, and fears the demise of her and lando's relationship. [based on this ask]

pt. 2 .:. 'red hearts'!

WARNINGS. pregnant!reader, both her and lando aren't ready so there are discussions about potential abortions, mental break downs (i.e panic attacks, crying, you know the drill), angst, mentions of throwing up (no one does it i promise), attachment issues (like me fr), a little bit of fluff (because im not that evil >:])

NOTE. first non-high!lando fic!! i've never written a pregnancy fic, so like, forgive me if it's bad haha 🥲 i put so much effort into my banner, like i'm so proud of it lmao. anyways, enjoy reading luvs 💗

SIDENOTE. my askbox is open! feel free to send in any high!lando thoughts, scenarios and requests, or any other trope too 🤍

edited to add tag in banner

y/n is almost blinded by it.

two bold, red lines.

she finds it completely comical how she didn't know it sooner, for the ink that runs down the result window is so palpable, it might as well have been written with a permanent marker.

the test taunts and mocks her as she stares at it in complete despair and confusion as she so sure that they had been careful. but now, she lets herself cry over spilt milk because having a baby, on top of mountainous piles of stress that came hand-in-hand with uni, was not a checkbox she would've liked to tick off amidst her status quo.

the bathroom pounds with an deafeningly eerie silence, as she stares, and stares, then blinks as tears flow, then stares again. her ears are swallowed by loud static and her vision fuzzes around the edges, making the test in her hand seem further away than it actually is, and she allows herself to completely fade out.

she feel utterly sick. like she wants to throw up, but the upcoming bile, instead, remains dislodged in her throat and presses immense weight into her chest. it shortens her breaths, she's hyperventilating as if she's been strangled, then panic completely overwhelms her. everything before her zooms in and out like a malfunctioning camera and the pregnancy test clatters to the ground as she digs the heels of her palms into her eyes.

she doesn't remember the last time she had a panic attack this severe, and neither does she know if she'll get over it solus. yearn for a presence beside her devours her brain and she wishes that lando–

lando.

the way her heart seems to squeeze in her chest is almost too animalistic to be normal, and it arrives at the thought of him being unacceptable of the baby. he's barely situated in one place, fuck, he basically travels for a living, and all her mind conjures is how he won't be there when she needs him most. she tries to wish it away, because just thinking about her makes her spiral even more and she knows she cannot survive with a child whose father decides to be absent.

codependency isn't great, that she's thoroughly aware of, but lando's presence brings a wave of comfort braided in the brightness of his smiles and the warmth of his embrace, and it has become her whole lifeline.

yet, the bathroom she's in feels too small and too cold to be anything other than unbearable, and her body feels to weak to remain upright, sliding down to the tiled floor. she sobbing and spluttering so much that lando can hear it from two rooms down, and he rushes into the en suite without a thought in mind.

he crouches down in front of her, hands flush against the skin of her cheeks. he's shaking, fucking terrified out of his wits, and his words are enunciated with a tremble.

"hey, hey, y/n breathe with me," he desperately takes her hands into his, and places it on his own chest, making exaggerated breaths as y/n's start to simmer. it feel like hours stretch by, the air surrounding feels tense with fear and devastation, and by the time she settles, y/n senses nothing but exhaustion.

"what's wrong, love? you're scaring me," lando gently asks, and she struggles to respond, mouth rid of any moisture as if it had been scraped dry. lando takes the initiative to look around in hopes that anything would give him a clue to his girlfriend's break down.

then he freezes.

the white stick lays there, gleaming and glowing like it's fucking sent from heaven, and he feels his heart plummet into the depths of his guts. he knows he can deny it all he wants, but it's undeniable, what he's seeing, yet prays like a grieving mother that what he thinks is not true as his quivering hands reaches for it.

two bold, red lines.

"oh fuck," it punches out of him, every inch of energy disperses like fleeing birds, "you're pregnant?"

it's so small, so timid that he almost doesn't see it, but she nods, and his arms fall like he's been shot and the test leaves his fingers. he swears he's drenched in ice cold water and he remains silent, bound by stunned numbness. his lack of response spurs y/n again, and she begins sobbing, pressing her face into her arms and wiping it furiously. all she thinks is that he doesn't want it, and out of sheer terror, she starts rambling utter shit.

"i can get rid of it, if you want, lando, just please i'm begging you, don't leave me."

he's crying himself now, doesn't know what to feel at the suggestion, but it makes him gag.

"get rid of it if i want to? fucking hell y/n, i'm not a prick like that," he fumbles out, words wet and hardly cohesive, "as long as you want to keep it, i want the baby too."

she looks up at him, eyes so full of hope that he immediately takes her into his arms.

"you sure, lando?" she's still hesitant, burying her head into his chest, and as further reassurance, he kisses her forehead, "as sure as i'll ever be."

#‧₊˚✩彡 planete.writes: ln4 #lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris x y/n #lando norris fic #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #f1 #f1 fic #f1 imagine #formula one x y/n #formula one x you #formula one

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sweetreadings · 9 days

Text

Say my Name

Professor Nanami calls you into his office :))

Warnings: smut, afab reader, professor! Nanami, age gap, pussy eatin', p in v sex, nipple play, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, Nanami is sweet. not proof read, this is also my first time writing something this long. MDI (wc: 1,100)

With a sense of anticipation, you knock gently on the oak door of your professor’s office. After a few moments the door opens with a soft creak, your history professor on the other side.

“Welcome. Please have a seat.” He gestures to a smooth leather chair in front of his large desk.

The office is warmly lit by a small table lamp and the rich colors of the sunset slipping through some curtains that frame the window behind his desk. As you take your seat, he follows suit.

"I've called you here because I've noticed a change in your recent assignments," Professor Nanami began, his tone serious yet free of judgment. His warm voice provides a moment of calmness to your racing heart. "Your work has always been exemplary, but there's been a noticeable shift. Specifically, you’ve failed to turn in the past four assignments. I'm concerned about you. Is everything alright?"

"I've been struggling with some uh, personal issues." You admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "It's been hard to focus, I didn't realize it was affecting my work so much. I’m really sorry, Professor Nanami." Just as you finish, he brings his arms above his head for a quick stretch. His button down lifts up, revealing his lower abdomen. You catch a glimpse of his v-line and blonde happy trail. Your breath gets caught in your throat. Your eyes linger for a little too long before you look away, failing to hide the blush painted across your cheeks.

“I see…” He stands up. “You’re a good student, but if you needed some extra attention you should’ve just asked me sooner. I want you to know I’m more than happy to provide that for you.”

Your eyes are glued to the floor. “Well um… I’d be grateful if you would, Sir.” Anticipation bubbles in your chest like champagne, you finally look up. He gently grabs your hand and pulls you closer to him.

“Of course I will, I’d be crazy to turn down such a beautiful woman like you.” Nanami says in a hushed tone. He closes the gap between the two of you with a soft kiss. He wraps one arm around your back, while his other cradles your face. You wrap your arms behind his neck and deepen the kiss, the world around blurs into the background. Now chest to chest, you feel his heartbeat syncing with yours. You can’t feel your legs, if he wasn't holding you so tight you’re certain you’d have fallen by now. As if he can read your mind, Nanami lifts you up and lays you down on his desk. His hands place on either side of you, he continues to kiss you, slowly making it down to your neck. Each is filled with more passion and haste than the last.

He traces your collar bone with his fingers before kisses follow, his breath against your skin makes you see stars. He gently wraps his hands around your breasts. He runs his thumbs up and down on your clothed nipples, and a moan escapes your lips. You instinctively cover your mouth. Nanami grabs your hand and gently pulls it away.

“C’mon pretty girl, let me hear some more.” He murmurs against your ear. His low voice along with the euphoric pace he has set sends you into a trance. He lifts your blouse to rest above your breasts. He latches his warm mouth around one of your nipples, while rolling your other nipple between his middle finger and thumb. You arch your back, and intertwine your fingers in his golden locks.

“Professor… mhmm-feels so good!” Nanami hums in response, he looks up at you with his brown eyes full of desire. You can’t take it anymore, you need him. You reach down and palm his erection above his pants, the sensation making him groan. His groan shakes your core. “Please professor… n-need you so bad” You desperately cry. A small smile forms on his face from your shameless plea.

“Sure thing, angel.” He gets on his knees and puts your legs over his shoulders. He leaves fast, sloppy kisses up your thigh till he reaches your core. He licks the edge of your pantie line, before he bites down on the seam and pulls your underwear down your legs and off your feet. He kisses his way back up. He dives into your arousal, his tongue fucking you. The sensation makes you squeeze your thighs around his face and grip his blonde locks to pull him in deeper. He moans into your pussy, causing you to moan.

“God! Nanami… you feel so fucking good!” You say and start to grind on his face.

He pulls his face out from your core for a moment.

“Keep saying my name, please.” He palms his dick through his slacks and dives back in. You nod in response. He flicks his tongue up and down your clit, sending waves of heat to your chest. He takes his free hand and pushes two fingers in to your pussy, hooking up to hit your sweet spot.

“Fuck- Nanami, I-I’m gonna cum!” His tongue and fingers move impossibly faster, sending you over the edge in seconds. You moan and grind your hips on his face and ride out your orgasm. Nanami stands up and grabs your hand. He walks you to his chair. He sits and pulls you onto his lap.

He takes off his belt and pulls down his pants. His cock springs out. He’s long with a slight curve, his tip is flushed pink. You align your core over his length, and lower yourself onto his tip. His breath hitches and his grip on your hips tighten at the contact. He rests his head against your chest. “Fuck, you’re already driving me crazy…” He chuckles.

“Let me do all the work baby, you just relax.” He pulls you down his full length, his groin pressed to your ass. You grip his shoulders, tight. He’s stretching you, but God his natural curve easily hits your sweet spot.

“Sorry angel, I couldn’t hold back any longer.” he mutters in your ear. He lifts you up, and down over and over hitting your sweet spot everytime. He’s easily moving you faster and faster on his length. Tears form at the corner of your eyes. You feel yourself about to snap. You somehow string a sentence together:

“Nanami, don’t stop… gonna cum ‘gain.”

