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saerins · 4 months

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⋆୨ chapter three ୧˚ for a while, you were all mine

⋆୨ if not for you (masterlist) ⋆୨ previous: chapter two - a million miles away, still you connect me in your way <> next: chapter four - behind a box of reasons why ୧˚

⋆୨ synopsis ୧˚ neither of you want this. both you and sae reluctantly agree to this marriage, although sae’s dissatisfaction far outweighs your own. with hidden agendas and old flames, will this ever work out between the two of you, or will your forced spark be doomed to fail?

ೀ series: sae x f!reader | wc 6.3k | ೀ content warnings: fluff/angst, modern au, arranged marriage, rich!sae and rich!reader, jealousy/paranoia, third parties, yn and sae finally sharing one bed | notes: eeep this was long i’m sorry !! more of the other girl here heh ^_< also mwah thank you to all of you who’s reading ily !! <3

In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t right of you to go through your husband’s stuff. Maybe you should’ve just looked at that little black box and left it there and continue to be ignorant.

But no. In this world, you’re nosy and greedy and you wanted to know who exactly it is that Itoshi Sae of all people can’t get over and now you have exactly what you were looking for.

After extensive research—and by research you mean scrolling through your husband’s social media (all of them), you managed to find her tagged in a post buried way below on his Facebook wall. Silver lining is: there’s nothing recent. The bad part? Judging by the date, they’ve known each other for a long time.

Apparently her name is Mirin, and her family’s made up of a whole slew of top lawyers in the whole of Japan. There’s not a lot on her Facebook, but her Instagram is a whole other story. Her posts the last few years put her somewhere in Europe, and judging by the content, she’s been studying there for a while. But before that, back when the posts were all in Japan, you catch a few photos of Sae. Some of them have Oliver and Eita, and a couple of other guys you haven’t met before.

It’s really wrong of you to do this, only because you know you’re just setting yourself up for a world of paranoia, but you can’t stop. You move over to the pictures she’s tagged in, and there’s one from Oliver that catches your attention.

Because it’s dated a few weeks back.

The first of two photos show Oliver, Eita, Sae and the same guy you saw back in Mirin’s feed—the one with jet black spiky hair. They’re in a bar, you presume, sitting around a private booth with a ton of alcohol in the ice bucket on the table. You recognise his attire; it’s from the very first night Sae bothered to sit down at the dining table and eat with you.

The second makes your heart crash to the floor. In the photo, in Sae’s place is Mirin herself, looking drop-dead gorgeous in a skin-tight red dress that you wouldn’t ever think of wearing. (One, because it’s much too revealing for your own taste, and two, well, just because you’re more of an oversized t-shirt kind of girl.)

All you can take away from what you saw is that Mirin is now back in Japan. Coupled with the fact that Sae had been gone even though he was off from work for those first few days of your marriage, you deduce what you wish isn’t true—was he meeting up with her all this time? Even

Trying to avoid falling into utter madness, you grab your phone and text your ever-trusty best friend.

Reo, meet you at our usual. ASAP!!!

Just as you’re about to leave the house, Sae gets back from wherever he’s been (which now you can’t help but wonder whether he was meeting Mirin), and you run right into his chest.

“Careful, busy?” Sae asks, which is more than Sae usually does and you realise just how low the bar is set right now.

Still, you answer him like you always do. “Yeah I’m gonna meet Reo for a bit,” you tell him, biting back a snarky comment about Mirin.

Even with those doubts of Sae in your head, you can’t help but stop to appreciate how he hands you your keys from the key hanger before you forget, or how his other hand is gripping onto yours, warm and just slightly calloused. It’s the first time you’ve felt them since that day at your own wedding.

“Take your time, I’ll handle our dinner tonight,” he tells you, and you think that’s already a lot considering that he’s never really bothered with anything the past few weeks, but then you feel a soft sensation against your forehead—very brief, so unfamiliar, way too soft—and then it’s gone in just a second and it’s way too quick that it has you doubting its existence at all.

All you hear is a soft “see you” before the door shuts behind you, and then there’s only the erratic beating of your heart that fills your ears.

“Yikes.”

“Very helpful, thanks,” you sigh exasperatedly as you plop down onto the cushioned seat across from Reo.

Reo laughs, handing you your phone back, open to Oliver’s Instagram account. “Then ask for a divorce, I’m sure he’d happily oblige if all of that’s true.”

“You know why I can’t, Reo,” you remind him, close to giving up.

Reo nods, remembering about your parents and deciding not to make matters worse. “Did you ask him about it though?”

You frown, glaring up at your best friend who’s now happily sipping on his cold brew. “And let him guess that I was stalking his ex? Sure I did.”

Reo snorts at your sarcasm. He thinks it’s funny how you’re oddly meek in front of Sae, and yet you’re snappish around him. Comes with the many years of being best friends, he supposes. But on that note, “you think there’s something going on between them?”

For the first time, Reo sees you helpless, eyes staring into nothing, index finger idly tracing circles on the polished wooden surface. “I don’t know,” because all you know is that you’re already exhausted from overthinking all the things they could be doing behind your back. “But… he’s always away and he says it’s work when I know it’s not. And she’s back and they were at the same place and urgh, I don’t know what to do.”

By that last line, you’re already burying your head in your hands, slumped against the table, Reo watching on as you grumble in frustration. He chuckles, gently patting your head before you look up at him, “what if they’re just friends right now?”

“It’s still weird, isn’t it? I mean… from the looks of it, they were pretty serious at one point.” Your words are all muffled because you’re pretty sure this is you being jealous now—thanks to Sae considerably warming up to you (be it at his own sluggish pace), it’s hard not to feel anything for him. In a way, you’re learning to like a lot about him, but there’s this unshakeable doubt you can’t brush off in the form of his ex.

Reo leans back against his chair now, pondering out loud. “Hmm I wonder what that reminds me of.”

In a second, you know all too well what he’s referring to, and you find yourself unable to look him in the eye. “That’s… different. We didn’t act on it.”

He rests his elbow on the table, head resting against his fist, “yeah but… we were still each other’s first kiss, right?”

“But we didn’t amount to anything.”

“Except that we’re best friends now,” Reo tells you, and you know he’s trying to get a point across but you’re not sure you want to understand it.

“And that’s all we ever were, Reo.”

Smiling, Reo leans forward a little, cautious at keeping his voice down. It won’t do if people misunderstand and word gets around. “Listen, I don’t know about you, but you were all I wanted at one point. For more than just that one day under the cherry blossoms, more than that one time I stole your first kiss.”

It stuns you a little to hear it, because any romantic emotions between the two of you were never said or shared. Both you and Reo knew back then that your parents wouldn’t ever be in favour of him and his rebelliousness that you both just decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. At that time, when you were both foolish kids, having that something intangible was enough. Maybe it faded for you faster than it had for Reo, but he knew that it once existed. Even if only for a second.

“And?”

You’ve gone soft now, and Reo knows you understand. You’re just in denial.

“Are you sure Sae would feel the same if he knew about it? If he knew I used to love you too?” Reo asks you, genuinely wondering for himself.

You’re about to argue that Sae doesn’t even care, but putting yourself into his shoes, you get where Reo’s coming from. History is history. No matter how long ago it was or how short the relationship (or lack of one) was, the feelings still existed, once upon a time.

Still, you have a feeling that there’s more than meets the eye. Especially if Sae has to hide it all the time. He’s never even said her name to you, if they met at all.

“Anyway look, do you want me to try asking Oliver about it? I’ll be discreet, though I can’t really say the same for that knucklehead,” Reo warns you. It’s not like he knows Oliver much outside of any business dealings, but he can tell that much at least.

You shake your head anyway, knowing it’s a bad idea. For all you know, Sae would just lash out at you for prying into his business when you’re just his on-paper wife.

“Wonder why they broke up though,” you think out loud, watching the liquid in your cup swish around, close to spilling off the edge as you swirl it with your hand, almost completely lost in thought.

Reo answers you without missing a beat. “She went abroad to study and just called it off thinking it wouldn’t work.” His eyes go wide the moment your head shoots up, and he winces after letting it slip.

“You knew?”

“Yeah…”

“What the- how?” Because it’s incredulous how Reo happens to know that much more about the relationship.

He sighs, fessing up. “I was asking around about Sae remember? When I told you he’s just a tough nut to—”

“Yeah yeah,” you wave it off, wanting him to get to the point.

“Well, Oliver’s kinda a blabbermouth so…” Reo sighs, as if he senses there’s no point in keeping it in, not when you’re already halfway into that rabbit hole yourself.

And you’re all ears. Half because you really just want to learn more about it and the other half just wanting confirmation that you’re not crazy for overthinking about this. But then Reo tells you and you’re not sure anymore.

“He said Sae was never over her, loved her to bits.” Reo pauses, hesitating before he opens his mouth again. “He said Sae was waiting for her to get back before starting things up again.”

Oh.

SEVEN YEARS AGO.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

Surely it wasn’t a stretch to be furious that distance would be enough of a reason for a breakup? Surely Sae didn’t have to think himself crazy for refuting such an idea?

Mirin’s hair flowed in the wind, pretty as it always was, and it would be even prettier in his memories. She looked unsure, and he knew it too. He knew her like the back of his hand, down to the injury on his ankle. She was only doing what she thought was right, and that was offering each of their own freedom, though Sae had no single doubt in his mind that that wasn’t what he wanted.

“Sae, please don’t make this harder than it already is,” she told him, her eyes swimming with tears that she wouldn’t allow to overflow.

Always so stubborn, and forever thinking less of herself. That was how he knew her to be. And as much as he hated that stubbornness at that moment, he loved her just as much.

With a hand reaching out to her, he pulled her to him, letting her rest her head in his chest, something that he savoured because it wouldn’t be long until she’ll be gone for who knows how long.

“Is it selfish of me to say I don’t want to break up with you?” Sae was asking her, genuinely. He didn’t know how to handle this—when life held different paths for two people in love, wasn’t it just common sense that they could still tread it and yet be together? Was long distance really the end of everything they had?

Mirin sniffled just a little before she pulled away and forced herself to smile, something that Sae hated. It was always the fake ones that irked him, even now.

“Is it selfish for me to think that we’re supposed to?”

Maybe he didn’t know the answer. But all he knew was that if she still felt like they should, then he’d concede. He was always weak when it came to her. It was always the same. He couldn’t imagine being weak to anyone else. It was her. Only her.

“Fine, we’ll do that, if that’s what you want,” he told her, a tone so gentle that no one but her has ever heard. But he drew close, tipping her chin up so she would look at him, his teal eyes appreciating every inch of her beautiful face, the most beautiful one he had ever seen, and the most beautiful one he thought he would ever see. “But you know something?”

Mirin swallowed the lump in her throat, the amount of love she felt threatening to swallow her whole. “What?”

Sae let out a deep chuckle, a soft one before he pressed his lips against hers, a promise laid between their lips like it was a secret only they both would keep.

“Nothing would stop me from waiting for you to come back. So come back to me, okay? Come back, I’ll wait for you.”

That night when you get home, you feel just slightly numb. After hearing what you did, it’s no surprise. You’ve always been kind of weak when it comes to feelings. You’re more heart over mind and you’d choose your heart over and over again even if you had no more blood left to bleed.

You think you’re never getting over it until you walk in and realise that Sae’s in the kitchen, setting your dinner down on the table. It’s like your tears automatically dissipate once you look into his eyes.

“Oh, just nice,” is all he mumbles before he sits down at his place on the entirely too-big dining table for the two of you.

Across from him, you sit down as you look at the spread before you. A steak on each of your plates, potato puree at the side. In the middle there’s assorted sides of mushrooms, corn kernels and what you assume to be a tray of sauces for the meat.

“Did you cook all of these?” You ask, almost breathless. You’re about to say he’s a much better cook than you are, until Sae speaks up.

“No.” He seems nearly unwilling to answer you, a delicate frown on his face. “Accidentally burnt the pans when I tried to cook.”

“Huh?” You spin your head around to find the sink filled with all your pans, and from the looks of it, Sae had been trying to scrub the burnt portions off unsuccessfully.

“We need to buy new pans.”

Sae says this all too monotonously, like he’s half-robot and half completely embarrassed, that you can’t help but laugh out loud. Besides, it’s kind of cute that there’s a faint pink on his cheeks. You’ve never seen that before.

He looks at you incredulously, like he wasn’t expecting you to laugh at him like he’s a damn clown. Flinging a mushroom at you with his fork, he rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he groans.

Pouting at him mockingly, you decide to tease him a little more. “You didn’t touch anything else in the house and ruin them, did you?”

And you were joking, until you realise Sae’s averting his gaze, stuffing his mouth full with corn kernels.

“Sae!”