“Do it baby…cum all over my dick…” He says breathlessly.

You instantly finish. “Nana- oh my God! Unnghhh..!” You pulse around his dick, causing him to release his cum deep into your pussy.

You rest your head against his strong chest while he holds you in his lap.

“I’d really like to do this again.” You whisper against him. You feel him twitch inside of you.

“Me too. I’ll take you out first next time, sweetheart.” He smiles. You giggle.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

a/n: hi!! i hope y'all liked this. let me know, and I'll write some more :))

reblogs are always appreciated <3

#jjk #nanami kento #nanami smut #nanami x reader #professor nanami #jjk smut #jjk nanami #jjk x reader #nanami kento smut #nanami kento x you #kento nanami x reader #nanami x you

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tihgnari · 10 months

Text

ꕤ 50. i think i ruined your PJs (ღ)

tw: none! :') / wc: 1.7k

you stare at your phonescreen, watching it vibrate on the kitchen counter. your hands sweat, and your heart races, as you hesitate to answer his call, contemplating about what to say.

a door slams and thoma appears in front of you in an instant. paper bags of fast food left on the dining table. "what are you doing?" he says, eyeing the phone before staring back at you. "answer it al—"

the phone stops ringing, ayato's caller ID disappears, and it returns to your lock screen. the panic you feel is indescribable, and you defeatedly think of calling him back and saying sorry for being unable to answer his call the first time.

ayaka lets out a pained groan. "you both are absolutely impossible! why didn't you answer it?!"

"i was nervous! i don't know what to say—"

"just answer it already!" thoma exclaims with a frustrated expression similar to ayaka's.

you wanted to pull your hair. why can't you just woman up and answer it?! you grab your phone off the counter, irritated at yourself, as you snap back at thoma.

"well, i can't anymore. it stopped ringing!"

as if on cue, the phone lights up, vibrating in your hands as your heart drops once again at the sight of ayato's caller ID. thoma audibly gasps and hurriedly rounds the kitchen counter to grab your shoulders. "answer it! now!"

"alright!" you push his hands away before clearing your throat, trying to level your voice so he won't find out that you were 100% freaking out at his sudden call.

"hello?" you speak into the phone. after a few seconds, when no one answers, you hesitantly say. "…ayato?"

no one is speaking on the other end, you can't even detect faint breathing. you pull the phone away from your ear, checking to see if the call is still ongoing, and the increasing seconds displayed on your lock screen confirm that it is. why isn't he speaking? should i not have answered?

faintly, you hear thoma and ayaka's enthusiastic "what's he saying?" behind you, but you stay silent, waiting for him. you open your mouth, wanting to address the person on the other line once again, when—

"hey."

his voice sounds defeated as if he's been crying for hours. you knew he wasn't in a good state right now from the voice alone.

your cheeks heat up, and you grip the phone harder. "hey," you answer stupidly, dazed and running on autopilot as you space out. every fiber and molecule of your being on edge as you give ayato your full attention.

you bite your lips, wanting to say a certain something to him after going weeks and weeks of not speaking to him. however, you held yourself back.

"i was thinking," ayato starts. "maybe you'd like to talk? you know… about everything?"

a small smile appears on your face, and you unconsciously nod even if he won't see you.

"i'd love to."

—

"are you really sure you guys don't wanna come up with me?" you ask ayaka, who sits behind the wheel in her white lexus and thoma in the back seat. you three are at the parking lot of the hotel ayato told you where he was staying.

he initially asked where you were so he could come to you, but after thorough persuasion, he relented on you going to him instead.

ayaka takes off her seat belt. "we're sure. he only asked to see you."

"just update us about how he's been. we'll wait for you here." thoma says.

you nod, stepping out of the car and walking toward the elevator. you met eyes with a woman at the front desk. she bows to you, a customer-service smile on her face, as she approaches you. ayato says he'd ring the front desk, so you can just come straight to his suite. the woman follows you to the elevator and taps the key card into a scanner before pressing a certain floor. whether or not she recognizes you, she doesn't say nor make it noticeable as she turns her heel back to the front desk.

you chew on your bottom lip, emotions running at an all-time high. you don't even notice the popping sensation in your ears as the floors get higher, your mind preoccupied with what you'll say to him, how you'll act. after all, the last proper conversation you had with him was back at their hospital's VIP room—which is weeks ago, give or take, and it did not even end well.

the elevator dings! and the doors open, sealing your fate.

there were only three rooms on this floor, and ayato instructed you to make two lefts to get to his room at the end of the hallway. the carpet is spotless, and your dirty white sneakers look so out of place as you make your way to his suite. just as you raise your hand to ring the doorbell, the door swings open, and there stands before you in all his glory—

"ayato," you say, dumbstruck. you don't notice how he is in mismatched silk pajamas, nor how a few of his hair stands on weird angles; you see his already pale skin that looks paler than usual and the bags under his tired eyes.

"yn—hey," he says, just as dazed as you. as if he can't believe you're actually standing before him right now. "uhm, come in."

the first thing you see is the thick white curtains hiding the floor-to-ceiling windows, blocking out the skies' magnificent orange and yellow hues as the sun has begun to set. the suite looked much like any other hotel room, only it looked fancier and more luxurious with its white marble accents paired with wooden furniture. the living room is well-lit, and from where you're standing, the sliding door to the bedroom is open, allowing you a slight peak.

you see a leather bag open on the lamp desk, chargers, and other necessities placed haphazardly around it. one of his carry-on is sprawled open on the floor behind the bed, while the rest is zipped shut at the far corner of the room, looking untouched.

"so—"

"yn—"

you both speak at the same time. he meets your eyes sheepishly, letting out a small laugh, a hand rubbing the nape of his neck sheepishly. "ladies first," he insists, and you don't argue.

"when did you fly back? seems to me you've been here for a few days now," you say, looking around. "i thought for sure you were still in another country."

"oh, i flew back a day after the wedding."

you nodded understandingly.

silence surrounds you both until ayato breaks it.

"would you like anything to drink or eat? i can order room service."

you smile, "a glass of water would be fine."

"alright, take a seat."

so you settle yourself on the plush sofa as he disappears in the kitchen for a few minutes before coming back to place your water on the low coffee table. you expected him to sit nearer to you, however he sits on the sofa across from you, and a frown tugs at your lips until you remember he's just being cautious. you guys did end on a bad note…

when your eyes meet, he shoots you a small smile as he nods. giving you the opportunity to speak first.

"well, i wanna start by saying i'm sorry," you interlace your fingers together on your lap. "for deceiving you. you definitely did not deserve that, i just got so scared—that i'd lose ayaka, and what your reaction would be if you found out… which you did, still."

ayato hums. "i understand your point, with ayaka. however i'm still quite hurt with our dates, as i did put my utmost time and effort into them," a solemn tone takes over his voice, and you can feel your heart breaking. "i would've accepted a proper rejection. i know how to respect a woman's decision."

"no." you answer in a heartbeat. "look, i know sabotaging our dates can possibly come off as me not reciprocating your feelings but that was just me making bad decisions."

ayato blinks, dumb founded. it takes time for him to properly start speaking. "i'm afraid i'm not following…?"

you sigh, not really knowing what to say—well, technically, you knew what to say, you just didn't know how.

well, might as well bite the bullet and blurt it out.

"i like you, ayato. i like you so much, even if i know i don't deserve you. because… because…" you didn't know you were crying, attention focused on the man in front of you to even notice the wetness of your cheeks.

your throat feels clogged up, and you choke on your words, unable to carry their weight. "i know how much i hurt you. i lied to you and didn't even stop to think about what you could've felt, i completely disregarded your efforts, and i was selfish. so i get it, when you told… told me that you shouldn't have liked me because i wouldn't… wouldn't like someone like me either —"

his scent engulfs you whole as he pulls you into an embrace. you feel a slight tremble in his hands as he firmly holds onto you, almost as if making it a confirmation if you truly were in between his arms. you break down in front of someone for the first time in weeks, your mind playing flashbacks of how you had to stifle your crying in the bathroom so ayaka won't hear.

it was as if a dam broke, and you couldn't stop your tears from cascading down your cheeks. you didn't know what you were crying about — you can't exactly pinpoint if it was because of this concrete fear of nearly losing ayato, of the harsh criticisms of the public, or you were just so overjoyed to be in his arms without having to worry about anyone or anything.

despite all the snot and tears you're probably getting on his expensive pajamas, ayato holds you tight, gently rocking you back and forth because he knew, he just knew, that his silent presence can comfort you more than his words at that exact moment.

after you have calmed down, resorting to small sniffles every now and then, did you decide to pull away. not completely, just enough to meet his gentle eyes. he smiles, tilting his head. "do you feel better?"

you nod slightly, shame suddenly washing over you.

"i'm sorry, i think i ruined your PJs."

"oh, these?" he shrugs his shoulder, laughing. "i have ten more sets of these, and you can cry on each and every single one of them if you want to."

LOWKEY » previous : masterlist : next

a kamisato ayato social media au

summary — it was only recently you found out kamisato ayaka was, in fact, not an only child after all! seeing ayato for the first time gave you the severest case of the butterflies but according to ayaka, he’s off limits, especially to you as her most treasured friend. well, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt, right?

notes — the end lol jk

🏷 i. @rinrinchin @nejibot @viiolettee @katsumikumo @starryeyedkoko @xingqiusliegee @boxdisappeared @lovelyycherries @love6cks @kiyowoir @luvvmeilin @blackberri-jelli @moonlightbqe @kazooms @tricethecharm @lynnforever @kaedear @xiaoisahawtie @crowbird @apotatouwu @xinii @euryrue @aequha@nuttytani @plinkuro @aixaingela @milesluvrrad @windasteriaa @cherrytomato2 @zannivrs @eishtar @wccycc @ceylestia @sweet-almonds @queenaveryrules @veyu002 @ukinya @adeptusx @x-xxiaos @loveyoutothestars @ssalamanderr

#genshin imagines #genshin smau #genshin x y/n #genshin impact x you #kamisato ayato smau #ayato kamisato imagines

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feelbokkie · 6 months

Text

[8:39 PM]

☀️Feelbokkie M.list☀️

genre: fluff drabble

pov: 2nd person

description: You decided to ask your boyfriend an innocent question. You didn't expect him to answer so honestly.

pairing: bf!Seungmin x gn!reader (reader wears makeup)

warnings: swearing (just one!)

word count: 476

"Seungmin, when do you think I'm prettiest?"

"I'm not falling for that trick." He answers without wasting a second.

Both of you got home for the day around the same time and have been relaxing on the couch together in silence. You were scrolling through tiktok, showing Seungmin ones you thought were funny, while he hummed quietly and read. You only stopped scrolling because you saw a new trend where people would ask their partners when they thought they were the most attractive, pretties, handsome, etc. It made you curious to see what Seungmin's answer would be.

"There's no trick. I'll even tell you what my answer would be for you. But only after you answer. Please? I wanna know." You get up from his side and face him. He presses his lips together and stares at you. You're not sure if he's considering answering or trying to think of an answer. Maybe he just thinks you're stupid for asking the question in the first place.

"I think you're prettiest the second you take off your makeup." He says after a moment of silence.

"What?" You're taken aback by his answer. You want to laugh but you're not sure if he's actually joking or not. You know that if he's being serious and you laugh it'll hurt his feelings and he'll immediately retract his statement saying something along the lines of, 'I don't find you pretty at all. You're really ugly.'

"You're really pretty when you put your makeup. You do it really well and it suits you the way you do it," He closes his book and turns to face you more directly, "But I think you look best bare faced. It's my favorite version of you. I don't know, it's just my preference maybe. And I like watching you take off your makeup. It's almost like opening up a present on Christmas. Watching you go from one beautiful version of yourself to the most beautiful version makes me really happy-- Hey, why are you crying?"

"B-because, that is the sweetest thing you've ever said to me!" You blubber. You can't help but crying at Seungmin's answer. He had such a soft voice and bright smile while he was talking, it made you realize how much he really loves you. And how much you love him back.

"I'm sure I've said sweeter things," Seungmin brings his left hand to your face and wipes away your tears with his right hand.

"I don't care. This is number one now. I was going to say you look prettiest when you smile but that sounds lame in comparison." You sniffle.

"If you said it, it wouldn't be lame."

"I will cry again,"

"You also look pretty when you cry." He adds, smiling.

"I'm about to become so fucking beautiful in a second if you don't stop being sweet."

—

Buy me a coffee?

—

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#feelbokkie writes #stray kids #skz #seungmin #kim seungmin #skz imagine #stray kids imagine #seungmin imagine #kim seungmin imagine #skz imagines #stray kids imagines #seungmin imagines #kim seungmin imagines #x reader #seungmin soft hours #seungmin drabble

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romantichomicide95 · 7 days

Text

DABI ~ confessions

summary: you ask dabi why he never says those three words back.

cw: toxic relationship vibes, but still kinda cute. dabi opening up in his dabi way.

a/n: bee aren’t you on a writing hiatus? -no comment, also first time i’ve ever written for him and i know his stuff is prob a dead side of tumblr but when in rome.

tagging: @i-literally-cant-with-this (i almost forgot)

“how come you never say it back?” you ask dabi, adjusting your position against him on the couch. this particular question had been on your mind for awhile. whether or not he loved you back. it was something that twisted in your gut like a knife each night that passed. his stark blue gaze flicked away from the television, finding your eyes momentarily before flicking back to the TV.

dabi’s lips twisted slightly, forming a semblance of a frown, one that made his eyes seem even colder and more distant than usual. the faint glow from the television cast unsettling shadows across his scarred face, emphasizing the harsh lines of his expression. “say what back?” he retorted.

you felt your heart beat painfully against your chest. “that you love me,” you whispered.

a low grunt escaped him as he pushes himself up to a sitting position, forcing you off his lap and creating a small distance between you. dabi’s voice drops low, his steely gaze finally settling back on you, sharp and piercing. “love doesn’t really suit me now does it?”

your heart sank at his words, but you couldn’t let it go. “okay…so you don’t love me?” your voice was rising, a mix of frustration and sadness weaving through your words.

dabi looks away again, his jaw clenched tightly. for a moment, there's a flash of vulnerability in his eyes before it disappears behind his mask of indifference. “it’s complicated," he finally says, his voice gruff.

you felt the sting of tears, trying to will them away but failing. “what does than even mean…i’m your girlfriend.”

his silence hung heavily between you, the air charged with the unspoken. he sighed, a sound heavy and filled with something that could almost be mistaken for regret. "can you just drop this and watch tv? i’m fucking tired.”

you wipe away a tear. "no dabi…you know i put up with a lot from you? for one you’re an asshole and like you’re not always nice to me. plus you use my body however you please. but despite that i love you…so i just deal with it.” you begin, the tears now rolling down your cheeks unchecked. “i just want to make you happy. and now you’re telling me you don’t love me? what’s the point?”

"fuck, " dabi cut in, his tone sharper than he intended. he saw the hurt flash across your face and it stirred something inside him. you were right, you do put up with a lot from him. always finding ways to justify his behavior, excuse his cruelty. “don’t cry i hate that shit. i’m not good with feelings and all that.” he runs a hand through his messy hair. the tv light flashes bright, casting a glow across his face illuminating his scars. “it’s not like i don’t care about you.”

“but you don’t love me? i guess i just don’t see why you’re still with me if you don’t.”

there’s a long silence as he struggles internally with the weight of the conversation. “well i am with you aren’t i? who else would put up with me?”

“oh so it’s out of convenience than? that’s real nice dabi jeeze.”

he glares at you for a second, almost like he’s insulted by the insinuation. “no. it’s not out of convenience okay! jesus christ, you’re impossible. can you just drop this please?”

“if that’s the case than why can’t you say it back?” your voice comes out exasperated, shaking and choked. laced with tears and sorrow.

frustrated beyond measure dabi’s blue eyes reflect a mix of anger and turmoil. like there’s two sides desperately clawing away at each other inside him. finally he explodes. "fuck…if you're really that desperate for meaningless words then fine…fine, I LOVE YOU, YOU STUPID IDIOT!" he screamed, his voice cracking under the intensity of his own emotions. the room fell silent, save for the faint hum of the tv in the background. he was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling fast as he continues yelling. “i love you so much it’s fucking infuriating. why do you think i get so mad all the god damn time when guys look at you? why do you think i push back all the time? cause i’m fucking scared. i’m scared you’ll realize what a piece of shit I am and leave me. i fucking love you y/n. of course i do. fuck…are you seriously that dense that you don’t see that?”

the second those words left his mouth, there was a palpable shift in the air. the room suddenly seemed colder, and you could barely believe what you had just heard. you stare back at him in disbelief, unable to form words.

watching you struggle for a response he snorts, shaking his head. a low gritty laugh, utterly emotionless, escapes him. “of course you don’t see it you fucking moron, too busy whining and being a pain in the ass all the time.”

a feeling of relief bubbles inside you, mixed with annoyance at his utter lack of tact and disbelief at his confession. the swirling of emotions comes out of you in a laugh, one that lasts a fraction of a second too long. “how can you be such an asshole while saying something like you just said?” you continue to laugh, wiping the tears from your cheeks.

he rolls his eyes. “just because i said love you doesn’t mean ill suddenly change you moron.” he says, though the hardness in his tone has softened. he shifts uncomfortably, almost as if unsure how to handle the vulnerability he just displayed.

you smile, leaning in to kiss his cheek before settling back on his lap. he scoffs slightly but his arm wraps around you as you both settle back into your prior position. despite himself, dabi finds some comfort in having you close. there’s some peace that bubbles deep within him whenever he’s got your body pressed against his.

you look up at him, tracing the scar along his cheek. “well, i love you a lot…and i wouldn’t leave you by the way, so there’s no reason to be scared.”

“whatever,” he mutters dismissively. “just shut up and watch tv.” he shifts on the couch grabbing the remote and turning the volume up, but not before he leans down to place a small chaste kiss against your forehead.

#dabi x reader #mha dabi #bnha dabi #dabi todoroki #touya todoroki #touya x reader #mha x reader #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bnha x reader #dabi x you #touya x y/n #touya todoroki x reader #touya todoroki x you #dabi touya #my hero academia x reader #my hero #dabi

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softlyspector · 6 months

Text

birds of a feather

Summary: Sarah is going to kindergarten. Joel is forced to reckon with his differences with the other parents.

Word count: ~3k

Relationship: Joel & Sarah

Warnings: minor mentions of anxiety, a whole lot of love from one man about his daughter

A/N: I so hope you enjoy this 💕 Thank you for reading! I would love to know your thoughts! If you happen to read this please leave some feedback, this is my first lil Joel & Sarah fic 💕 As mentioned when the snippet was posted Sarah's braids were inspired by @pomegranatevampire's lovely art, which everyone should check out if you haven't already.

He’s younger than the other parents by years.

It’s the first thing he notices when he and Sarah shuffle into the classroom and take their places along the back wall with the other parents and students. She stands beside him, and slightly in front of his legs, her hand tangled up in his. Her hair is that bright yellow that reminds him of cat’s clover and sunshine and lemon drop candy.

The whole of her is bright. A bright purple dress that his mother had taken her to the thrift store to pick out, matching mary janes, and tights with cartoonish flowers on them.

It’s not often Joel feels self-conscious, about anything, but especially about Sarah. He’s proud of the kid in front of him. He does the best that he can with her, and most days he figures he does pretty well, all things considered.

Considering he’d grown up mainly around other men, considering he’d been so young, and so very alone, and that he’d never really had anything to do with a baby before.

He barely remembers when Tommy had been that small, just a blip in his memory, a blur, a smear of a blink of time.

When she had been born, it felt as though she fit in the palm of his hand. She was so tiny, and he felt so very big and clumsy. A giant really, not fit for such a small world, such a tiny life.

Wrong, too. Because he was just a kid, not yet twenty, and sometimes he cried right along with her.