“We might need to get new stuff for the laundry room too,” he confesses, talking with his mouth full. (Spoiler: you find out later that he put the wrong detergents in the washer and accidentally flooded the laundry room.)

Still, you think it’s sort of endearing that he tried to do the chores while you were the one out for a change, so you stop yourself from making fun of him too much. It’s not like whatever you learned earlier isn’t still sitting in the back of your head (because a part of you wonders if he’s doing all this out of guilt), but some part of you wants to be selfish and let yourself feel special, even if it’s delusional, at least for a little bit.

You want to feel like the wife he misses when you’re not around, like the person he would think of when his mind strays. Is this all too much to ask?

Maybe you just can’t help yourself, so you bring yourself to ask: “Sae, why did you agree to this?”

There’s a pregnant pause in the room, the only sounds filling the silence being the stainless steel cutlery hitting the plates as Sae adjusts himself. “Why did you?”

You suppose that maybe it’ll be easier for him to share if you start first, so you bite the bait. “Long story but… if I don’t then it’ll fall to my sister and she’s happy with someone else.” You swallow the meat in your mouth, the fat rendered so well it makes you crave for more. “I don’t want her to have to sacrifice that. Our parents aren’t exactly the nicest people in the world.”

Sae listens to you, an understanding settling in his chest. He could laugh from the coincidence of it all. “Same, but for my brother,” he tells you, prodding at his steak. “And he’s happy with soccer, not some girl. Can’t get a girl to save his life.”

Somehow, you can hear the quiet fondness that he has for Rin that makes you believe he’s a good brother.

“Would a marriage affect his career all that much?”

There’s a certain complexity behind Sae’s expression when you ask that question, something that you can’t decipher. But he scoffs, “let’s just say, my parents aren’t the nicest people either. I would know.”

And something tells you that it’s not something you want to ask yet, so you let his answer sit with you.

“Oh, speaking of parents,” Sae brings up his phone, switching the subject and handing it over to you. It’s a string of texts between him and his mother, apparently. You hold it up to your face, reading through and it appears they’d gotten you both tickets. “Mine got us both tickets, so.”

As you scroll, a grin appears on your face as you look at him. “Honeymoon tickets to Korea?” You’re almost squealing. It’s been a long while since you’ve last had a vacation, and ten days of distraction sounds really nice after all the information you’d just learned today.

Sae rolls his eyes, though you don’t miss the slight tug upwards at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, so get packing, we leave in two days.”

And as excited as you are, you feel a vibration and the brief flash of ‘dummy’ messaging him, the only part of the preview that you can see being: no, take me with you :(

You’re pretty sure it vibrates some more but by then, you’re already handing the phone back and Sae just locks his phone without bothering. Shaking your head, you try to stuff that image back to the deepest crevices of your mind, determined to not let it ruin your mood for your getaway.

Ex lover or not, Sae is still your husband and it’s not like he hates this (by the looks of things, it’s only been getting better and better), so you’re still hell bent on making things work.

Two days fly by way too quickly.

The day after Sae tells you about the trip, you immediately get to work at packing. Ten days is not a short trip and you plan to make full use of it, and for that, you have to be ready.

You had spent the whole day buying anything you would need—travel-friendly items and whatnot—while commuting back home to your parents’ house (at a timing you know they’re at work, of course!) to take anything you might’ve left there that you needed. Just as you left the house, nostalgia took over as you looked around at the place where you grew up.

It’s strange. People say to cherish what time you have with your parents, that one day you’re going to move out and you’re going to miss it.

You don’t feel like that’s necessarily true, because you’re living proof. The only thing you’d miss is your sister and you still talk to her everyday. Meanwhile, the only times your mother or father ever talks to you is to ask you about your marriage and warning you not to annoy Sae too much, as though it was a given and that it shouldn’t be the other way around.

Maybe it doesn’t make much sense; you and Sae (or maybe just you) trying to be a family when you both have no idea what a proper family is like. Even if it is just on paper.

Now you’re on a town car to the airport and you’re fiddling with your passport in your hands, staring out the window like a little child that’s going overseas for the first time. (Next to you, Sae’s thinking the exact same thing—you do look so much like an excited child. Or maybe a puppy.)

Of course, Sae’s parents waste no expenses in gifting you two first-class seats. Not that you’ve never been in first class, but it’s nice to be next to Sae, and you catch yourself, realising just how quickly you’re catching feelings.

“What?” Sae’s just getting ready to turn his phone to flight-safe mode when he catches you staring, a hint of smugness forming inside of him.

Even with a small partition separating your seats, you can see his teal eyes staring at you, long lashes fluttering in all its glory. Instead of offering an answer, you just shake your head and lean back, busying yourself by adjusting the screen in front of you.

Being in a state of denial is easy; it’s actually fun to sit in first class next to Sae, on a three-hour flight to your honeymoon, annoying him each chance you get, earning yourself a death stare every instant before laughing yourself silly when he flips off at you. It’s been a few weeks, but you think you’ve grown accustomed to what Sae is like that you know his middle fingers to you are never meant to be taken seriously and his silence is just how he is when he isn’t fully opened up. It nearly makes you think you’re crazy for doubting him and yet you don’t have the balls to question him about any of that. Not yet, because you’re not ready for this to end (if it will).

The itinerary had already been planned out by Sae’s mother, but it wasn’t like either of you wanted to follow it. One, Sae likes to do things spontaneously anyway and two, well, you have a feeling that he might want to treat this like a solo trip. It’s not like either of you have properly been husband and wife much to have a proper honeymoon together.

So count you surprised when you suggested that you both try to do solo trips around the city and just meet up for dinner, only to have Sae agree and yet follow you wherever you decide to go that first day.

At first, you were just wondering whether he had the same plans, but after he followed you into a Sephora looking absolutely clueless and then getting all flustered and sticking to you the moment the staff there asked him if he wanted to do a skin test, you allow yourself to think that he’s actually tagging along with you.

“What are you doing?” You decide to ask after exiting another store, carrying no less than five bags thanks to your anxiety of asking Sae what he’s up to.

On his part, he merely shrugs and looks away, hands in his coat pocket, looking absolutely like a model out of a magazine. Sometimes you wonder if he’s really yours. On paper, at least.

“This is our honeymoon, right? Makes sense that we’re together.” That’s all the explanation Sae offers, his gaze hovering over the bags you’re carrying, before he leans closer. “Besides, you’re my wife,” he says, gently grabbing your bags and carrying it for you.

He doesn’t say that it’s just on paper this time. And you can’t help but read into it. It’s perplexing how easily his words can affect you. It has your heart doing somersaults and your lips nervously pursing together.

“So, where next?” He prompts, looking at you expectantly.

And maybe you’re a little too excited for this pleasant turn of events that you’re grinning from ear to ear as you stare at him. “Wait, really?”

You can’t even hide the glee in your voice and Sae, for the first time, smiles—even if he’s doing it as he rolls his eyes at you.

“Yes, stupid,” he tells you, chuckling as you hop slightly in excited. “Are we going or are you just gonna stand here like a little puppy?”

With excited nods and a little squeal, you clap your hands together before daring to put your fingers around his wrist, dragging him with you.

Sae follows quietly behind you, staring at you as you happily tread ahead, your hands warm and guarding his against the slightly chilly air, hair flowing in the wind and he suddenly thinks you’re even prettier than he first thought you were. And then he starts thinking that maybe this part of his life that’s planned by his parents isn’t so bad after all.

Though, when you get back to the hotel, you find out that Sae has already specially asked for two separate beds, to the surprise of all the hotel staff, because of course, Mrs Itoshi had booked the honeymoon suite for the both of you. Special requests for that room usually mean flowers on the bed, or breakfast just the way they like it—not for the groom of all people to be asking for a separate bed altogether, especially when he insists there is no additional person.

“I’ll sleep out here,” Sae tells you the moment you get back to the hotel that night, gesturing to the bed set up by the television, much to your bummer. But you suppose you can’t expect too much—hand holding was already a miracle in itself.

“Oh yeah, sure,” you shrug it off, like it doesn’t even matter. Deep down you feel like a rock was dropped from your throat to the bottom of your stomach, forming a gaping hole in your heart along the way that you tried to will into non-existence.

Still, somehow, despite this little obstacle, you find yourself optimistic after being witness to Sae’s change in demeanour.

“Hey, Y/N?”

When you turn around, you see a hint of hesitation flicker across his teal eyes before he shakes his head, brushing it off.

“It’s nothing, goodnight.”

Although you’re curious, you decide not to press him about it. Offering a small smile, you nod.

“Goodnight, Sae.”

Over the course of your entire honeymoon, you find that you shouldn’t be chiding yourself for being delusional in the first place.

For once in this one-sided love affair, you feel like perhaps it’s not so one-sided at all. Because from what you’ve learned about Sae in your close-to-minimal time together, he isn’t someone that you can force into doing anything he doesn’t want to. At least when it comes to mundane activities which includes trips. (Unless you’re his parents who you have no doubt in your mind probably mirrors your own and have their ways of controlling him, per se.)

But it’s hard to think he doesn’t want to do any of this with you when he’s so compliant. He follows your bucket list of things to do and doesn’t complain once. He lets you drag him to the palace and looks only slightly concerned when you tell him you want to “do the thing where we can dress up like royalty and take pictures” but he only sighs and concedes within seconds.

When he comes out of the room looking like the most handsome prince you’d ever met, you’re too shy to meet his gaze but he tilts your head up to look at him for most of the shots anyway. With his face so close to yours, with these kinds of small gestures which he willingly initiates, you begin to wonder if it’s possible to make him happy in this possibly loveless marriage.

Spending ten days together, surrounded by just each other and doing things that couples do; it nearly makes you feel as if this is real. Like Sae really loves you and that he had asked you to marry him one day out of the blue because of it. Nothing like how you felt that first time you met him, in your dressing room minutes before you were about to become husband and wife, being talked down to and told that this was a facade and could be nothing more.

Now he’s here with you, sticking close and following you around, entertaining your requests for activities, falling asleep on your shoulder when you were on the plane to Jeju, and sometimes he absentmindedly holds your hand like he’s used to it. He helps you with your luggage always, and he makes sure you get food whenever your stomach starts growling, and he’s more observant than you give him credit for because he starts picking the radish off your plate without you asking.

Your album’s suddenly filled with pictures of you and Sae and you were hesitant at first but dragging him to the amusement park when he wasn’t for it at first was a good decision; for a while, you get to see what he’s like when all the downturned lines on his face reverse, when he looks the most like an actual guy in his mid-twenties, enjoying life instead of brooding all the time. Thanks to that, your pictures are more both of you smiling or being goofy together instead of faceless pictures because neither of you feel like showing your faces at all.

By the time your honeymoon is about to come to an end, you find that maybe there’s hope for this after all. That maybe you’d just been overthinking everything prior to this and it shouldn’t be worth worrying over after the trip ends.

But you find that hope can be flimsy sometimes.

On the seventh night there, you and Sae are both on your bed, in the actual bedroom, fighting (not literally) over a multiplayer game. Just two adults hunched over one phone playing frustrating games meant for kids. (Somehow it makes you feel like perhaps neither of you ever had a normal childhood and this is something to make up for it.) It’s all fun and games until you see a throng of message notifications from dummy mixed in with several from what you presume to be Sae’s group chat with the guys.

And you can keep pretending like it doesn’t matter, except Sae immediately stops after the current round and tells you he has to take a call. And you already know more or less who he’s going to talk to. And just like that, you feel like you’re back to square one all over again.

The subsequent nights (and days) aren’t easy for you either. After just giving up on thinking and forcing yourself to sleep that night, you’d been stuck with paranoia everyday. Especially when you realise that he’s starting to take calls every night outside on the balcony where he’s sure you’re out of earshot.

You wonder if he’s being lovey dovey with her outside when he talks to her. You wonder if he imagines you as her when you’re out together. You wonder if he wishes you were her. You wonder if all this is just a gimmick; a test run for when he does the actual things with the actual girl he wants to do them with.

Safe to say, by your last night there, you’re a mess. The moment you get back from trying to be happy all day (which was a disaster because you wouldn’t stop trying to minimise contact with Sae), you tell him you’re too tired and that you’ll just go ahead and go to bed.

Which, of course, is code for ‘you just want to lie in bed and cry all night’.

Sae couldn’t even get a word out before you shut the door on him, plopping down onto the bed and crying into your pillow. Maybe holding everything in was a bad idea. Now you’re bursting with emotions and you try to call Reo a few minutes later but you can’t even get him because he’s busy somehow and you’re positive that the gods hate you right now.

There is one thing about being on rock bottom that you like, though; at least you know how you feel. You’re exhausted and upset and envious because you wish you could be that person for your husband. But you keep getting reminded that you’re not. That somehow you’re just a mere stand-in until he marries his real wife next time. The one he promised to love forever. (Technically, he vowed that to you on your wedding day too, but that’s not the same and you know it.)