Those long, impossible nights.

The first few months, awful.

Full of restless, aching nights, with a learning curve that felt like failure. There’s an indescribable kind of pain that comes with hearing your kid cry, and not know how to help, how to fix it. But he got the hang of the late nights and long days. He found out that singing, playing the guitar soothed her more than anything else he could do, anything those baby books recommended. He learned that she liked to be held best, tight against his chest, the smell of her sweet in his nose.

He hadn’t known babies smelled like that. Pleasant, like a slightly milky vanilla.

Those days had been awful, too, because he had known. Joel knew her mother was going to leave. There wasn’t any fanfare about it, and they really both knew it was for the best in the end. They weren’t meant to be married, anyhow. Circumstance and doing the right thing after gettin’ that damn girl pregnant had been the main factors and motivations of that union, rushed at the courthouse, before she started to show, to try to preserve the illusion that things had happened in reverse of the order that they really had.

Shame had been the prevailing feeling that day; sunny and warm and uncomfortable on the courthouse steps, tie too tight around his throat.

Joel was better suited to it anyway. It was natural for him, once he got the hang of it, easy as breathing. It hadn’t been for Sarah’s mother. It was hard, like pulling teeth without novocaine, no matter how much residual love she might have felt for Sarah. She just wasn’t meant for it, and that had to be okay.

He was the one better suited to responsibility, too. He already had work lined up and a mother that was willing to babysit sometimes. So, Sarah was better with him, too, just for that, logistically and all. Maybe that was the only thing that really mattered.

And, well, Joel had wanted Sarah. He wanted her to be his, even if it was something out of a nightmare sometimes, he couldn’t imagine life without her, not anymore.

Once his ex-wife left, and it was just him and Sarah, Tommy doing the occasional babysitting stint, he forgot. He forgot the shame, the crushing guilt that made everything in the world seem his fault.

He didn’t feel young, and being a parent came naturally to him, caring for Sarah, like he was always going to be her dad. He thought it might grate, that he might get resentful about it like he sometimes felt when he had to take care of Tommy growing up, but those feelings never came.

It had been easy, even if sometimes it hurt, even if most of the time he felt like he had no idea what he was doing. It felt like it was something he had always been doing, that had always been done and needed doing.

And it was easy and it got easier.

He forgot, somehow, that he is not the typical parent, that theirs is not the typical household, especially not in Austin, Texas, in late 2006.

But as he stands now in the tiny kindergarten classroom with Sarah’s hand inside his, so little and warm, it’s hard not to notice how very young he is, how very different they are as a pair.

The desks are so tiny, so miniature. Or, maybe the world is just too big. The room is heavy with that gummy new school year scent, of crayola and glue. It’s undercut by the acid lemon of some heavy duty disinfectant or cleaner or something, and by the floral, sharp snap of the perfume of the couple next to him.

They smell expensive. They look expensive, and he suddenly wonders if this is the sort of thing people are supposed to dress up for. He’s suddenly aware of the crisp button-up shirts, the starched dress pants and jeans, the slacks and the dresses.

He’s suddenly very aware that his shirt is rumpled and his jeans have seen their fair share of much better days. There’s a stain on the hem of his shirt because their morning had been a hectic one, somehow. Nerves about this, maybe, about coming here and being seen and judged despite it all, but also just about sending Sarah off to school. They were in a rush and when he elbowed Sarah’s half-empty cereal bowl across the counter, there hadn’t been time to change his shirt as they charged out the door.

Joel hadn’t even noticed he got some on himself until this very moment, looking down at his scruffy boots.

He was only a couple months shy of twenty when Sarah was born, and it shows in this room of more capable parents, of more prepared parents, of better put together parents. Only just a couple of years ago, he was attending the high school across the street. His little brother is a senior there, and Joel is still a month away from his twenty-fifth birthday.

Probably twenty-five was the age most of the folks in the room had been getting married, maybe finding out they had been pregnant if they were young when it happened.

But, he isn’t the only young parent in the room. It’s Texas, afterall, plenty married young and had kids young.

He is, however, the only single parent, and, worse, he’s the only single father in the room. Cardinal sin, he supposes, in the harsh judgment of the bible thumping south.

There are a lot of oh bless his hearts and poor things looks being exchanged. Joel recognizes some of the other parents. People from school and around town that definitely know what happened, that know how Sarah came into the world, that will go out to the parking lot after this and remind anyone that had forgotten.

Got that girl pregnant and then she ran off and left him with the baby. Can you believe that? Oh, bless his heart, I’m sure he’s trying his best.

Whole life ahead of him, what’s a little girl to do without a mother, needs a feminine touch etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

False concern hiding very real judgment.

Nothing he hasn’t overheard before. It does manage to sting here, though, because for the first time, it might affect Sarah too. Kids were more accepting than adults, but they repeated what they heard at home, too.

That knot of something hot and mean locks up in his chest, something protective and angry. The kind of thing those fucking anxiety pills are supposed to help with, but never seem to. Not something he wants to think about. He can just deal.

Sarah tugs at his hand and he looks down at her duck fluff hair, sticking up off her forehead because he’s still so damn bad at braiding. His mother had shown him how, weeks ago, the twist of her fingers nimble and quick. He thought he had it down, had even been proud of his work before they left the house that morning, even amidst the chaos. But looking down at his baby’s hair now, he thinks it looks clumsy, a little snarl of sunshine yellow.

She just smiles up at him with all her teeth, the gap between her two front teeth notwithstanding, pink little tongue poking through the hole, eyes crinkling up until he can’t see her irises anymore.

He snorts and a few people shoot him dirty looks, the teacher stuttering at the intrusion on her introduction. The pressure working around his ribs eases just a little. Who knew kindergarten orientation could be so intense?

Joel straightens up and squeezes Sarah’s hand back, his attention refocused on the middle aged woman at the front of the room. He nods, only half apologetic about it.

The rest of the morning he follows Sarah around the little classroom, weaving between the desks and other peoples’ kids. She’s excited for school for months, all summer, always asking the neighbor girl across the way about it, watching for the yellow of the school bus through the living room window each morning with a little sigh.

She’s smart, and Joel wants to dare to dream more for her, more for the both of them.

She’s a social little thing and Joel does his best not to feel intimidated by the other parents. It’s hard though, when he’s gotten asked three damn times if he’s her brother. Somehow, a twenty year sibling gap in age is easier to accept than Joel being her dad.

“Oh,” the ones that don’t know say. “Mama busy today then?”

Mom is out of the picture. Sarah is his.

Then, the inevitable, “Oh, you poor thing. Raising your girl all alone.”

Sarah holds onto his hand again when they leave, and even if he was miserable the entire time, he feels better about it. She talks the whole way home, from the backseat, big eyes watching his in the rearview mirror, crinkling up in that way he loves when she laughs. They stop for milkshakes on the way home, and her smile is covered in chocolate by the time they get home. He mirrors it back to her.

He feels better about the whole thing. The inexplicable knot of guilt in his chest has loosened. The first day of school would probably come with no tears or anxiety, but a smile and excitement. That neighbor girl across the way is already promising they can sit together on the bus.

Joel wants to drive her to school, but there’ll probably be mornings that wouldn’t be possible, not with the schedule he’s going to have to keep with the new job. He feels bad about that, too, because it means less time with her.

It’s terrible, another generation of Miller latchkey kids. He needs more time, but that’s the very thing he doesn’t have.

That’s okay, he tells himself, because Sarah will like it. She’ll like going to school and making friends. She’d see her grandmother in the afternoons, and her Uncle Tommy, too, if he really was close to having enough saved to get himself a truck. Tommy could pick her up after school sometimes, too, take her home and play babysitter for just a couple of hours.

It would be fine.

Sarah would love school. She’s already a smart kid, and too clever for her own good. She’s sociable and funny, friends would come easily to her like they do to Tommy. And hopefully those kids have better sense than their parents to say anything to Sarah about her mother.

Except that first day comes a week later and everything goes to hell.

And he has to wonder if everyone goes through this much grief about everything or if he’s just so goddamn unique. Just so goddamn bad at managing things. That morning is the spilled milk and cereal multiplied by a thousand.

Nothing goes right.

Not breakfast, because he opened the box of cereal and found only crumbs left in the bottom of the bag and he knew his dumbass brother ate the rest of it and that toast would not be good enough for Sarah, and, typical they were out of just about everything else.

Nothing goes right. Not rebraiding Sarah’s hair, because she insisted on sleeping with it in those messy little twists that he’s still yet to perfect.

Not getting dressed, because there was suddenly a glob of toothpaste in the middle of Sarah’s shirt which meant they had to pick something else out to wear and that was a whole ordeal, and he’s fairly sure not a single item of her clothing actually goes together.

He’s pretty damn sure they both look a mess. It would only take one look at them for everyone to know Joel is way in over his head, messing things up with her, doing bad job of it.

They can’t find her backpack, he has to pack her lunch last minute, he can’t find his goddamn keys.

But everything eventually turns up and then they’re both dressed in clothes that don't have toothpaste on them, breakfast in their bellies, and so they get out the door fine.

And then—

Joel very suddenly finds himself kneeling in his driveway with his daughter teary eyed and begging him not to make her go, and his heart snaps in half. Gravel digs into his knees, sweat drips hot down the back of his neck, but he stays there on the ground, eye level with his girl.

“I don’t wanna go without you,” she says, miserable about it. “You were there that other day we went.” It’s said like an accusation, like the beginning of an abandoning.

And he guesses that’s pretty much the center of it. They’ve never really been apart, and maybe it hadn’t been so clear school was something she had to take on on her own.

Her cheeks are bright pink with distress.

“It’s only durin’ the day, baby girl,” he says, thumbs sweeping away the tears that just keep on coming no matter how many times he pushes them away. “Uncle Tommy’ll be there to get ya after. And I’ll be home in the evening, same as always. Hey, take a breath.”

She sucks in a snotty lungful of air that hitches up in her chest and then slowly breathes it out. “But I want you to do it,” she says desolately. He cups her face, soothing away an impossible ache. “I want you to be there.”

Joel closes his eyes briefly, biting back the frustration that bubbles to the surface. He figures there’ll be lots of times like this in the future. Times where he won’t be able to be there, where he’ll have to come home late, miss dinner, miss little life events, miss things he should be there for.

Maybe he should get this first time right.

“All right. I can’t come with ya all day. It just ain’t allowed. But I’ll be there to pick ya up. Since it’s your first day n’all. Can’t be everyday, though, clear.”

She sniffles and Joel brushes a lock of her hair back, thinking that maybe his braids aren’t as bad as he thought. “Really?”

“Yep.”

“Promise?” Bottom lip trembling, another crack in Joel’s heart.

“I promise, baby. I’ll be there.” He tucks another loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Now, c’mon, we gotta get goin’. We’re already late.”

She giggles, tears drying in tacky streaks on her cheeks. “We’re always late, dad.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, adjusting the twisted strap of her pink backpack, some kind of themed princess ordeal. “We’re always late and always a mess.”

He gets to his feet and takes her hand when she holds it out to him. They walk to the truck over the crunch of gravel in the driveway and Joel helps her into her carseat. She does up the buckles herself and he checks them before closing the door.

Sarah hums along to the oldies station on the radio and Joel thinks it's only half out of nervousness as she watches the familiarity of their neighborhood roll by.

Even though he could let her out at the curb, Joel parks and walks Sarah to the front door. He’s getting this part right, he knows it by the way she smiles up at him, in that funny way she has that makes him chuckle.

He stoops and presses a kiss to her forehead. “You’ll be here?” She asks one last time.

“Cross my heart.”

“Okay.”

“Have a good day, baby girl. You’ll do good.” She nods and straightens her tiny shoulders, flitting across the sidewalk to take her teacher's hand and be herded into the building along with the rest of that year’s class.

“Appreciate it now,” a mother next to him says. “In a couple years time she won’t want anythin’ to do with ya. Just be embarrassed.”

He knows it’s probably true. He still can’t picture it.

She turns and waves over her shoulder one last time before the door closes, and Joel thinks her braids look pretty damn good.

Thanks for reading if you got this far 💕 Would love to know what you think!

#tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #joel and sarah #joel miller #sarah miller

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floshav · 11 months

Note

more rodrick PLSSSSS it can be anything

omg this is my first req ever and im so excited thank you!!

you wanted more Rodrick well here's more Rodrick.

part 2 out now!!

summary: Rodricks your best friend but thats not enough for you. As much as you hate to admit, you like the boy. That's why you show up drunk and high at one of his infamous house parties after he'd ranted to you about how he was so so in love with Heather Hills.

warnings: angst, heartache, kissing, Heather Hills, pining, weed, alcohol, crying, one sided love kinda, self hate

wc: 1k+

"She was so pretty."

"Oh yea?"

"No. I dont think you understand, like the way her hair smelled when she strut past me, the smell of..... smell of something light. Fresh! Pink even."

Rodrick practically had stars in his eyes when he described how his crush was at school. You'd be ecstatic if the crush was you, but the world is cruel so here you were talking about Heather Hills for the last hour or so.

"Y'know... I heard she spat on Louise last week. Poor kid, was dosed in her icky saliva for the whole day." Y/n was selfish but she tried to paint Heather in a bad light.

"Shit i'd pay good money for her to spit on me."

Well that backfired she thought.

"Freak" Y/n lightly laughed as she fell back onto Rodricks soft bed. Chest heaving up and down whilst her mind felt clouded.

"What can I say, love makes anyone a freak."

There was that word again. Love. How could he be bloody in love with little miss Heather Hills. The queen of highschool. The perfect girl. Pretty blondie. Pretty face. Y/n quickly began to realise there were plenty of reasons for Rodrick to crush on her. Y/n was a nobody. She thought her face ugly, her style wack, her eyes too uneven. She hated, hated, hated herself and wished she looked like Heather.

"Oh. My. God. I just had the best fucking idea" Rodrick exclaimed with the dorkiest smile he could produce, each fine line below the thickness of his eyebrows seen under the dim lighting of his room.

"Hmm?" Y/n buzzed as she basked in the coolness of his sheets

"M'gonna throw a party" "Heather would definitely come, i mean its one of my parties we're talking about."

Flashbacks to Rodrick's last party hit y/n's head like a train when she remembered how chaotic and horrible the experience was. Drunk teens shouting and chugging unknown beverages, shoulders brushing against shoulders constantly as she tried to find a room she could breath in without having to see another damn couple absolutely devouring eachother. Each and every minuscule second she'd spent in that house made her want to puke. The sight that made her want to puke the most was Rodrick's clearly drunk self throwing himself onto Heather, eyes sparkly with hope whilst she just sat there smiling so sweetly it was sickening.

Quickly she was sent back to reality.

"D'you think that's a good idea?" she questioned, tired.

"Course it is! she always comes to my things"

"Kay' whatever you think is gonna earn you your little dream girl specimen."

"Trust me, this times different." That's what he always said.

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

It's ok. It's ok. I-It's.... it's gonna be fine. she told herself as she admired the makeup she'd put on for tonight's occasion, she'd tried to copy one of Heathers famous looks, but quickly realised it didn't suit her skin so she stuck to her usual and hated herself for it. It was dreadfully the day of his party. The day that she'd have to witness him openly flirt with Heather just because he had an excuse to down a dozen bottles of cheap booze. She swiped a smear of lipstick that somehow ended up below her lip and sighed as she adjusted her shirt. Why do you always give in? Just confess you idiot. No! what the fuck am i thinking. she scrunched her nose and took a deep breath in, abusing her vanity with the pressure from the pads of her fingers.

She really really didn't want to go. She couldn't bare seeing Heather show up with her annoyingly perfect face, her perfect nose, her perfect hair, her stupidly sweet personality that everyone gaped over. Fuck it. She hated herself and wanted to forget that Rodrick even existed.

She found her not so hidden stash of weed she'd carelessly left under a pile of worksheets from her chemistry class, something ionic bonding. She didn't know how long it'd sat there for but it stained the ziplock bag a dull yellow. The bag was crinkled and smelled like the thought of Rodrick. Whenever she was upset or mad at Rodrick she'd smoke weed to drown the thoughts out but she slowly realised it was ruining the drug as a whole for her.

She rolled a joint in a random piece of paper she'd found thrown on her floor and lit up the end, taking a deep whiff of it, smile playing on her lips.

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

"Animals.....Elephants....Tiguurrrsssss!" She slurred as she laid flat on her disheveled bed scrunching the sheets as her eyes formed stars around her ceiling. She got up abruptly, hair a mess and rubbed her eyes deepening the pressure with every second. "Rrrr... What time? Uggggh" She sighed as she reached for her phone. Her room was cloudy and smelled of green. Beside her were a few empty glasses so she took a sniff, curious. Happy juice? No, Vodka she thought. She saw the emptied out bottle of cheap convenience store alcohol by the side of her feet a long with the yellowed bag of weed which was empty. it'd been around 2 hours since she blacked out on her bed somehow thinking about how her fan looked like the shape of animals. Shit, fuck, ass, asshole! she muttered under her breath as she plopped back down.

"Why not? What's thurrr worst that could happennn?" she mumbled eyes fluttering as she picked up her bag and stumbled out her window, careful not to wake anyone. She took the route down the tree that always worked for her but in a clumsy fashion as she fumbled down the hard branches of her overgrown escape buddy. Craaack, Creeeeak. The continuous sounds made her annoyed. "Uggggfh can't everyone just shut up!!"

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

There she was. Standing dumb, drunk and high in front of the booming house lit up by warm yellow light. She could already smell the familiar smell of cheap alcohol, body odour and weed. My kind of night she thought as she barely made her way to the entrance. There were already people outside partying like no tomorrow as some flipped their hair to some overplayed hip hop song that everyone knew. While some were more restricted, sipping on booze as they giggled with their friends. The true highschool experience y/n thought.

Bump.

"Hey! Watch it-"

"Y/n?"

It was someone with beautiful waves of blonde still visible from her clouded vision, pretty makeup and a perfect body. Heather.

"O-Oh hey Heather! Pretty little Heather Hills." Y/n slurred as her vision was still blurred

"Uhm... Y'alright?" She questioned looking back at her friends as if y/n was cuckoo.

"No. No. No. No! Y-you. You. You and your stupidly perfect self can go to hell!" y/n lashed out

"W-what? Y/n what the fuck is wrong with you?" Heather said clearly freaked out by the sudden aggression.

Tears started to cloud y/n's vision so she took in a deeeeep breath trying to suck in as much oxygen as she could.

"Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! You- You're all he wants. Heather, heather, heather! My perfect little heather with her pretty little face!" Y/n cried out as her knees began to weaken. She had no sense of shame, embarrassment or anxiety. She was too blacked out for this. So blacked out she just blurted her deepest darkest thoughts.

A crowd began to form around them, some curious at the sudden shouting girl who was crumbling a part, vulnerable in front of some people she didn't even know the names of.

"W-what? What are you even saying y/n." Heather said confused and disturbed as she began to back away.

Warmth began to spread at the small of y/n's back. Rodricks hand.

"Y/n? Why the fuck are you screaming?- Y/n s-shit you're not alright." Rodrick hastily slung y/n's arm around his shoulder careful with her as if she was a piece of fine china.

"S-sorry bout' that Heaths, trust me she doesn't mean anything she's saying" Rodrick stutters clearly not drunk enough, nervous as he realises that Heather is clearly agitated.

"Y-yea. It's okay Rodrick. It's not your fault, just get her far from here kay?" Heather said with sympathy and those stupid doe eyes whilst placing a hand on his shoulder. This should've made him tremble with pleasure, but the fact that she'd talked about y/n as if she was a monster made him angry.

"Yea. Yea alright." Rodrick scoffed, lightly rolling his eyes before dragging y/n's blacked out figure up his carpeted staircase, the carpet grazing her knees creating a friction which burned satisfyingly on her kneecaps.