Deciding to shut off your phone and have this time to yourself to cry your eyes out, you miss the sudden swarm of notifications that come in. And thanks to you stuffing your head into the pillow, you don’t notice Sae opening the door and peeking inside, an unfamiliar feeling settling inside him at the sound of you sobbing.

He gently closes the door behind him as he walks to you, your back turned to him, your hands and feet hanging onto the bolster like a koala to a branch. Slowly, he saunters over to you, almost like he’s afraid to. When his hand rests on your shoulder and he sinks into the mattress beside you, you stiffen up for just a moment before spinning around and sobbing into his chest instead.

You didn’t expect him to even enter your room at all, much less let you stain his shirt or hold you close when you’re being emotional like this, but he stays there, hand gently rubbing your arm, up and down, a gentle kiss placed on the top of your head. It makes you wonder what kind of games he’s playing. Is this Sae not being able to make up his mind and that’s why he’s still so nice to you even when he has his old flame in the back of his head?

“Do you… want me to leave you alone?” He asks, though you can argue it’s kind of a stupid question but then you realise he probably doesn’t know much about actual relationships so you let it slide.

You shake your head in response, deciding that as stupid as it all sounds, you want to throw your hat in the ring. You’ve fallen for him, and you want him for yourself.

And maybe it’s wrong of you to project this on him, but your absence of a normal family where a home is not just a house and where parents shower their children with actual love and concern makes you yearn for one yourself. And maybe it’s not a great idea to want that from a man you married from being forced to, but thanks to this honeymoon you can see that there’s a flicker of spark there.

That Sae’s not emotionless and he’s definitely not cold to you. Not anymore. That if you guys had been given more time instead of being rushed into things by your parents then maybe the whole wedding could’ve gone without any of the hitches you experienced. That every single radish he picked off your plate, every picture he took with you, every time he held your hand, every time he pulled you close—none of that was manufactured, was it?

So isn’t it possible for you to be happy with him? So is it still foolish or selfish of you to want to be with him?

Is it too much if you ask him about it?

“Hey, Sae?” Your voice is soft and timid and more vulnerable than you’ve ever shown, but he hears you loud and clear, his “hm?” resounding against his chest, right next to your ear. “Can you stay?”

A few seconds of pause, and he replies, “of course.”

You shake your head slightly. “I don’t mean that. I mean, you know, what we said on our wedding day.” Your voice is entirely muffled, still Sae understands.

There’s an even longer pause this time, and you think that Sae’s just thinking of a way to get out of this until you hear him speak up again.

“Idiot,” he chides, but you can hear the soft affection in his voice. Suddenly, you feel his pinky wrapping around your own, and he holds it near your face. “I promise you,” he whispers, and you wish you could see the expression on his face, “I’ll stay.”

It might be wishful thinking but you think he really means it.

taglist: @kimvmarvel @mxplesyrvp @yuzurins @futuristicxie @kiopanxp @k0z3me @y-sabell-a @sae1toshilover @xoxojisu @karmatiz @sagejin @minnieminnie00-got7 @hearts4heidi @shiinobu-x @n1uh @prepchuu @leeyzhuo @shidouryusm @tsukishiro-yue2402 @kaiserkisser @pookiebearcave @dcvilxswish @saeskiss @whtflrr @arminseas @raphsimp @saharei @danibxe @lectris00 @comet-kun @ishitam67 @gskill @sweet2wthsblog *bolded: can’t tag you due to your settings >_<

#bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #itoshi sae x reader #sae x reader #bllk x you #bllk x y/n #sae x you #itoshi sae x you #sae x y/n #itoshi sae x y/n #itoshi sae #blue lock #૪ aeri’s fics !

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steddiealltheway · 1 year

Text

Childhood best friends Steve and Eddie make a pact that if they’re not married by the time they’re the old age of twenty-five then they’ll marry each other.

Twenty years later, they’ve both grown apart, but neither of them have forgotten. And with Steve’s twenty-fifth birthday being that day, it’s brought up all those old memories. Along with feelings of… remorse. It’s weird, but even though he hasn’t talked to Eddie Munson in years he misses him. Misses the promise of him being there.

Sure, he’s seen him around especially since they both were stuck in Hawkins and the town was smaller than Steve liked. It doesn’t help that they both managed to befriend the same gaggle of teenage kids who are all somehow adults now. They still visit, but it’s not nearly as often as Steve would like.

But Steve isn’t old. He was wrong when he was a five year old - about a lot of things. He isn’t who he thought he would be, and his parents certainly aren’t as great as they used to be. At the age of five, Steve showed potentially, but with each new failed skill, his parents cared less and less. Or rather, they paid attention more and more - maybe that’s why Steve stopped trying, failing was the only thing that got his parents’ attention.

But he’s not going to see them today or hear from them. It’s been a while since either of his parents last called, and at this point, he doesn’t care. He’ll just have a day of rest and relaxation.

The phone rings.

Steve glares at it for a few moments. It’s most likely a telemarketer. Maybe someone remembered his birthday though.

He trudges his way over to the phone. “Hello?”

“Steve! I need a ride from my house!”

Steve sighs and settles a hand on his hip. “Dustin, you have a car. I’m not your babysitter anymore. And shouldn’t you be in class?”

There’s a groan on the other line then an insistent, “I ran out of gas okay! Now come over!” The dial tone rings.

Steve thuds the phone against his head once then puts it back on the base. “Happy birthday to me,” he mumbles as he grabs his keys and makes his way out the door.

The drive over is quick, but Steve takes a moment to himself in the car to breathe. He loves the kid, but sometimes he needs to prepare before being around all that energy. He walks up to the door quickly and knocks in the code they made up long ago.

A few seconds later the door swings open, and there’s shouts of “Surprise!” that make Steve jump backwards. He relaxes as he looks around at all the kids who used to call themselves “The Party” plus Robin and Nancy and… Eddie?

Steve looks at Dustin who stands proudly at the door gesturing to the large banner in his living room. “Come in!” He yells and practically pulls Steve inside.

“Aren’t you all supposed to be in college right now?” Steve asks the kids as he struggles to comprehend what’s happening, then he turns to Robin and Nancy. “And I thought you two were traveling the world and off in Europe.”

There’s a burst of explanations but from the general garble he gets a few things - lots of excuses to professors, taking time off from work, skipping classes, flights and road-trips home, but the general consensus is that they wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Steve ends up in the middle of a group hug which he initiates in order to hide the tears in his eyes. God, he missed everyone.

As people start pulling away with jokes about people needing to shower more and general middle schooler humor that they should’ve grown out of by now, Steve glances around. Eddie isn’t anywhere. In fear that he’s twenty-five and starting to hallucinate, Steve asks if anyone’s seen him.

A silence settles over the room as they all start to glance around and shake their heads. Then, Nancy says, “It’s cool that you’ve made a friend in Hawkins, we were getting a bit worried about you.”

“And it’s so cool that it’s Eddie! I always knew you two would eventually get along!” Dustin says with a high pitched laugh that takes Steve back to when he first met the kid. He shakes his head and processes as there’s a general murmur of agreement.

“What do you mean? I haven’t talked to Eddie in years,” Steve says with his hands on his hips.

Something about this has everyone glancing around with a mix of concerned and confused faces. “Steve,” Robin says gently, “you know who I am, right?”

Steve glares at her. “Robin, I’m twenty-five. I would hope I’m not getting any memory issues yet.”

“You never know!” Robin defends herself.

Nancy finally cuts in, “We’re just shocked because Eddie kind of organized this whole thing.”

Steve stares at her for a few moments, trying to see if she’ll glance away from him - her lying tell. But she stares him dead on. Then, he glances around at the group. Apparently it’s not some weird joke.

“I’m kidding,” Steve says with a smile and everyone seemingly relaxes. He’s definitely not kidding, but he can’t have everyone’s concern at the moment. He needs to talk to Eddie right now. “But seriously, has anyone seen him?”

“He’s probably in my room,” Dustin offers. “Now everyone can dig into the pizza now that Steve’s here!”

Steve laughs as he hears Max argue, “You already ate three slices.” But he’s already making his way to Dustin’s room before he can hear any response. He lightly knocks on the door.

“Come in,” Eddie responds.

Steve’s heart races as he slowly opens the door. He sees Eddie fidgeting with his rings before he freezes when he sees who it is. “Hey,” Steve says softly.

“Hey,” Eddie replies quietly. Steve’s taken back to when he had first approached him years and years ago. Where did the time go?

Steve closes the door behind him to give them some privacy as he pulls up a chair to face Eddie who sits on the edge of Dustin’s bed. There’s a moment of them just staring at each other, and Steve notes how his eyes are just as big and round as they used to be. But time has been good to Eddie, defining his features and not taking away the fullness of his lips.

Steve tries to shake that thought away as he attempts to casually asks, “So, you did all this?”

Eddie bites on his bottom lip for a moment then nods. “Yeah,” he breathes out. “I hope… I hope it’s not too weird or anything. I know we haven’t talked since…”

“Since my dad found our marriage contract? Yeah,” Steve says and looks away. His stomach rolls a bit at the memory, but he pushes it down. Not something he’s going to deal with on his birthday. Instead he smiles and looks back at Eddie joking, “So, are you here to take me up on it?”

Eddie smiles widely and replies, “Well, I did bring a ring.” Then, to Steve’s disbelief, Eddie pulls out a ring box from his pocket. “Should I get on one knee?” Eddie jokes as he passes it over to Steve who takes the box.

He flicks it open slowly and sees the glint of silver. It’s a silver band with some kind of engraved design, and for a moment Steve has the weird desire to say “yes.” Instead, he pulls the ring out of the box and stares at the details.

“It was an old spoon,” Eddie explains. “I made it when we were in high school.”

Steve swallows and slides the ring on his ring finger. It fits perfectly somehow. He looks at Eddie. “I’m sorry. I was such an asshole in high school. I just… changed or something.”

“I kept tabs on you,” Eddie admits quietly. “Shit, I sound like a stalker. But… I just… I know how hard your parents were on you. God, I don’t even blame you for who you were, but you changed again. For the better.”

For some reason, hearing it from Eddie makes Steve believe it. Some proof that the boy he once was wasn’t entirely lost forever. Steve turns the ring around his finger and comments, “If it helps, I kept tabs on you, too. And for the record, I couldn’t stand that first girlfriend you had.”

“Tammy?” Eddie laughs in disbelief.

“Yes!” Steve laughs as well. “A part of me was jealous that you would end up marrying her and not me.”

A silence settles over the room. “Steve, that was in high school.”

“Yeah. Didn’t really like the most recent guy either,” Steve admits because something about Eddie has him spilling out every secret he possesses.

Eddie scoffs. “What was wrong with him?”

“He wasn’t me,” Steve replies, and goes on to explain, “I don’t know. I just… have always had this weird fantasy that we would work out. Get to twenty-five and already be married. Maybe it’s just all my regrets adding up, but… I don’t know. I feel like I messed up our story or something. It’s stupid.” Steve stares down at the ring again glinting on his ring finger.

“I always had the same fantasy,” Eddie admits, and Steve glances up. It’s like he can see his whole wasted past turn into a potential future.

Steve laughs. “God, this is probably the first conversation we’ve had in twenty years, and I’ve already got a ring.”

Eddie looks at the ring and laughs as well. He reaches out and rests a hand on Steve’s knee as he doubles over in laughter which has Steve gripping his hand and throwing his head back with a loud laugh.

At some point Eddie slips off the edge of Dustin bed onto one knee which is when Dustin barges in. “What are you guys- Holy shit! Eddie just proposed!” Dustin screams.

Steve and Eddie laugh even harder as everyone comes rushing to the door to gasp and yell at them for keeping their relationship a secret for so long. Steve finally finds the breath to say, “No! No. We’re not. We’re not engaged. I think we’re just… sticking to coffee first. Yeah?” Steve asks as he looks to Eddie.

“Coffee is good,” Eddie agrees with a smile.

While everyone demands an xplanation, Eddie leans in and whispers, “Happy twenty-fifth birthday, Steve.”

Maybe Steve’s five year old self would be pissed that it took him this long to finally get things right with Eddie Munson, but he knows his five year old self would be kind of proud.

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie ficlet #stranger things

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jaegeraether · 5 months

Text

Sunsets and footballers (Part 14)

Lucy Bronze x Reader (14)

Masterlist (other parts here)

(**Been waiting a while to introduce this new character... **)

Lucy was gripping the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb, her eyes closed, jaw twitching. Katie reached across the table to touch her but stopped at YFN shaking her head. “No,” she said gently. “Just… give her some time to process.”

Katie began looking around for the stalker.

“What are you going to do?” Jordan asked, her eyes also wandering. They all knew they were safe together.