"Fuuuck. Fuck..." Y/n softly mumbled, head tilting to the side of his shoulder as he firmed his grip on the side of her shoulder. Shoulders.... shoulders are for friends, real girls get hands put on their waist. Not shoulders. She managed to conjure the thought in her hazed mind.

He struggled to open his door as y/n's body weight pressed into the side of him as he suddenly heard silent weeps of sorrow erupt from her lips.

He set her on the foot of his bed, careful not to drop her anywhere harsh.

"Y/n? Y/n what's wrong, you're like black out drunk." He asked now bending down with both hands on his knees.

He slowly caresses his hand over the hill of her cheekbone and shoves a fly of hair away from her puffy eyes.

"You....i... Im sick of you and- and her." She sighs as a hysterical tear falls from her eye. Her face was the saddest Rodrick had ever seen and this broke his heart.

"Me and... me and who y/n?" He said so softly as he began to crouch so so close to her, his eyes looking up into hers with genuine curiosity and care. The mention of her name fluttered her heart.

"Heather" She breathed out involuntarily sniffling.

"You don't like me talking about her?" He slowly asked as if all the dots were finally clicking together.

"That's a stupid question." He lowly chuckled as he swiped his thumb under the pad of her eyes.

"I.. I really- I really"

"You really what?" He said again so so softly

"I really like you." She blurted before she felt that familiar rush of heat rapture her face.

Rodrick's eyes glance down to her swollen lips and he feels a strong ache pill at his heart. His best friend just confessed about her underlaying fondness of him and he'd been an ass talking about Heather all the time. He imagined how bad it must've sucked all the damn time.

"I-I'm so sorry I- I always talked about her."

"No! don't fucking be sorry you idiotttt." She slurred

"You- You don't owe me anything." She smiled softly as she fluffed up his hair.

"Maybe..." This is wrong he thought

"Maybe i do owe you an apology." He said slow and steady as he glanced down to her lips and locked with it for the final time.

He slowly moved in to plant a soft kiss on her puffy lips and her eyes widened in surprise.

The kiss felt like heaven and she tasted like everything he was used to. A hint of cherry chapstick, a lot of weed and something coconut. His lips felt so soft against hers and she breathed in every second of the experience. She almost wanted to whine when he pulled away.

"I- Fuck."

Y/n's euphoric high was quickly ruined at the notice of him clearly regretting his decision.

"No- It's fine Rodrick. I get it, it was just a in the moment thing." She sighed as she put both her hands to her face rubbing her cheeks and eyes as if she was trying to rid off the pain in her heart.

"No, no, no! it's not that."

"I just..."

"Fuck it." He went in for another kiss.

--------------------------(end)

thank u for the request!! i hope this was enough to satisfy ur rodrick need lol, if u ever want a smutty end to this lmk but yarrrrr

#rodrick heffley #doawk rodrick #rodrick x y/n #rodrick x fem!reader #rodrick #rodrick x reader #diary of a wimpy kid rodrick #rodrick imagines #rodrick fanfic #rodrick heffley x reader #rodrick heffley x fem reader #rodrick fanfiction #rodrick heffley fanfiction

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lokisgoodgirl · 6 months

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Sticks and Stones: The Lakes [Loki x Reader]

The Lakes Masterlist / Regular Masterlist Summary: (2) Resolved to make an effort, Loki tries his best. But old habits die hard, some harder than others. Warnings: Minors DNI. Language. Ex-Loki. Smut references/ Wankst. Humour/Mild angst. (w/c 4.8k) Recommended Folklore Track: Mirrorball

“Oh blast it all,” Thor wailed like a child, throwing a pile of sticks to the side. Another bundle of promising kindle had turned to mush in his hands.

“We need to find ones that aren’t wet, Odinson – I told you. Sometimes they don’t seem wet, but they are wet.” Steve instructed, standing abruptly from where he’d sat on his haunches. Dismay was thick in the air. “Everything is wet here, Rogers." Thor whinged, kicking leaves. "The allusive flame taunts me.”

Loki sucked in his cheeks. The urge to expel a witty innuendo was almost unbearable. But he was trying to be amenable. Turning over a new leaf, as it were.

When the four of them had trudged back to the cottage last night, Loki had turned in to his sparse lodgings immediately with only the most cursory of bedtime salutations. To his surprise, sleep had descended quickly. He had been expecting to toss and turn for hours on that thin single bed, cursing Rogers and his brother and you; each with the time and thoroughness that was due. But he had slept well. And when he woke, the smell of bacon wafting through the floorboards greeted him.

Your laughter chimed against the clatter of porcelain downstairs, his brothers following suit. He had snuggled deeper into the lumpy pillow, inhaling in the way he used to against your hair. And now, beneath a canopy of green and gold autumnal majesty, they had made camp for this morning’s torture; fire-building. Loki buried his hands in another damp pile of foliage, grasping a hunk of twigs he found there. To hel with it, he thought as he closed his eyes; feeling secretive warmth spreading from his fingertips. Magic wrapped around each stick of wood concealed beneath copper leaves, drying it instantly. He glanced over to you, thrumming some moss between your fingers. “I found some dry ones,” he said nonchalantly, hoping it sounded believable.

You peered at his outstretched hands. “Oh yeah…” you replied. Loki frowned as your attention swung back to the wisped moss being pulled apart in your fingertips. “Well, let’s get this show on the road.” Thor looked over at his brother, aghast. “Cheater,” he rumbled loudly. To his side, only Steve’s ass was visible, shaking side to side as he still searched on his hands and knees through the undergrowth for where dry wood might lurk. Loki turned, one palm facing up. A column of ferocious flame burst from his skin, funnelling up like a portal. The sound of its violence ripped the air, squawks of local wildlife jibbering in the trees above. Steve lost his balance, falling to the side into the shrubbery. He let out a strangled cry, while Thor scooted backwards and knocked him further into the bushes.

“If I wanted to cheat,” Loki snarled, “there would be much easier ways to do so, brother.”

As quickly as it appeared, the flame ceased.

Loki turned back to you, smoothing his anorak. “Sorry about that,” he quipped with a cheerful smile.

In the time it had taken to complete his theatrics, you had selected one of his pile which you deemed suitable. You turned it over in your hands, fingers curled around the trunk of the weighty stick. Loki swallowed thickly. The innocently sensual glint in your eyes as you looked at it was almost too much to bear. Or maybe it was his imagination.

You hadn’t raised a smile all day, after all. He knelt on his haunches, mirroring your intrigue while you ran a finger down the larger stick. “We need to whittle a groove down here” you said. Loki nodded, moving his eyes between the line your digit took and your face.

Your eyes met.

He saw your gaze drop to his lips, only for a millisecond. “Could you?” you whispered, avoiding eye contact again.

In a flash of green, Loki produced a short dagger. He held it to you, handle first.

“I mean really we should use the one in your pack,” you smirked, eyeing Steve brushing sodden leaves from his ass as Thor fumbled fruitlessly in the undergrowth in a last ditch attempt. Loki felt his heart pound faster. He saw his chance. “But mine is better, Agent” he murmured darkly. “You know that.” “Guys – come over, please!” you shouted over his shoulder. Loki flinched. Truly, she now immune from my overtures, he mused bitterly; remembering the times a line like that would have had you groaning in his ear like a harlot.

He smoothed a rakish curl back from his forehead, collecting himself while his brother and the captain gathered round. Thor was muttering Asgardian curses under his breath, his hair wild. Twigs stuck out at obscure angles, a small slug clinging to the scruff of his jawline. Loki peeled it off, flicking it away.

“I think not that I was made for nature, brother,” Thor lamented under his breath. Loki chuckled, cut short as his dagger, poised in your hand, began to cut away at the centre of the large stick. There was a sharp intake of breath beside him. “That’s not standard issue,” Steve chided quietly, lips hardening. Loki folded his arms, elbowing Rogers in the process. “Watch what I’m doing,” you said sternly, eyeing the men with suspicion. They stood in rapt attention, watching every rut of the blade, every splinter and chunk which sprung forth. But not Loki.

Loki watched your face. Each furrow of your brow, flick of concentration, ghost of a smile as you looked with satisfaction at the result. “Perfect,” you murmured to yourself, running a cautious fingertip through the rough groove. “Now what?” Thor grunted. “Tis still a damnable stick.” You laughed the sweetest, most condescending laugh that Loki had ever heard.

It made his heart twist in his chest. “Now...you each take one of these” you handed each of them a smaller stick from Loki's haul. Loki’s was the longest.

A smirk curled the corners of his mouth against his better judgement. You rolled your eyes, snatching it back and switching it with Steve. “Sharpen these, so they are at a 45 degree angled point. Remember your angles from yesterday, Thor?” Thor frowned. You made the angle with your forearm. “Ah, yes” he smiled. “The little mountain.” For the next few minutes, Loki felt your appraising stare fall on him in intervals. He crafted his edge to perfection, sliding the dagger’s blade so close to the wood’s bark it almost shone. The rough hacking of the other men’s pocketknives peppered the air. Aside from that, and birdsong, there was silence.

When all of them had finished, you called them back around a small, cleared patch of forest floor. The branch with the groove you had made lay on the ground. The three men stared at it, sharpened sticks in hand. Suddenly it all felt very...human. They glanced at each other vacantly. “Loki?” you chirped, gesturing to the ground. He raised an eyebrow.

“On my knees?” he heard himself purr, the feigned incredulity palpable. You nodded sternly, just once.

“Very well,” he murmured, sinking down.

His knees hit the leaves with a crisp, gentle thump.

Immediately, wetness began to seep into the fabric. Like the gusset of her underwear, he mulled. He looked up at you the way he used to while you would have him kiss up your thighs, yanking his hair as he atoned for some imagined grave misdeed with sexual favour. The essence of his vulnerability. A rarity, only for you. He was such a slut for you, back then. Anything you desired. Anything he desired- “Loki?!” you snapped. He had been staring at your chest, eyes glazed. Carefully, he tilted his chin upwards. “Apologies,” he husked. The swallow which bobbed in your throat made his loins ache. Your voice was high. Higher than she intends, surely; he thought.

“Kind of...position it so the big stick with the groove is between your knees-” you’d said.

Loki shuffled, straddling the branch. It brushed the bulge of his cock pulsing lightly against his trousers. “Between my thighs, you say?” he asked innocently. “No, your knees. Well – thighs, sort of yes. Just keep it steady.” You were becoming flustered, Loki noticed. Loki liked that.

You bent down slightly, touching the hard round of his bicep before recoiling like it was a hot stove. “You um...hold the stick like this, no...like-”

Kneeling beside him, you adjusted the angle of his hands to grip the smaller, pointed stick. “That’s it...and then you rub it back and-” you swallowed, “-back and forth. On the one between your thighs. Knees.” Loki bit his lip, beginning to do just that. The sound was awful as his pace quickened after the first few strokes. Scraping, raw squeals that jarred the air.

“Like this?” he panted. A mist of sweat was forming at his hairline. He could feel it tingle.

“Like that,” you replied shakily. Your breaths were short. They were in time with the thrust of his arms as you hovered by his shoulder, guiding his wrist as it pumped back and forth. Thor and Steve glanced silently at each other, brows raised.

Loki saw Thor’s jaw drop from the corner of his eye, a meaty finger protruding from one straightened arm to the smoke beginning to waft from the groove. “Look, Rogers…” he gasped with the wonder of a child. The smoke became thicker, billowing in heavy flow. You fumbled to the side, grabbing some tufts of dried moss.

“Now tip it in, tip the ash in-” you said frantically, barely contained excitement in your voice. Loki complied, watching as the smouldering embers blossomed within the web of moss.

“Be careful,” he whispered, setting the stick in his hands down. He brought them up protectively around the moss. You held it forward, “blow, Loki” you murmured, keeping your eyes fixed on the small ball which had begun to smoke.

“Blow?” he said, forehead creasing while you nodded. Your eyes narrowed at the tuft clenched between your fingers. “Until you get-” “-a spark,” Loki finished quietly.

He blew on the moss, flinching as the vegetation burst with flame. Thor and Steve gasped, crowding round as you dropped the raging ball of fire to the groove of the stick below. You grabbed Loki’s spear, prodding the moss. Loki opened his mouth and closed it again.

He felt that he should be bored. Or annoyed. Longing for home comforts and solitude or some such. But, admittedly, he would not have thought of this whole scenario. Against his wishes, he had learned something.

What you had done? How you had transformed nothing into...something. Like magic. When he set fire to things, he cared not how they burned. Just that they burned. And, Loki thought, they always do.

After what felt like an eternity, Loki closed the door to the cottage and turned the key.

He was the last one in, favouring a meandering pace behind the three others huddled together in a jovial formation. Water saturated him, rolling in thick droplets from his forehead down the carve of his jawline. He had never known rain like it. It had fallen like milk, heavy and thick and relentless in every direction.

Hair was plastered to his skull, to his neck. It stuck in clumpy tendrils and made a weird noise against the garish anorak when he moved. He flicked his hands forward with frustration. The clench of his stomach against the soaking fleece made him shudder.

After the first attempt, he had reluctantly admitted there was no point in drying himself every ten seconds. Even magic, he had surmised, was no match for the English countryside.

Muffled roars sounded from the living room. Loki rounded the corner, cursing every squelching step. Predictably, his brother’s head was lodged in the soaking neck of his roll neck sweater. His hiking trousers lay in a bedraggled heap on the floor, water pooling around them through the floorboards. Muddy bootprints were smeared in circles over the rug. Steve held the hem of the sweater, rolled over Thor’s head and arms, yanking it. “I’m going-to take-your gosh-darned-head-off,” he grunted; before there was a wet pop. Thor stumbled backwards, landing in a chair in the corner. He began to laugh.

Loki rolled his eyes. “I wish to bathe,” he said plainly before turning to the doorway. Steve’s eyes widened. “The lady got first dibs, Laufeyson. You’ll have to wait. Shouldn’t have dallied on the ridge.” Loki froze, a grimace descending.

He closed his eyes, clicking his neck with a tilt to the side. Thor laughed, shaking his head. He pointed to Loki, then to Steve. “What need have we three of hot baths?”

“Speak not to me of my affinity of baths. Tis you who had your very own bathhouse on Asgard” Loki snarled. He rolled his molars, the deep chill setting into his bones only half born from the wet clothes sticking to every crevice. He looked longingly at the bathroom door, thinking of what lay out of reach. The sweet caress of hot water on his aching muscles, covering his weather-worn limbs with the kiss of a million bubbles that only sought to bring him pleasure. A vision of your naked body sinking in foam fluttered in front of his waking eyes, your lips parted to the ceiling as you let your thighs fall open-

The boiler made an alarming rattle in the kitchen.

“I’ll check it,” he muttered, casting a final glance to the bathroom door as he passed. He heard a splash. And then a small groan of satisfaction.

In the kitchen, Loki gripped the counter-lip and hung his head. He stared at the greyed cream of the surface while seidr rolled up his body, every inch of sodden fabric plastered to him airing free. A waft hit his hair, blowing it over his shoulders. Shaking it back, his eyes meeting the row of mis-matched mugs from yesterday. “When in Nilfheim,” he mumbled to himself like a mantra.

He returned to the living room, three steaming mugs in hand. The others had managed to light a stove in the corner and were now wearing pyjamas. Tops and bottoms, Loki noticed. A rarity indeed. He looked again at the fire. The flames were small, but they were there. He decided to be pleasant. “Did you use the groove technique?” Loki smiled, setting a mug down on the armrest of Thor’s chair. The men laughed while Loki straightened, staring pensively into the licking flames. With mild interest, the god realised that this was the first time he had been in this room. No mean feat, considering that the cottage only had three downstairs. The kitchen, the bathroom, and this one. He glanced around at the sparse décor, as antiquated and dulled and beige as the other spaces. “I remember those,” Steve nodded, aiming towards a radio on a corner-shelf. Loki chuckled, before sipping his tea. He smacked his lips. “Honestly, Rogers. What possessed you to house us in this place? Surely there are nicer.” Steve shrugged. “I thought it would be good for us,” he said, brushing his pyjama bottoms. “I mean, look at this chair!?” Loki exclaimed, gesturing to where his brother sprawled. It was some kind of cream leather, cracked at the worn areas where a thousand mortal arses had sat. Stains adorned the peel of its chafed skin. “A son of Odin, in a chair such as that. It’s insulting.” The words were bitter, but a playful smile tugged at his lips. Steve saw it. “Actually it is rather comfortable, brother” Thor piped up. He re-adjusted himself, leaning backwards, “rather comfortable indee-” In a flash, his tea sloshed in the air; hands flying to grip the armrest as the whole chair slid back to a lying position. Loki jumped to his feet, seidr fizzling in the palms of his hands. “Calm down,” Steve said, patting Loki’s lower back. “It’s a recliner, it’s supposed to do that. Had those in my day too.”

There was silence but for the crackling of the fire which had grown to a healthy blaze. It was comfortable. Loki quietly transformed his clothes to the flannel pyjama bottoms that had lain neatly folded beneath his pillow upstairs. “What about the top? You’ll freeze.” Steve murmured, pulling his mug closer to his chin. Loki smiled, shaking his head. Fresh curls bounced around his collarbone. “I think not that a thin layer of cotton will help in that regard, Rogers.” “Modesty, then” Steve scoffed, nudging his head in the direction of the bathroom. Both brothers rolled their eyes.

“Our dear Agent has seen me in much more raucous states of undress, I assure you” he sniffed, staring pointedly at the flames. He could almost feel the wrinkle of Steve’s nose. There was another silence which hung between them, heavier this time. “What happened, Loki?” Steve whispered, leaning forward like a teen girl at a sleepover. He pulled the blanket in his lap to his chest. “Between you and-” he gestured with his head again towards the door. “You guys were pretty perfect together seemed like.” Loki bristled, feeling his brothers eyes on him too. He knew it would come to this. “We had an irreconcilable differing of opinion.” “On what?” “On me.”

Loki straightened, rolling his shoulders back and resting an ankle on his knee for good measure. Casual. The scratch of cheap upholstery made his back tingle. “Well that could mean all manner of things, brother. You are insufferable.”

Loki swallowed, blinking several times. Steve reached out, patting his hand gently, but Loki flapped it away. “Apparently I am...what were her words exactly? Oh, yes. Haughty. Condescending. Unwaveringly arrogant.” He looked pointedly between the men. “I mean, can you believe that?!” Thor and Steve’s eyes met, each waiting for the other to speak first.

“Well, yes” they said in sync.

Loki bristled again, raking a hand through his hair. “Not to the point where it subsumes all my admirable qualities, surely?” he said, beginning to pick at the green of his bottoms. “I mean really. Is it truly arrogance if what I say is true? I cannot help being a god.”

Silence was deafening.

Loki looked to the side, seeing Steve’s face contorted in a theatrical twist. One eyebrow was raised, lips stretched over his teeth in a grimacing caricature. “You do go on about it a lot.” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

“Indeed, brother.” Thor concurred. He nestled back in the recliner with a satisfied sigh. “I shouldn’t have to walk with these groceries...I am a god. I have no need of a parking permit, I am a god...I can only imagine how it is to be your significant other, especially for so long-” “Hey, Thor – did Loki tell you about ‘that time’ on Asgard?” “Why yes Rogers he did. All of them. And anyone else who’d listen. Especially the part which highlights exactly how impressive it is that he is...” “-a god,” they both finished. Loki stared between them, open mouthed. His furious gaze landed on his brother. The betrayal in his voice was palpable. “How dare you,” he growled. “You’re one to talk, spouting off about your powers and flaunting your lineage at every chance you can grasp. The audacit-” Thor raised a waggling finger in the air, pushing his feet against the chair and sitting upright. “Ah-ah-ah, brother. But I am both self-effacing and charming, isn’t that right Rogers?” he beamed. “He is quite charming.” Steve agreed, reluctantly. “You on the other hand...it comes across as more..” The three of them looked between each other. Loki’s face fell.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

Of all the times your gentle hands had cupped his, your caring words of encouragement that he think more of what he was saying; he had not listened. Not really. The armour of arrogance was a comfort to him. It was secure, unchanging. Unlike everything else. And in truth, he’d thought you’d liked it. Despite your occasional protestations.