“Well it says they want to see me within 48 hours.. so I’ll prepare tonight and go in tomorrow. I’ll give them all my information and explain. I have proof of them stalking me and I’ve done nothing wrong.. it’s not like I’m from a threatening country. Australia is part of the Commonwealth so everything should be okay..”

Lucy stood and left, scanning around for the stalkers as she waded through the crowded area, though always keeping YFN in sight.

“What time are you leaving?” YFN asked Jordan.

“Tomorrow morning. I’m giving myself a day for the drive and to settle back in before training starts again. When are you coming?”

YFN looked around to see Lucy talking to someone who looked like a Manager. “I’m not sure.. Luce is here for another week but I think she wants to see her family in Manchester.. so maybe we’ll be staying there for a few days and then with you for a few before she leaves?”

“Sounds right, I think Luce wants to get you settled in with me before she goes.” Jordan cringed as realised what she’d said and gave a sheepish look to YFN who rolled her eyes. Of course Lucy spoken to Jordan about staying with her in Birmingham. She looked over at Lucy who was heading back to them, her heart melting even more.

“If you’re still hanging around with your Visa thing, you should come watch us train,” Caitlin said.

“Plus, aren’t you a writer?” Katie asked. “They’re always lookin’ fer writers for sports columns but they can never find good ones. They’re always so borin’ and invasive so none of the players want ta open up to them. But we all already know you..”

Lucy sat back down as YFN mulled it over. “Sports column?” Lucy asked gruffly.

“Just an idea.” Katie shrugged. “It’d be great to do interviews where we know the person and know they aren’t going ta just make up a story. We always have to be so careful with the media trainin’ and such.”

“It’s… it’s a really good idea. I love it, actually. It would be great if it were across all of the leagues..” Her pinky reached out for Lucy, testing the waters, and Lucy hooked her pinky around it. Their little way of communicating.

“I think they’d want you to cover as much as possible." Caitlin said. “Especially if lots of players know you. I’ll send you the details of the company. They just can’t find anyone to cover one league let alone all of them. It’ll be a lot of work but if you’re keen..”

YFN nodded. “I’ll be interested but… maybe don’t send me anything yet. My Visa… I’m not allowed to work. And tomorrow I guarantee they’ll go through my phone and messages with a fine-toothed-comb so if it all goes well then I’ll ask them about the possibility of changing to a working visa… and also having to travel across Europe and what those entry requirements are.”

“Okay… we may already have chatted to the company…”

“What?!”

“It’s okay! It’s nothing official, we didn’t give them your name, we just told them about you and that you used to write a column and that you’re here now and have made a lot of friends with the players..”

“Wow, is it really that bad for you guys with media?”

They all nodded.

“The amount of media training we’ve been through is ridiculous.” Jordan said. “And then we stress about what parts they’re going to use and what they’re going to cut! So if we have someone we can trust then it takes all of that stress away.”

“Okay…. Okay.. I’ll think about it and see how tomorrow goes. If they barely agree to accept my current Visa though, I won’t ask them..”

“That’s fair enough, it was just an idea,” Jordan shrugged and YFN chuckled at that. “Wait.. you’ve all spoken about this?” She thought it was just Katie and Caitlin.

“Of course mate!” She slapped a hand to her shoulder. “We don’t want you going anywhere.”

YFN’s heart filled just a little more as she smiled at her friend. “Birmingham is going to be so much fun.”

“Ohhh yes.” She leant around YFN to look at Lucy. “Any news?”

Lucy shook her head. “No one saw them and they’re not here now. I want us to get out of here though.” She looked at YFN, her protective green eyes locking with hers from behind her clear framed glasses. “I want us to get you out of that hotel, and I don’t want us to be in public longer than we have to.”

“Yeah we’re goin’ ta leave ya’s to it. I’m feeling weird just waitin’ for someone to put a bag over my head.” Katie pushed her sunglasses back up her nose, looking around like she wanted a fight.

“I can help you pack if you need?” Jordan suggested.

“Oh yeah, Dory! You can come over if you want? I’d love to spend some time with you before you leave tomorrow..” YFN looked over her shoulder at Lucy who nodded at her friend, looking a little on edge. “It’s settled. Come with us.” YFN smiled and took Jordan’s hand.

They said their goodbyes and hugged. YFN again thanked Katie and Caitlin for last night, checking that Katie’s hand was okay after trying to break the window of the car. They had a good giggle at that. She promised to get back to them about the strangely vague position of interviewing players, and they both again showed their enthusiasm.

Lucy practically bodyguarded YFN the entire way to the car where YFN encouraged Jordan to sit in the front. She sat behind Lucy who had one of her arms behind her, fingers tangled with YFN’s. She liked needy Lucy. She liked all of the Lucy’s to be honest.

They went to YFN’s hotel and Lucy spoke to the staff to check her out early while Jordan and YFN packed. Somehow, Lucy was able to get her a refund for the nights she didn’t stay, and then they were in Lucy’s car and headed to her London home.

YFN felt strange unpacking. She was technically moving in with her partner… whom she hadn’t known for long.. who also lived in Spain. She felt a little like she was pushing herself onto Lucy too fast, but at the same time, all of it was at Lucy's request. Her insistence. And, it had been one of her three demands.

Jordan and YFN spent time together unpacking, researching and bantering while Lucy was on the phone, pacing. She was talking to lawyers, discussing Visa’s and restraining orders. She was frustrated but would pause past YFN often to touch her, give her a kiss wherever she could reach, or just wave from the patio. She didn’t like the idea that she was putting so much extra stress on Lucy when she should have been resting and recovering her knee, but she also knew that this was Lucy’s choice. She was so sexy the way she took care of things. YFN watched her pace the patio, talking on the phone with her AirPods and expressing so much with her hands, the artery in her neck becoming more prominent when she got more frustrated demanding things. The efforts that woman was going through just to keep her safe and in the country was more than anyone had ever done for her in her life.

She spoke to Jordan about Leah who’d dropped the drunk trio home last night, and who’d apparently dropped Jordan home last.

Jordan sighed. “Leah tried talking to me.. she asked how I was doing and how things are at Villa but I just wasn’t in a state to talk. I couldn’t get out of my head the idea of people following you and Luce…”

“So you pretty much blew her off..?”

“Yeah.. pretty much. I didn’t have the capacity to talk. She left me. She didn’t even give me a reason, she just said that she changed and I hadn’t and… and she left. I tried to talk to her, you know I tried, but in the end I left my club for her. The club I spent most of my career at.” She was getting teary eyed and YFN moved next to her and wrapped her arms around her. Jordan leaned into her and sobbed a little.

“You still love her,” YFN said softly. Jordan nodded against her. “Oh Dory..”

She leant over to get some tissues and blew into them. “I can’t just let her back into my life after that. She… she can’t just do that. I don’t even know if she misses me as a friend or as a girlfriend but she lost both.”

“I… I think it’s both.”

Jordan lifted her head to look at her. She continued. “The way she looked at you and spoke about you when you weren’t watching.. especially with that girl at the bar. And she thought we were together…”

She could see the thoughts running behind Jordan’s eyes before she shook her head. “No, she doesn’t get that from me anymore. She did this. She made this mess.”

“She did, she absolutely did. Let’s just bench it for now and take it as it comes, okay? I’m right here for whatever you need.”

“I’m so happy you’re coming to Birmingham,” Jordan said with a tremble in her voice.

“Me too, mate. Me too. We’re going to have so much fun!”

Jordan’s mood picked up as they changed topics and kept researching. They found a lot of good news and information that had them positive about the outcome the next day.

“Oh this looks promising,” Jordan said. “It’s talking about a character reference who’s known you for at least ten years? Not related to you though..”

YFN laughed. “Ohh I have just the person.” She took her phone out and scrolled through her contacts. “Ridley. We grew up together.”

“I thought you didn’t have a best, best friend?”

“She’s basically family and… an acquired taste.” She laughed again. “God, I love her. We go through periods of not talking for 6 months and then talking every day, but that’s just us. She’s the closest person I have from Australia besides my nan. She actually works in Spain, it was one of the reasons I was going to visit, to see her!”

She called her up and a drunk Ridley answered, music blasting in the background. “Hey baby Blue, what’s doing?”

“Hey Riddles, you busy?”

“Nah, never too busy for you. When are you coming to Greece?”

“Are you still partying?”

“You know it baby! Way too many hot Europeans here.” She started talking to someone near her. ‘In a minute, love, just get us some more drinks.’

YFN laughed. “I can call back…”

“Bullshit, they can wait. What’s up?” She changed to Facetime, and it was exactly what it sounded like. Some sort of party at night in Greece, people crowded around. She had a bottle in one hand and some colour sunglasses on which she look like she stole, covered in several beaded and glow in the dark necklaces.

“Having a good night?”

“You know me mate - always.” She said with a grin as someone bumped into her. ‘Watch it!’ She yelled at them.

‘Doesn’t cost anything to be kind!’

‘Costs me my fucking sanity, move your big ass feet away from me.’

She turned back to the phone and took the cap off the bottle with her teeth, spitting it and taking a swig. “I’m just about to throw hands, Blue, I swear.”

YFN and Jordan laughed. “Blue?” Jordan asked.

Before YFN could answer, Ridley noticed her and got closer to the screen with a smirk. “Oh, hey there Jordan Nobbs, you’re looking sexy tonight.”

YFN groaned. “She flirts with everyone, don't be surprised.”

Jordan laughed and answered politely. “Hey mate, nice to meet you! Where was our invite?”

“Oh baby, you’re free to join me aaanytime.”

Jordan’s mouth dropped and YFN groaned, knowing this would happen. “Anyways! Riddles, you know the stalker issue?”

“Oh yeah, you need me to come sort them out?”

“Oh, Lucy’s all over that. No, they put a complaint in about my Visa so I’m headed to the embassy tomorrow. I need a character reference who’s known me at least ten years-”

“-say no more, baby Blue, I’ve got you.” The girl reappeared and was grabbing at Ridley’s face, kissing her cheek. Ridley pulled away, her attention still on her close friend.

“…Yes… but will you be awake tomorrow around 10am your time?”

She hummed and then agreed to set her alarm. Anyone who didn’t know her would think she wasn’t reliable for this, but she knew Ridley and knew she could trust her with anything, anytime. She was incredibly loyal, and the distance between Spain and Australia had meant they’d spoken less which wasn’t what she’d ever wanted with their relationship. But regardless, they were always the type of friends who could call each other up after 6 months and everything was the exact same between them.

Ridley was still flirting with Jordan when the girl from earlier again tried to drag her off the call. Jordan was flirting back, enjoying the attention and YFN made sure to end the call before she saw the girl’s tongue down her throat.

“An acquired taste, I told you. She’s one of my favourite people though. She’s basically family to me.” She laughed.

YFN and Jordan made them dinner while Lucy was still off and on the phone. They ate and then Lucy took Jordan home with hugs and promises that they’d see each other soon in Birmingham. YFN ‘requested’ a shirt with Jordan’s name and number on it. She wanted to wear it to her first Villa game. Jordan was excited that she wanted to wear her shirt, and promised to sign it for her.

Lucy returned to the dishes done, and a squeaky clean YFN who was ready for bed. She looked tired and threw her AirPods and phone onto the couch before taking YFN in her arms. She was so warm and soft and felt like… home. Home had never been place to Lucy. It had always been either her family or wherever she made it with a club. She and YFN hadn’t known each other long but the best way to describe their relationship was that she’d always felt like home to Lucy. For the first time in her life, home felt like a person. The thought of Spain in the back of her mind was a dark thought that she tried to keep back there. She groaned and hugged her little Australian tighter.

“Luce?” She said softly. Lucy pulled back and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you for today. Thank you for looking after me… I know it’s been a lot to deal with.”

Lucy’s eyebrows furrowed. “This is all on me, all this happening has been because of me and I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with any of this. I just….” She paused as she tried to keep her emotions together. “… I really don’t want to lose you.” Her voice was husky as her emotions seeped through.

YFN took her face in her hands. “Luce, I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, as long as you want me. I need you to know that.”

She was right, Lucy did need those words. A tear slipped out and YFN wiped it away from under her glasses.

“I still want our dates though, regardless of what happens. I’ve planned one for us tomorrow after the… you know. And then the next date-”

“-is all me.” Lucy cut off. “I’ll plan the third.”

“Okay.. but I need to talk to you about… amending one of the deals we made.”

Lucy’s head tilted in question.

“We’re not sure what’s going to happen. We’re not sure what tomorrow will bring. I want to spend every night with you like it’s our last because we deserve that. Regardless of if I’m sent away tomorrow, or in a week, or when you go to Spain…”

As if to prove her point, she pulled Lucy closer, walking backwards until her back was against the wall, Lucy pressed up against her. Lucy couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss her. It was soft and gentle, full of emotion. YFN’s hand found its way to the back of her head and tucked itself into the strands of dark brown hair, using that as leverage to be able to tilt her head and control the kiss a little. They let themselves enjoy it until they could feel each other getting excited, their bodies beginning to move like they wanted more. Lucy pulled back unwillingly, their mouths still close.

“Little one, are you asking me for sex?” She couldn’t help the soft chuckle building up in her throat.

YFN looked up at Lucy a little guilty, her lips pressed together, dimple on full display. “I want all of you. I don’t want to have to wait.”

“Are you… okay after last night?”

She nodded. “That’s part of it, I think. I feel like I lost control of myself at the bar, and I just need… I need to feel like I’m in control of my body again. This is my life, these are my choices, and no one can take them away. And I’ll always choose you..”

Her palms were flat on Lucy’s abs, her body shaking as she rocked, feeling the strap slide in and out with a silky wetness that only Lucy could make her body produce. Lucy’s hands were on her hips, guiding her as she fucked herself while Lucy looked up at her like she was Aphrodite herself. YFN leant forward over Lucy and started taking the strap that way, moaning at the different angle, the wet fucking sound changing notes. Lucy was caught by surprise at the new angle she took so deep and needily. Her rhythm was so ruthless and the new position felt so good on her clit that Lucy knew she’d orgasm soon. Her hands tightened on her hips, her own hips thrusting up to meet hers. Lucy’s back arched and her head bowed back.

“Oh…ffffuck. That’s th…the spot. Fuck. I can’t… I can’t keep.. God I’m going to come.”

This only encouraged YFN who’s pace increased slightly, her hands either side of her head, looking down at her whimpering Lucy. She took her right to the edge, knowing just how well the strap was riding her clit and just before she came, she sat back upright and changed her approach. Lucy came back to life, whimpering at the orgasm she was just denied.

“Little one… I… I was…”

“I know,” YFN panted, her hands again on Lucy’s abs as she rode her. “I know.. just let me get a little closer first and we can finish it together, Luce… argh… just…fuck…just give me a minute. It’ll feel so much better n…now that you’re frustrated.”

Lucy’s hands on her hips encouraged her some more, almost fully picking her up and slamming her back down again. Her hips eagerly thrusted upwards, as deep as she could go. Her little Australian was riding her so well and god, she was a sight. Hair down and well messed by Lucy’s hands during their sex, mouth still wet from the taste of Lucy, her lips swollen and bruised. Her tits were bouncing and excited, nipples out and well sucked. Lucy pulled herself up and grabbed a nipple in her mouth, eagerly sucking the sensitive bud. YFN whimpered and grabbed her hair, holding her head to her tit while she sucked. And god, she sucked. And licked. And nibbled. When she was finished with the first, she moved onto the second and when YFN couldn’t bare it any longer, she pulled Lucy’s head back, making her groan in annoyance as her lips were forced to part with her nipple with a wet popping sound. YFN’s mouth found Lucy’s jaw and with one hand in her hair, she pulled back to give her access to that sharp jawline and strong neck. She nibbled and kissed along those areas that took up so much of her daily thoughts all the while continuously riding her in desperation and need. She knew Lucy wasn’t used to being in a situation like this, but her Englishwoman was taking it so well. Her hands moved from her hips to slide up YFN’s back, pressing her close as she moaned at the feel of her mouth on her throat. Their panting and moaning and swearing were filling the room along with the humidity from their sweaty bodies sliding against each other.

It was taking YFN a little longer than usual being her fifth orgasm of the night, but god, she was getting there. Her rhythm increased to more of a bounce, encouraged by Lucy’s thrusts upwards meeting hers.

“Fuck, you’re doing so well. You look so good, my love.” YFN pulled her mouth away from her neck and looked down at Lucy with hooded eyes. It’s the first time Lucy had ever called her that. She pushed Lucy onto her back again and pressed her hands into her tense abs to help her slide up and down the strap with a depth that she just couldn’t get any other way. The sound of fucking resonated the room, drowned out by their gasps and moans and whimpers. She could feel her wet excitement dripping down the insides of her thighs and undoubtably coating Lucy also. As she was about to come, she leant forwards again to her previous position, hands either side of Lucy’s head and she rode her until Lucy was so wound up that she couldn’t breath.

“Fuck….fuck…fuck…little one…y…yes… oh God….” Lucy had never not been in control of her orgasm and she didn’t realise, but it just made it so much more intense.

YFN leant down and swallowed her moans with her mouth, their tongues meeting. “Come with me, Luce…. Come… come with me…”

They came so hard and tight that they could barely move. A cry ripped from Lucy’s throat and YFN could barely continue to ride the strap as she was so clenched around it. Lucy shoved her up and down on it, needing that bit of friction on her clit to drag out her orgasm, knowing that YFN needed the same. They rocked until they came down, their movements slowing and relaxing.

YFN wasn’t an athlete like Lucy, but she’d just put in a hell of a workout. Her body was tingly and drained from her fifth orgasm, and she just wanted Lucy to hold her and kiss her to sleep. She managed to lift herself up off the strap and Lucy unharnessed, throwing it to the floor and pulling YFN down onto her. YFN laid her full body weight on her, head in her neck.

“You did so good, little one. So, so good.”

“I… I really like you Luce. My body just wants you again and again and it scares me how much I want you. Not just sex… I want you. All of you. Grumpy, happy, protective... sleepy.” She admitted huskily with a yawn into Lucy’s neck, and Lucy wondered if she were sleep talking.

Lucy hummed happily, her fingers tracing up and down her spine, finding those little back dimples at the bottom. “However much you want me, just know, I want you more. I’ll always keep you safe. I’ll always be right here.”

She knew she was speaking to herself as YFN was already asleep, her breathing had changed and her body was fully relaxed onto her. She pressed a kiss to her forehead and was similarly out like a light.

#lucy bronze #jordan nobbs #lucy bronze x reader #woso #engwnt #lionesses #lucy bronze imagine #womens football #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso x reader #woso soccer #england lionesses #katie mccabe #caitlin foord

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sitp-recs · 1 month

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liv, do you have any idiots to lovers recs? I’m thinking things in the vein of “keep it down” by warmfoothills; where draco and Harry like each other so much but are just so dumb about it! it also works if only one of them is an idiot (usually Harry, my oblivious king!!) huge bonus if they have a big, combined friend group that everyone in it either 1.knows they’re in love with eachother bc duh or 2.already thinks they are dating/fucking

It took me ages to post this but if you’re still around I got you, anon 🫡 That’s also a favorite trope of mine, I adore that warmfoothills fic. Here are some recs for you, I’ve had so much fun putting this list together. I also did a reclist for roommates AU a while ago. Hope you enjoy!

Still Life (2019, M, 3k)

Take A Stab At It by @sorrybutblog (E, 3k)

It’s a bit pathetic, Harry knows, to have a hard-on for the guy who bullied you in school. Kind of cliché to look back on years of obsession and hatred and think, Oh.

Closer by @pennygalleon (M, 5k)

All who know them are convinced that Harry and Draco are a couple. But that's just ridiculous.

Tread That Fine Line by disapparater (E, 5k)

Harry could cope with being in love with Draco, it was the needing to get fucked by him that was driving Harry insane.

Mise en Place by @corvuscrowned (T, 5.5k)

Draco needs to learn how to cook, and luckily, Harry knows his way around a kitchen. The fact that Draco is using his newfound cooking skills to impress another man... Well, Harry just tries not to think about that too much.

Two of Us by @sorrybutblog (E, 5.5k)

The gang goes to a gay bar. Or: five times Harry accidentally pretended to be Draco’s boyfriend and one time Draco told him to put out or shut up.

Per my last letter (I hope you choke on it) by @fluxweeed and @lastontheboat (T, 10k)

Or: the one where Harry has writer’s block and Malfoy isn’t helping.

Party of Two by fireflavored (E, 13k)

Drinking, sex, and a total misreading of the concept of fuck buddies.

Take the Moon by @tackytigerfic (M, 15k)

Harry Potter has always wanted a family of his own, and when a deadly blood curse forces him into a marriage bond with his best friend Draco Malfoy, it looks like he might just have found one. It's just a shame they’d always planned to break up after a year…

An Act of Kindness for One Harry Potter by a Sympathetic Draco Malfoy by 0idontknow0 (E, 15k)

As Draco leaned on the wall to wait for them to get dressed, he could not help feeling like he had done a very kind thing by disrupting them. Someone should give Potter a better rogering than that sorry sod had. The man had saved the bloody world—okay, mostly Europe—the least someone could do was give him a proper shag.

It's Friday (I'm in Love) by @punk-rock-yuppie (E, 16k)

At first, Draco only hangs out with them on Fridays after work; then he starts shagging Potter after pub nights. Then all the rest of the gang tries to befriend Draco and even worse, Potter tries to date him. It’s an absolute disaster, if you ask Draco. Or, Draco and Harry fall in love over the course of several Fridays and some other days of the week.

solemates by @shiftylinguini (E, 17k)

It starts because Harry has no self-control when it comes to meaningless and entertaining competition. Actually no, that's not quite right. It starts because Harry is absolutely plastered.

Five Weddings and a Potions Accident by lauren3210 (E, 19k)

In which Harry thinks he’s a playboy, everyone else knows better, and Hermione will kill Seamus if Ron tries to collect on that bet.

Nothing But You On My Mind by @moonflower-rose (M, 29k)

Potter has been in Australia on an internship for almost a year, and Draco cannot wait for him to get back home. They'll finally have a chance to talk about their feelings for each other. What could possibly go wrong? Loads, as it turns out.

Around You Moves by ignatiustrout (M, 29k)

Harry knew Draco was gay when he invited him to move in. He’s never had a problem with this. So why does he feel so weird about Draco bringing men home all of a sudden?

(The Piece) I was Missing All Along by lauren3210 (E, 30k)

Draco and Harry have been flatmates and best friends for years, and Draco thinks life is just perfect that way. But when something comes along and threatens to take all that away, Draco has to decide what it is he really wants, and just how hard he's going to work to get it.

A Love Story of Less-Than-Epic Proportions by InnerLilith (E, 39k)

Harry and Draco are just friends. Sure, they work together, and live together, and go to gigs together, and do pretty much everything else together—so what? That’s just what friends do. And Harry has no interest in messing with their friendship. He certainly doesn’t need everyone else constantly meddling, pestering them to just get on with it and get together already. He’s having a hard enough time as it is, trying to come to terms with the fact that he probably isn’t ever going to find love. But who needs love, anyway, when you’ve got a best friend?

Another Heart Whispers Back by @slytherco (E, 53k)

At twenty-five, Harry Potter is still a virgin and sorely lacking in options to change that state anytime soon. To help him find a plus one for Ron and Hermione’s wedding, and maybe kill two birds with one stone, Harry’s friends set him up on a series of blind dates. The only problem is, there’s something not quite right with each of their candidates.

Nights With You by @the-sinking-ship (E, 58k)

Draco is mortified when moments prior to departing for the most anticipated destination wedding of the year, he is cruelly dumped. But when he learns that Harry Potter has, at long last, split with his horrible boyfriend, Draco is certain his luck has changed. Never a man to squander an opportunity for revenge (and what would probably be a spectacular shag), Draco vows to make Potter his for the weekend.

All Must Draw Near by Saras_Girl (M, 61k)

Harry doesn't have time for rumours; he has a shop to run. Which is just as well, really.

The Pure and Simple Truth by lettered (G, 65k)

Harry, Draco, and Hermione go to a pub. Harry, Draco, and Pansy go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Pansy, and Hermione go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Hermione and Ron go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Hermione, Ron, and Pansy―you guessed it―go to a pub. I could go on. In fact, I did. Harry, Draco, Hermione, Pansy, Ron, Blaise, Luna, Goyle, Neville, and Theodore Nott go to a pub. In various combinations.

#asks #anon #Drarry reclist #idiots to lovers

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pullhisteeth · 11 months

Text

the bone crush | eddie munson

summary you’re five years out of high school and your boyfriend's managed to get famous. some days are harder than others, but he goes to great lengths to make it better. [5.5k]

contains modern!au, fem!reader, rockstar!Eddie/famous!Eddie, established relationship, insecure reader, a fight (kind of), depression, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff

something I dreamed up on the train home from work one evening because I was listening to Taylor and getting all emo. lots of love xxx

But I don't like a gold rush / I don't like anticipating my face in a red flush / I don't like that anyone would die to feel your touch / everybody wants you / everybody wonders what it would be like to love you.

A tingling sensation spreads from your fingers into your hand, creeping slowly up the length of you arm where it’s pressed between your body and the couch.