Until the end, that was.

A creak from the hallway signalled your imminent emergence from the bathroom.

In all the commotion, none of them had heard the boiler cease its ragged howl. A few seconds later, your head poked around the door. Wetted hair fell around your shoulders, sticking to the curve of your neck. Loki looked up through his lashes, stomach fluttering as your palm slid innocently down the wooden frame. Moisture still clung to your skin.

Loki hoped you weren’t cold. “I’m going to bed, I’ll see you in the morning” you said, looking to Thor and Steve before your eyes met his. He looked away quickly. “Goodnight,” the three of them chimed, some more enthusiastically than others. You stepped out in full view for a moment, adjusting the towel around your body. “Did you use the groove technique?” you smiled, nodding to the fire. “My brother made the same joke already,” Thor said, reclining on the deceptively comfortable chair again with a flourish. “But alas, no.” Loki’s heart skipped as you focused on him. Something swam in your eyes as you twisted the towel by your armpit. Something that wasn’t irritation, or coldness. He saw your covert gaze drop to his neck, lower to his chest, then to the flat of his stomach. He shifted, curling his long legs up on the sofa.

“Join us,” he said, gesturing to an empty armchair in the corner. You shook your head, offering a weak smile. “I’m exhausted, clearly you guys have more stamina than I do.” Loki felt the mighty need to agree rise in his throat. To articulate the validity of your statement, and its infinite reasoning and commend your observations. For the first time, he was aware of its overwhelming crawl upwards like dragon-fire, sanctimonious empty words writhing like live insects in his mouth – desperate to be spat. He forced them down, under the watchful eye of Steve. The words sat in his stomach like a stone.

“Goodnight, Agent.” Loki murmured with a respectful nod. You returned it silently, before closing the door.

A sliver of open curtain cast moonlight on the wall.

Loki stared at it.

Then he stared at it some more. How long had he lain here? He turned, grasping at the vintage midgardian alarm clock on the side. He squinted. Nine-forty. Loki groaned, rolling back against the lumpy mattress. Tonight, unlike the last, sleep evaded him. Although he had only been in the maze of his thoughts for fifteen minutes, it felt like eternity. Why could he not read you? It was always so easy before, he pondered. His eyes tracked along a crack in the ceiling. Before she raised the drawbridge.

He sighed.

If what Rogers and his brother said was in truth, then it meant the unthinkable. That she was right to do what she did. Was he truly so conceited that he had let love which evaded him so long slip through his grasp for the sake of his pride? For what? To feel important for a fleeting moment? A thousand fleeting moments would be more accurate. A chill ran down his spine. Does she think that, in truth, I never cared for her at all? He closed his eyes, attempting to diminish the intrusive thought. In an act of mercy, his mind conjured the memory of you wrapped in only the towel downstairs. Hair wet, droplets kissing down your neck as you played with the side of the cotton.

‘Come here, Agent’ he would growl, spreading his thighs wider on the bed’s edge. He knew how much you loved the thickness of his thighs. At least, you used to. The version of you still in love with him would sashay across the room, bare feet leaving wet imprints on the floorboards. A coy smile playing on your pouted lips.

Would you wait until you had straddled him to release the towel, or in the moment before you did so? Loki pondered this for a moment, before deciding to indulge in both.

He could feel his cock hardening uncomfortably against the crotch of his pyjama pants, the spill of your perfect breasts into his imaginary hands making it throb. ‘Darling,’ he would sigh as he buried his face in your cleavage. His thumbs would graze your delicate nipples, guiding them to his open lips as you ground against his lap. A hand would nudge his tip inside your perfect heat before you edged down...down to meet the root. And then, you would kiss. You always wanted to kiss the first time you were fully joined. Entwined. Twin-gasps would fill the air, giving way to moans of quiet pleasure as Rogers and his brother slept next door.

Or tried to, at least. Loki spat in his hand, before slipping it beneath the waistband of his pyjamas. Cold fingers wrapped around the mass of untended lust that waited. He pumped once, pulling the foreskin back gently and letting his fist nestle against the neat of his pubic hair.

A ragged exhale escaped him.

How long has it been, he wondered briefly, before tightening his grip.

He extended his thumb, pressing harshly against velvet flesh as he swept upwards. The god’s eyes rolled back in the darkness, back arching up into his pleasure. Low pants began to pepper the air around him, each swipe of his hand more frantic than the last.

Too loud.

He bit his lip, eyes screwed shut while visions of you flashed through his mind. He settled on a memory of you in his bedroom in the tower. His hands were tied behind his back as he sat on the edge of the bed you shared, your fingers curling around his abs as they clenched beneath the touch. Your lips fastening around his trembling cock as you made him yours in each stroke of your tongue. Each slurping kiss that lingered as you sucked, his head falling back as he lost himself in you. Always, he thought between staggered breaths. Completely hers.

Loki’s fingers dug into the mattress, the rough methodical slap of his fist against flesh a din to his ears. But gods, it felt so good. He needed this. Needed to allow himself a stolen moment of pleasure where you loved him still.

Climax began to bubble in his deepest centre, swirling behind his eyelids. Loki’s thumb circled the tip with every fuck of his palm, squeezing tighter while droplets of precum made the pyjama pants damp. His teeth were gritted to the ceiling, bared in a grimace. His chin pointed upwards, the pillow folding in on his cheekbones with the force of the brace. His breaths were short. ‘Mmmm’ The god’s eyes shot open.

He paused, wincing as his fist froze tightly halfway down his cock. His ears pricked, concentrating. ‘Mmmm-uh’

Loki’s head fell to the side, facing the wall. The wall on the other side of which, you lay.

He closed his eyes, summoning every magnification of his senses that he could. Your voice. No more than a whisper, seeping through the stone.

‘Loki, yes…’

He’d know those sweet sighs of pleasure anywhere.

A breath he’d been holding rattled free, timed with a tentative tug of his cock.

He could hear everything now. The rustle of bedsheets tangled around your knees, the beat of your heart quickening as you reached your peak with him in your head. The press of your fingers on that spot just about your plump, beautiful clit. Were you imagining the flat of his tongue caressing against your desire? Loki thought you were. Orgasm began to rise alongside some unplaced feeling, his legs tensing; toes curling into the mattress.

She wants me.

In a split-second decision, he whipped the bedsheets from his body and jumped cat-like to the floor. Within two strides, he had opened the door with a creak and slipped into the cramped hallway. Your door loomed before him, adjacent to his own.

What are you doing, he thought; suddenly horrified as the chill set in. He looked down, cock hard and leaking against his pyjama pants.

He began to step back, emitting the loudest groan of a floorboard he had ever heard in his life. Loki grimaced, hushing the accursed building with clawed fingers. But it was too late. He heard the succession of your bare feet meeting the floor, and in a matter of seconds; your door opened. Just a crack. “Loki?” you warily whispered into the darkness. He cleared his throat softly, casting a glance over his shoulder before daring to meet your questioning eyes. That dragon-fire bubbled in his stomach like acid, quippy lines and heavy-handed flirtations that begged to be freed.

How had he never noticed before how much effort it took, not to let them out? I thought you might need a hand, You called for me, so I’ve come to... make you c- I know you still desire me, which is to be expected, Admit it, no one can pleasure you like me, For old times sake- Because, Loki realised, he had never tried. You opened the crack of the door wider, looking to either side of the landing suspiciously. His eyes ran from your bare feet to the hem of a nightdress falling around your thighs. He recognised that nightdress. Your favourite. It had dead leaves on it, which he never understood. But maybe now, in this place, he finally did.

You only wore it when the nights grew colder. And only when he was not there to hold you for warmth.

Which these days, he thought with a pang, is always.

All too late, the god realised he had become distracted from his newfound restraint. It had wound like ivy around his thoughts, vines twisting and flourishing with alarming speed. But there was nothing to be done about it now. “I thought you might want some... company,” he growled suggestively.

His cock pressed ferociously against his hip, covered from view by one thick forearm.

Your eyebrows rose beneath a deadpan stare. “You can’t be serious.” Like an out of body experience, Loki raised the forearm covering his crotch to rest high on the door-frame. The unmistakable scent of your arousal seeped into his nostrils, an interrupted climax lingering in the air.

Moonlight from the cracks in your curtains licked across his chest, his obliques – casting deep shadows in his cheekbones, Loki would wager.

Hair fell around his jaw, tingling the flushed skin. He could feel his manhood pressing eagerly against the cotton, as desperate for your touch as it always had been. The thrill that in mere seconds, he would feel you against him again where you belonged. The heat of your skin flush to his own, the muffled mewls from your lips as you kissed, the insatiable wandering of your hands as you devoured him like an addict’s first fix. You would be so happy. This time, Loki would make sure of that.

He looked down deep into your eyes, smouldering with all his might. “Deadly, darling.” he purred.

Your disbelieving stare fell to his crotch. It widened. “Oh my god, Loki.” you hissed. “Yes...?” he crooned presumptively in response. The rakish smile spreading barely had time to reach his eyes before the door slammed in his face, almost taking Loki’s fingers with it to the other side.

>>Chapter Three: A Long Way Down Tags (contd in comments)

@lokischambermaid @meowmeow-motherfucker @gigglingtiggerv2 @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @thedistractedagglomeration @loopsisloops @holdmytesseract @fandxmslxt69 @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @sebstanwhore @xorpsbane @peacefulpianist @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @acidcasualties @ozymdias @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @skymoonandstardust @justjoanne242 @thenotoriouserg @ladyofthestayingpower @wolfmoonmusic @brittbax @smolvenger @liminalpebble @joyful-enchantress @kaleenjackson @fictional-hooman @kellatron55 @mrs-illyrian-baby @icytrickster17 @multifandom-worlds @muddyorbs @buttercupcookies-blog @arch-venus25 @nine-leafclover @iamlokisgloriouspurpose

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