You’ve been lying here, on your side on the couch in your apartment, for three hours. The sun’s gone down but you’ve made no effort to move to switch on a light, or to eat, or to do anything, really, besides scrolling mindlessly through every app at your disposal. It began with TikTok, which you opened upon slumping down on the couch after work, still in your stuffy trousers and button-up shirt. It moved to Twitter for a while, then over to Instagram, and back round to TikTok. At one point you even entertained Pinterest, keying doomed phrases into the search bar that you knew would drive you further into the hole.

You’re on Twitter right now. Somehow, you landed on a thread dedicated to the lead guitarist of a well-known rock band. Each new tweet is another photograph of him showing another way that he is, as the poster claims, boyfriend material.

They’re not wrong. The photos are candid shots, taken behind the stage after a gig, or at stage-door late into the night. In each one he looks sleepy, soft, a direct contrast to the gritty stage persona he adopts. He’s got a dopey half-smile or he’s sticking his tongue out; in some, he’s wearing a beanie, and in others he’s got a black hoodie on.

You keep going, reading the replies to each tweet individually, scores of young women cooing over him. Your screen is awash with hearts and flames and flowers, exclamation points and capital letters.

One of the photos catches your eye. You linger on it for a few minutes, studying the details, reading the replies. You swipe up from the bottom of your screen to close the app, replacing it quickly with your camera roll. You swipe quick, scrolling upwards until you reach your photos from six or seven months ago.

Eddie had been on a tour across Europe. He’d left in February and come home in May, leaving you behind. But in mid-April he’d flown you out to Spain, where the band had a week break between shows. You’d spent six days trawling the streets of a small coastal town, eating your body weight in paella and swimming for hours in the sea. When you got home you’d posted a photo on your Instagram, just one. You like to keep these moments to yourselves, and usually you don’t share much of anything of your life with the world. When you do, though, the fans go wild.

It’s a photo of Eddie at a restaurant. It looks intimate, like it’s just the two of you, though no one’s to know you were surrounded by the band and crew. It was a clear evening, warm and fresh, and he was sat opposite you in a pretty shirt, top three buttons undone so his ink-splattered chest peeked out. He’d tied his hair back, though by this point it was loose, and the ring on the chain around his neck reflects in the light of the candle between the two of you.

He’s looking past the camera, up and over it to your face. You think about what you must have looked like, tongue between your teeth while you got the right shot, head pulled back, the angle unflattering, but it never changed the way he looked at you. The way he always looks at you.

His big, round eyes catch the light, too, deep and rich in the orange glow. His skin’s lit just the same, and so he looks softer than ever. It’s one of your favourite photos of him, which is all the more reason for you to regret ever sharing it.

You take the dangerous leap with this tweet in particular: checking the quote replies. The ones usually hidden from you, only seen if you go looking, which is precisely what you’re doing now. You know this never ends well, only ever leaves you with a deep pit in your stomach, but you have no will to stop yourself.

You know this because this has become routine for you over the past weeks. It’s like a drug, addictive though it does no benefit to you really. Acknowledging that the mean comments sent your way were increasing was your first mistake; seeking them out is where you fell down the hole.

As the window opens, the first tweet you’re greeted with is surprisingly tame and kind, something sweet about how pretty he looks. True.

But then the second, and the third and another a few tweets down, is where it gets bitter. See, when you’re as famous as Eddie is, with such a dedicated following of young girls, your life is never private, and never can be. These girls know who took what picture and when. They think they know how he felt in each one, or who was making him laugh, or where he’d just been. This one is no exception, and their biting remarks resemble thousands you’ve seen before.

He always looks so bored of her.

Surely he can’t enjoy being kept away from the band???

Am I the only one that thinks he hates her lmao

It doesn’t stop there - it goes on for ages, tweet after tweet after tweet of sarcastic or scathing comments about you. Your appearance (which has never been good enough for anyone, apparently), your personality (boring, stuck-up, controlling), and, most commonly, the fact you are a - quote - clout chaser.

Your arm’s completely numb now. You tell yourself that you couldn’t turn your phone off if you tried, despite the fact your thumb is scrolling just fine. You ingest every word, find new fan accounts to trawl and new insults thrown your way to soak up. There are maybe three photos of you online now, and they circulate through these accounts like paper money, exchanged for nothing but the venom of teenage girls. Are they teenagers? You’re not even sure; some of them definitely are, but you’re convinced most of these people are adults.

A call comes through just as you open another series of replies - this time to a thread titled times Eddie Munson looked good enough to eat. It breaks your concentration, your eyes flitting up to the little picture in the corner of the screen.

Eddie.

You can’t bear to answer the phone. You haven’t spoken to him yet today, and the last time you texted him was yesterday, on your lunch break. Sometimes he’s busier than usual; you’re no stranger to a bit of distance.

You let it ring out, the little green telephone going until it stops, the notification sliding back up the screen. Soon enough you get another, for a text, but you swipe it away before you can read the preview.

You stare at the replies for a while, lingering on the ones that claim they could be better girlfriends than her, before finally hitting the lock button and letting your phone drop onto the carpet. You roll onto your back, groaning when the blood rushes back into your arm and the tingling feeling comes back, and muster the energy to push yourself up and stretch.

As the joints in your back and across your shoulders pop, you toe your shoes off and stare blankly at the wall. There's that feeling that always follows these late-night escapades into the depths of the little yet dedicated following Corroded Coffin have amassed: it's a hollow feeling that somehow still fills you entirely. It rips through you, a deep and unwavering yearning for him.

He's been away since August, and now it's October. Two weeks ago, you'd laid here for a few hours after your friends had packed up the dinner party at midnight, looking up at the ceiling, counting the weeks you'd spent with Eddie this year.

So far, it was fewer than you'd spent apart. Of course, watching the man you love do the thing he loves so much is one of life's biggest blessings, but you'd be a fool if you tried to convince anyone that it didn't hurt. Even if you have friends, and your own life, and a job. That clawing yearning, it grows, expanding by the second every time he leaves for another grand tour of some continent somewhere, with his childhood friends and their insatiable libidos, their lowkey stimulant dependencies and the roadies.

He's home in a month, which is really a month and a half but giving yourself more manageable goalposts is something that helps. You're definitely not delusional.

You decide you’ll spend the rest of the evening offline. It’s 9pm, so you strip your work clothes and pull on something comfier. You put bread in the toaster and when it’s done you spread peanut butter on one slice and jam on the other, and on your way to bed you pick your phone up off the floor.

Your offline evening lasts maybe twenty-five minutes. Something about the comfort of bed and the need for something to entertain you while you eat two slices of toast lulls you back to the welcoming arms of evil fans.

It’s 1am when you get another call from Eddie. You managed half a slice of the jam-covered toast before discarding it in favour of your favourite meal - the insults of strangers - and you’ve been curled up in a ball scrolling TikTok for three and a half hours.

Should you answer it? Probably, yeah. For some reason, though, it feels like you’re angry at him, even though he's done nothing. Something spiky flares inside you when he calls, like you’re jealous, or bitter. It’s entirely your own doing and yet you’re punishing him for it.

He calls again when you don’t pick up, and then texts when you let this one ring out too. You try to swipe the notification away again but click it by accident, opening your conversation, which is awash with grey bubbles where he’s tried to reach you with no reply.

The latest one, above the bouncing bubble with three dots, reads: is everything okay?

No, you think to yourself. You watch the dots, addicted to knowledge that he's out there somewhere, texting you after a gig, when everyone else is getting drunk or high or laid. You know this isn’t healthy, but tonight you feel particularly self-destructive.

give me a call when you wake up. xxx

He thinks you’re asleep, so you’re off the hook for now. You can return to your mind numbing, to breaking down your brain cells one by one, until your eyes force themselves shut and your brain winds down, your phone still open in your hand, playing the same video on loop into the night.

It’s a restless sleep, broken too many times and not deep enough to really count as sleep at all. You eventually drift off properly, some time in the early morning, and when you wake, the light’s blinding. You didn’t close the curtains before you went to bed - did you even try to close them at all? - so as the sun’s moved across the room, it’s landed directly over your face. You’re splayed out on your stomach, drool in your hair.

The sun seems high, too high for an autumn morning. You reach around, patting the mattress and your bedside table in search of your phone. With no luck you sit up slowly, groaning, rubbing your sleep-laden eyes.

Your phone’s on the floor beside your bed. You reach it and find that it’s dead, so you tug the charger cable out from where it’s lodged down the side of the bed and plug it in.

For a few minutes you lie there, befuddled, with no idea of the time or how long you were asleep. Impatient, you get out of bed, aching and creaking because of how you slept, and pad across the room to the bathroom. After you pee and dodge your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you head to the kitchen.

The little fluorescent numbers on your stove read 12:08.

Shit.

Turning on your heels, you run back to the bedroom, throwing yourself over the bed onto your stomach. You grab your phone and try to power it up but it’s still flashing the little battery at you, almost like it’s angry you’d even try to turn it on.

Shit, shit, shit.

How long were you out? It’s definitely nearly 12 hours since Eddie last called, and it’s now 48 hours since you spoke to him on your break.

The wait for your phone to come back to life is agonisingly long, a painful three minutes wherein you pace and sit, break out in a sweat, and even start making your bed in desperation.

Finally it buzzes and you jump. As it comes to life it buzzes again, and again and again, and you freak out, dropping it onto the bed.

4 more missed calls from Eddie, and 3 texts. Normal, to be expected with your lack of response.

But the strange thing is the texts from your friends. Each one of them has text you multiple times, at various points since 6am. Even your mum has called, which is strange for a Saturday.

You’re not sure where to begin, so you start with where’s comfortable: Eddie.

I’m worried, sweets. text me soon x

this is getting weird, what’s going on?

any sign of life?

You tap a response quickly, too quick to keep up with yourself. You’re floating in a post-late-night haze, thick with guilt from the night before and head stinging from staring at your screen for so long.

I'm alive! give me a call when you’re free. love you xx

Almost as soon as you hit send, your phone’s buzzing again, Eddie’s name and picture flashing up on screen.

“Hello,” you say quickly as you answer it, bringing the phone to your ear and holding it with both hands, as though it might slip away if you’re not careful.

“Christ, y/n, you scared the shit outta me.”

“Sorry,” is all you can say. He sounds so breathless and it makes your nose burn.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I just... I was worried, ‘s’all. Sorry for all the texts.”

“No, it’s okay, I should have called.”

“It’s fine, really, I thought you might be out, after work or something, y’know, didn’t wanna bug you, but-”

“No, Eddie,” you say, cutting him off. “It’s okay, I should have text you or something, I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry,” he says with a light laugh. “But you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, knowing he’ll see right through it anyway, regardless of the fact he’s miles away and hearing you down a phone line.

“What’s up?”

“It’s fine, really, I don’t wanna keep you.”

“’M not busy, sugar. Y’got me for however long ya need.”

“But-”

“Did you, uh... Did you read the news? This morning?”

“What?”

“I think you should, uh, check it. Now.”

“Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

“No, no,” he says, laughing again. “Just...” Your phone buzzes in your hand. You bring it down, setting his call to speakerphone, and see that he’s sent you a link.

You tap it and it opens a webpage. It’s an article on Rolling Stone.

Corroded Coffin postpone US tour.

“What the fuck?”

“Heh...” His nervous laugh sets you on edge, your anxious sweats not letting up.

“What does this-”

“I, uh, I’m about fifteen minutes away.”

“What?!”

“Here, I’ll explain when I’m back, okay? Just... Just please call your mum, will you? And maybe text Robin and Nance back? They’ve been on my back all morning.” And then, before you can protest or ask questions, he says, “I’ll see you soon, sugar. Love you.” The line buzzes. He’s hung up.

You bask in bewilderment for a few seconds, staring at your phone. Your messages app has a little red 57 in the corner - unheard of for you - and you have 5 missed calls - four from Eddie, one from your mum. You call her and tell her you’re okay, and that you’re sorry for the radio silence, and that you’ll tell her everything about the tour when you know more. And then you text your friends back, mostly ignoring the 40 messages in the group chat about the news, telling them the same thing, that you’ll fill them in once you can.

Fifteen minutes passes like an age. You finish making the bed, and then put on some coffee. You tidy away yesterday’s clothes, which you’d left in a pile by the bed, and splash your puffy face with cold water.

Is he angry with you? He didn’t seem angry on the phone. But why is he coming home, and why has the band postponed the tour, because you didn’t pick up the phone for one or two days? Your relationship has been long distance just as much as it hasn’t; going a day without speaking isn’t much to shout about.

You stare at yourself in the mirror. Your eyes are still puffy and there are marks down one side of your face where your bedding’s made indents in the skin. You scrub the sleep from your eyes and the drool from the corner of your mouth and run your fingers through your hair, doing your best to smooth it down.

It’s then that you hear the familiar sound of keys in the door. Just as you round the corner into the hall, sliding across the wood in your socks, you find your boyfriend closing it behind him and setting a bag down on the floor.

You’re moving before you know what you’re doing. Your body caves in from want, from the deep-seated desire to be next to him, and you can’t - won’t - stop yourself from throwing your arms around him. You squeeze him, your arms around his middle, and feel him relax into you as his own come around you. The two of you stand like that for a while, him rocking you gently, and when he pulls you back so he can look at you, he finds that you’re crying.

“Oh, baby,” he coos, pulling you back in again. You slip from his grasp, though, moving so that you can reach up and paw at his face. You plant firm lips on his and let yourself drown in the euphoria of the reunion.

“Eddie,” you pant against his mouth. “Why-”

“Hey,” he laughs. “I’ll explain, okay? Just-” Kiss. “Missed you.” Another kiss.

“I don’t-”

“Are you okay?”

You speak at the same time, but he’s sterner where you’re unsure. He's looking at you with your face in one hand, eyes hard like he’s trying to get you to fess up.

“Mm-hmm,” you hum, nodding quickly and ignoring the way the sound bubbles in the thickness of your throat.

“Here,” he says, the firmness ebbing and his face softening. He takes your hand in his and walks you to the living room, past the kitchen where a week's worth of dishes sit beside the sink. If he notices the state of the place, he doesn't say.

He sits on the couch and waits for you to join him.

He watches you when you do, and for a while it’s quiet. There are a hundred questions you have for him, but they dissipate when he holds your face in his hand again, tucking hair behind your ear like he’s in a movie, tracing the fading indents from your sheets down your temple and across your cheek.

You take in the state of him - the wildness of his hair where it’s pulled back into a scrunchie, your scrunchie, and the deep marks of tiredness beneath his eyes. Otherwise, he’s much the same as he was when he left you in August, your rockstar off to wow every state with that skill of his you love so much. He’d taken too long saying goodbye at the airport, nearly missed his flight to Washington, and when he’d finally let you go you’d stayed, sitting in a deserted café, clinging onto the last glimpse you got of him before he was weaved through security by their manager, Jason.

“What’s goin’ on, hm?” he asks, voice soft as ever and sweeter too. It brings you out of your head and you look up at his ridiculous, gorgeous face, his brown eyes burned with sorrow, the scrunch between his eyebrows that appears when he’s concerned.

“Missed you,” you tell him, whispering in case speaking louder will shatter what can surely only be a bitter daydream.

“Why’d you go all cold on me then?” He drops his hand from your face and holds your leg where it’s bent up underneath you.

“Been a bad couple days.”

“How come?”

“Just missed you,” you repeat. It’s all you can think about now he’s here and he’s got his hands on you - how you’ve missed him, his smile, his eyes, his hands, the way he smells, the space on his shoulder where your face fits when you hug him.

“Missed you too,” he tells you. “But I think you’re hidin’ somethin’ from me.”

You groan and twist in your seat, letting your legs drop off the couch, his hand falling to his own lap, and lean your head back. With your eyes shut, you breathe deep.

“Sorry I didn’t text, or call, I just... I’ve been really low.” You hear the tremor in your voice and know he can hear it too. He hopes you don’t hear his heart and the way it breaks at the sound.

“I know you don’t really go online, or whatever-”

“I know what’s been happening,” he says, cutting you off. You open your eyes and turn your head so your cheek’s pressed to the back of the couch and you can look at him. His eyes are harder now, trained somewhere away from your face, though his hand, now resting too on the back of the couch, toys silently with the ends of your hair.

“You do?”

“Yeah, Jason’s been keeping us, uh, updated, or whatever. Showing us some of it.”

His eyes meet yours and he looks back at you with a tenderness that pulls you limb from limb.

You crumble then, all the emotion of the past few weeks easing out of you like crackling smoke. You lean, without thinking, into his side and cry, wet and heavy sobs, gasping for air. Through cotton-wool ears you can hear him soothing you, feel his hands smoothing up and down your back. You listen as he coos pretty things in your hair and kisses the crown of your head until your breath’s a bit more level.

“Sorry,” you hiccup.

“Stop apologising,” he says, with that same feather-light laugh he had when he told you the same thing on the phone. And then he breathes out, slow, and says, “I knew somethin’ was up last week, when you called me from the store.”

“Oh, yeah.”

You think back to last Tuesday, when you’d been picking up groceries and only just made it back to your car before the tears had spilled over and left you in a miserable puddle in the driver’s seat. You were tired, of what you couldn’t tell: going home to an empty apartment, shopping for one person, the fact you’d had to buy a different shampoo because you’d used Eddie’s up and they didn’t have the one he usually uses at the store.

You’d called him after you’d cried, just to hear his voice, but it had been late in the afternoon wherever he was and he was getting ready to play another show so all he’d been able to say was I love you, I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?

It’d left you feeling bereft, worse than ever.

“I don’t know what to do,” you choke out, mind on that evening and the hundreds of others just like it.

“What do you mean?” he asks, taking your hands in his own, his thumb smoothing up and down the sides of your wrists.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you say flatly. “You being away so much, I... It’s so hard, Eds. I know I have friends, and-” Hiccup. “-and they’re great, they’ve been great, Nance and Rob especially, they... We have dinner every week and it’s not like I spend every night here on my own, waiting for you, or whatever, I just... Everything online is so hard to look at but it's also so hard to not look at, it’s so hard to see all these people being so invasive and weird, wanting you all the time, following you around, and sometimes it’s mean and then I think, you know, maybe they’re right sometimes. I miss you, and it hurts and I don’t know what to do because you’re so happy, and I love you and I love your band and you’re so talented but I just... I sit back here, waiting for you. It’s like I’m a... An anchor, or something, y’know? I feel like they’re right, I’m holding you back, I just-”

“Stop it,” he says. You take a well-needed breath and look at him, hearing the way his stern words come out filled with remorse, and find that his eyes are red round the edges and his mouth’s doing that thing it does before he cries.

“Oh, Eddie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

He squeezes your hands and says, “No, it’s okay, I just- I hate when you talk like that.”

He takes a breath and, letting go of your hands, pinches the bridge of his nose. After a quiet moment he sits upright and turns to you.

“I never, ever feel held back by you. Do you hear me?”

“I know, I just-”

“I mean it. Never.”

“Okay,” you sigh.

You see him ease a little, leaning back slightly.

“I know you didn’t sign up for this, and the fact you’re still here is honestly... Maybe one of the craziest things ever. I know that it’s been bad recently, I’ve seen some of the stuff online and god knows I have to deal with it in person every time I leave a fucking building, but you can't listen to them, baby. I don’t want any of this if it’s hurting you.”

“Eddie-”

“I’m serious. I’d drop it all, leave it all behind, change my name and flee the country or something, if it meant I’d get to be with you.”

Your nose burns again, and there’s a simmering ache in your temples. You breathe and try to keep the tears at bay but it’s futile; they come without permission and quickly, thick drops down your cheeks.

“When you called last week, I... It broke my heart, sugar, I couldn’t bear it.”

“I had to get different shampoo,” you tell him bluntly, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world to cry over the little red out of stock sticker underneath where the bergamot shampoo would usually be.

He just looks back at you sadly. You’re not sure where to go from here, because whatever outcome you know your heart will break. You could leave him, abandon all of this and start afresh somewhere new, taking your time to mourn the loss but get over it eventually. You could stay, doing this every year for the foreseeable future, playing your role as the doting girlfriend who waits patiently for her world-famous boyfriend to come home. Or Eddie quits, and you live with the guilt of what he’d lose forever.

“What’s goin’ on in there?” he asks you, tapping your forehead softly with his index finger. “Hm?”

“What do we do?” you ask him, as though he's somehow wiser than you when it comes to this.

He toys with your hair again, tucking it behind your ear. “I don’t know,” he admits, “but I’m here for now.”

“But you’ll go again,” you remind him.

“Yeah,” he responds reluctantly. “But there’re only two weeks left of tour.”

“But there’ll be another, and then another.”

“Not like this, there won’t.”

“Eddie, you can’t quit. That’s not fair, I can’t expect you to do that, I don’t want you to do that.”

“Who said anything about quitting?”

He’s suddenly got a smile on his face. It’s only small, one side of his mouth pulled up in some kind of mischievous signal.

“You can’t keep making music and not touring, that’s not-”

“I’m not quitting music, baby. Tours just won’t be this long.”

“But you’re getting more famous, you can’t-”

“Let me explain,” he drones playfully, not really fed up with you but playing into it to get you to listen.

“You’re right, you can’t expect me to quit and stay here with you, just like I can’t expect you to drop everything and come with me. I thought about it, y’know, the logistics of you coming but it’s not easy, I mean, we live on a bus for most of the tour and when we are in hotels we’re doin’ press all day, and just ‘cause we could afford it now doesn’t mean I want you to quit your job, or leave your life behind for me or anythin’. But I also... I hate this just as much as you do. I don’t know how it looks to you ‘cause my free time isn’t exactly a lot but I spend literally every minute I have on the phone to you, so much that Gareth’s started really takin’ the piss, givin’ me shit for it...”

He’s laughing and as you let yourself laugh too, feel the heavy weight of distance lifting off you. It’s been so long that you’d almost forgotten how blissful it feels to be sat with him, laughing like this in your little apartment. Almost.

“I’ve got some ideas about how we can make this work,” he continues, “but right now I’m just happy you’re okay.”

“How long are you home for?” you ask him in a low voice, hesitantly, lest you get your hopes up.

“However long you want,” he says softly, tracing the side of your face. “But probably a couple of months.”

“Months?!” you gasp, incapable of controlling your volume. He flinches and laughs again.

“Yeah. Won’t be able to sort new shows for a while anyway.”

The tears return, only this time they’re born of a deep relief. You feel it lift you and you fall into him, gripping on for dear life. Your arms wrap around his middle and your nose rests at his neck, and you squeeze him as hard as you can while he carries on laughing, his own hands matching yours. When his t-shirt is sodden with tears and your arms have eased up he brings you up to meet his eye. As you watch them flit between your own and your lips you get that feeling, the fluttering of a crush deep within. Suddenly you’re both seventeen again, when your biggest worry was whether the boy with long hair in your English class liked you back, rather than all the burdens of early adulthood and fame. And then he kisses you, a true homecoming kiss, warm and firm and sure, and you melt into him, sighing happy noises and kissing him back.

Four hours later, you’re still on the couch. He helped you clean, slowly undoing the wreckage of depression, and you both showered, washed his hair with the shampoo that will become his new smell. You’ve torn through an order of Chinese takeout and you’re halfway through a tub of Ben and Jerry’s, though currently it sits abandoned on the coffee table, the two spoons leaving melted ice cream across the varnished wood.

The conversation - about where you go from here, how you navigate this new life together - is saved for another day.

Right now you’re in his lap, right where you like to be, kissing him senseless and letting him do the same to you.

You dance your mouth across his cheek, down his jaw and onto his throat, over the scattering of pretty, blooming bruises that match your own (just marking what’s mine, he’d told you). When you reach his collarbone, he says, “Maybe we should get a cat.”

You sit upright and look at him quizzically. “A cat?”

“Yeah,” he says, a lazy smile growing. “It’d keep you company when I’m not here, and Nance would love lookin’ after it when we're away."

You dwell on the idea, your eyes dancing across his face which glows a pretty shade of pink in the low living room light.

“Okay,” you agree, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Let’s get a cat.”

One month later, you pick up Ozzy from the pound. He’s a baby, really, small but filled with restless energy. He’s black with white socks and though you dote on him endlessly, it’s Eddie he truly falls for.

At least you have something in common.

#eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie stranger things #stranger things 4 #stranger things #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson angst #Eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fic #st 4 #stranger things vol 1 #stranger things eddie

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drewsbuzzcut · 6 months

Text

The Other Blankenburg

nick moldenhauer x dallas blankenburg

a so it goes blurb

warnings: none that I can think of

“What’re your intentions with my sister?” Kent speaks up.

“KJ you’re not her brother. Nick, what are your intentions with my sister?” Blanks asks the same question.

“Hey! First of all, KJ is like another brother to me, and second of all, stop harassing my boyfriend,” Dallas chastised the two boys sitting across from her and Nick.

She brings her hand up to soothingly scratch at the back of his neck. She feels accomplished when she feels his body melt into hers. He seems calm and collected, but by the way he chews on his bottom lip and how his hand slightly shakes from where it’s resting on her thigh, she can tell he’s nervous. Her brother and honorary brother are definitely putting on the pressure. Their requests to meet her boyfriend were being ignored until her brother cornered her when she had nothing to use as an excuse. It’s not that she doesn’t want her boyfriend to meet two of the most important men in her life, but she was worried that they’d be overbearing and scare Nick away.

“Yeah, Blanks, I’m like her brother. Dallas, just be glad Owen isn’t here,” Kent teases, earning an eye roll from the girl.

“I plan to treat Dallas with the utmost respect and care. She’s my biggest supporter and I’m hers as well. She’s definitely helped shape me into who I am today,” Nick claims, although to the average person it’d sound crazy being that they’ve only been together for almost 2 months.

“Why’d you choose a hockey player?” Blanks asks. It’s his only way to pick at Nick because he hasn’t said one bad thing the whole night. Blanks actually thinks Nick compliments Dallas very well and vice versa.

“Nick!” Dallas shouts, cringing at the way she forgot they’re in a public place.

The three boys laugh at her expression.

“So, how do your grades look? It’s very important to maintain your academics and social life,” Blanks asks another question that makes Dallas want to reach across the table and pull his hair.

“Better than average. I do struggle in some classes with time management, but June has been very helpful and I’m grateful for that,” Nick says, Dallas’ eyes widened at her first name slipping from his lips. Nick didn’t know, but Blanks nor Kent knew that she allowed him to call her that.

When she glances at them, they’re wearing shit eating grins. They definitely figured out that she’s down bad for a hockey player, knowing that Dallas always claimed she’d never get with a hockey player.

“June?” Kent attempts to confirm that he heard correctly. She can tell he’s trying hard not to laugh.

Dallas flips him off, hiding her face in Nick’s shoulder.

“Moldy, did you know that Dallas, here, always said she’d never get in a relationship with a hockey player?” Blanks laughs at his sister's glare.

Moldy, huh? That’s new. Dallas finds herself hiding her growing smile. She likes the way they’re being welcoming to him.

“You guys are assholes, you know that?”

“We’re just teasing you two, but being that you’re her boyfriend and a hockey player, must mean you’re a really great guy,” KJ admits.

“I agree and I approve,” Blanks adds.

“Wow! It’s almost like I was asking for your guy’s approval,” Dallas retorts sarcastically. On the inside, she’s glad they like Nick.

———————————————————————

“I think Vegas would be fun,” KJ says, referring to their impromptu guys trip during the offseason.

“I can’t. I’m not 21 yet,” Nick says, sounding disappointed. He’s standing next to Kent and Dallas’ brother and Dallas is on his opposite side, his arm thrown over her shoulders.

“Shit, I forgot about that. Maybe we can go to Cancun or somewhere in Europe,” KJ suggests.

“No! He’s not going to Europe without me. Get your own boyfriend to take on a trip,” Dallas warns, although her words don’t hold much threat to them.

They all laugh at her words, making her pout.

“What’s wrong Dallas? Upset that we made our newest best friend?” At her brother’s words, Nick lights up seemingly surprised at how much they like him. He was expecting more tough brotherly love on her behalf. He’s glad he’s considered a best friend.

“Whatever, at least I know I’m Nick’s favorite,” Dallas sticks her tongue out at her brother.

“I don’t know about that, babe,” Nick teases.

“Fine. No kisses for you,” she states, walking ahead of the three of them.

Nick pauses, runs up behind his girlfriend and picks her up. His face goes between where her neck and shoulder meet, ignoring her squeals as he pecks her skin.

“I’m sorry, you’re my favorite,” Nick says, putting Dallas down and walking in front of her as she walks backwards. His hands are cupping her cheeks in a way that makes her lips pucker up.

She rolls her eyes, arms wrapping around his neck as she leans up to kiss his lips.

“Ugh get a room,” she hears from one of her annoying brothers.

“Aww what’s wrong? Jealous that I’m his favorite?” Dallas muses, continuing to kiss her boyfriend despite the other grown men’s griping.

Kent and Blanks tease them to no end, but they’re really happy for Dallas because she finally has someone to treat her the way she deserves. They’re also happy to make a friend in Nick.

a/n: This part is cutesy! Enjoy!

#nick moldenhauer #nick moldenhauer x oc #nick moldenhauer x reader #nick x dallas #umich imagine #umich hockey #so it goes au

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neverwritewhatyouknow · 9 months

Text

I don’t often share hate I get because it’s not productive, but this is an anon I got a few hours ago.

I reported and blocked them, because people like this can’t be reasoned with. Luckily, I hope more people read and learn from the response.

Here it goes…

This anon claims all Jews are white mass murderers. Let’s break that down.

Besides being just antisemitic as a whole, it’s also factually untrue in all the ways.

All Jews aren’t white. Firstly, Jews of color exist so already it’s obvious that not all Jews are white. Boom, Anon is defeated. Secondly, when it comes to Jews and “whiteness” there is a long history especially in America with what that means for Jewish people. You’ve probably seen the “No Dogs; No Jews” allowed signs that were popular well into the 1950s. I wish I had recorded Ari Axelrod’s insta story from the other day where he broke down everything about this. Basically Jews are seen as white when people want us to be (usually to remove us from being a minority and a group that needs help and protection), and seen as “other” and “non-white” (in a negative way) when people want us to be (see; the Nazis). Jews exist in this weird in between where some have the privilege of lighter colored skin, but if someone hates Jews, they’ll hate you anyway. Jewish last names and prominent physical features are constantly changed to be more “white.” Also, not all Jews are from Eastern Europe. There was a bunch of assimilation to make Jews fit more into the “white American” society. There’s so much. But the moral of the story is that while Jews can identify as white, when looked at by society in history and now in the rising heat of antisemitism, white becomes a weapon used against Jews. You’re white, so you’re not a minority in need of help. You’re white, so you can’t be a victim of discrimination. You’re white so you don’t need representation on TV or in movies. Jews aren’t white, they’re full of dirty blood (literally Hitler’s main thing was that Jews were too subhuman to be white). Jews are whatever the person who hates us wants us to be. We’re either too white or not white enough. If you’re all gonna hate us, you should get your stories straight. Many Jews, in the face of hate, have started to reclaim being Jewish as an indigenous race as well as their ethnicity. Antisemitism is legitimately a form of racism, as seen in David Baddiel’s book and others, but because western culture has a certain view on what “race” means, Jews who claim they have experienced racism (as I have) have to explain what race means in the context and the whole history of everything. Jews being their own race said in a derogatory way is obviously bad (i.e. Hitler), but since Jews do experience racism through antisemitism and therefore do have factors of race it’s all a lot and a pile of ethnicity, religion, culture, genetics, community, belief, history, and more. Jews can identify however they want, as long as nobody is insultingly accusing us of something we aren’t…

Jews aren’t mass murderers. I feel like I don’t need to explain this one. What I’m confident the anon is getting at, is that all Jews are somehow murderers because there’s a conflict in the Middle East that’s been going on for forever and in modern times, longer than the majority of Jews today have been alive. Tell me how a random Jewish preschooler is a murderer, tell me how American Jews have any impact on something happening literally across the world. Bringing the I/P conflict into a conversation about Jewish people where it has no relevance will always be antisemitic. Claiming all Jews are murderers, a false statement, is antisemitic. It’s just wrong and it’s just hate.

1945 (September) was the official end of WW2 (though pogroms and attacks didn’t end when the war did). Funny that this anon specifically said to “stop living in 1945,” because that’s exactly what happened to 6 million of us. They were murdered. To put that into perspective, 6 million people is the size of:

All of these places. Imagine there not being a single living human being in Wisconsin. Or in Connecticut AND Nevada. 6 million is a lot of people.

And Jewish people are still dying. There was a mass murder at a temple only a few years ago. There are countless bomb threats and gun scares every week. We have police officers outside for our safety. Jews are stabbed on the street in broad day light.

No, it’s not 1945 anymore. But antisemitism never stopped, only the gas chambers did. And it hasn’t even been 100 years since the start of them.

Are Jews oppressed? No. We can own land, go to the doctor, work, have a family, study, etc.

But the real question is are Jews severely discriminated against? Yes. See above where I list how physical attacks never ended. I, born at the turn of the 21st century, personally have nearly been attacked or killed dozens (yes, plural) of times based solely on the fact that I “look Jewish” and my house had a mezuzah. I used to live in a town where I couldn’t walk safely down the street without fear that someone would attack me for being Jewish. I had an Uber drop me off a street away from my temple so they didn’t know where I was going. Jews aren’t safe.

The only difference between The Holocaust and now is that there were concentration/labor camps and baseless laws. The attitudes have never changed, the attacks have never changed, the way Jews are viewed has never changed.

This is why Jews need representation in media. Because we aren’t “white mass murderers.”

We’re people. People who, against literally all odds, are alive. We’re diverse. We’re more than what you see on TV. We’re an ethnicity. We’re a culture. We’re still trying to recover from being mass murdered. We’re worthy of life and appreciation.

#talking with anon #jewish #jumblr

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gingerjolover · 6 months

Note

“I can’t stop thinking of you” plus maybe a soft needy Naomi who misses their gf while on tour because we desperately need more Naomi content 🤭

we LOVE naomi in this house! 🗣️

wc: somewhere around 900 words

naomi mcpherson x fem!reader - #7 "I can't stop thinking of you."

There’s something unique about being on tour with your best friends and feeling lonely. It’s spurred on by the fact that Naomi, Katie, and Jo all have colds, boarded up in their respective hotel rooms on what should've been a fun night off.

Naomi knows you’re busy, anxiousness swelling in their chest at the prospect that this is what you might feel like when they're on stage and you’re home alone. They don’t want to bother you, but they don’t feel well. The longing creeping up their throat, knowing if they were home, you'd be babying them: sitting in the bath, tracing shapes on their back, kissing up their spine and shoulders, the Epson salt and Vicks vapor rub clearing out their sinuses.

Noami checks themself.

Of course, they’re not missing you solely because you’d be taking care of them right now, but MUNA has been booking lately. Between the Eras tour and their own tour, combined with the boygenius shows, you’ve barely been able to keep up, your own work schedule inflicting on the absolute privilege it is following your partner around the country and Europe. But alas, they’re sniffly and alone, flipping the phone in their hands, itching not to call you.

Like muscle memory, suddenly, the line is ringing.

Naomi should’ve expected it, but it’s still a punch in the gut.

“Hi baby!” you squeal happily, loud music in the background, your friends' voices, all talking over one another, also greeting Naomi.

“Hey,” Noami forces out a chuckle, wincing at the volume.

“Hold on…. I’ll be right back,” you tell Noami and then your friends. The background music slowly fades, honking, and bystander conversation filters in behind you instead.

“Hi, babe!” you say happily. The panic in Noami’s chest lightens; you don’t sound drunk, and the protective parts of them preen. You sound energetic, full of life, like you’re having the best time - and Naomi knows you are. Your best friend’s birthday dinner is always a big event. Just a few hours ago, Naomi was convincing you to go out, and now there’s a sick and twisted part of them that wishes you were both miserable together.

“Hi baby,” Naomi says, trying to rid their voice of any emptiness.

“What’s wrong?” you ask. Naomi can hear the anxiousness in your voice. They immediately feel bad, guilt coursing through their veins at the quick wish you were both miserable, wanting nothing more than the sensitivity in your voice to fade away. Naomi closes their eyes, rubbing their forehead. How come the one time they feel a feeling you know all too well, they manage to bring you down, too? The empathy rises quickly, hating that you’ve felt this way before and often. While Naomi is on stage, only thinking about the music, you’re at home, worrying about their safety, wondering if they are having fun, experiencing fomo in its truest form.

“I’m fine, love really– I–”

“Don’t lie to me,” you say firmly. Naomi winces; they knew you would call them out, but they thought they’d at least get further in the conversation.

“I don’t want to bother you at dinner; you sounded like you were having fun,” Noami says softly.

“I was, but I won’t be able to if I know something is wrong,” you say sympathetically. “Did Franki get you the Nyquil?”

“Yes.”

“Did you take it?”

“Yes.”

“Are you hydrating?”

“Baby…yes.”

“I just– I don’t like when you’re not feeling well, but–something tells me that’s not what’s bothering you.”

Damn you.

Naomi bites their bottom lip, tears welling up in their eyes. There’s a brief sniffle before a deep breath, “I- I can’t stop thinking of you.” It comes out needy, desperate, Naomi’s voice thick with emotion.

Your own throat tightens, and the familiar feeling rushes up your throat, manifesting into a lump. You never hoped Naomi would feel this feeling, the longing. It was a sacrifice you made, that you make, because your partner is worth it.

“Oh baby,” you say softly.

“I’m sorry…” Naomi apologizes, tears running down their cheeks.

“My love, don’t cry,” you try to say, cut off by a small sob.

You bite your lip, willing the tears to stay in. Naomi hears a small huff, it’s like they can see you, holding the phone tightly, your fingers clenching on it, biting your bottom lip, and your left foot tapping as you think of a solution.

“Tomorrow morning, I’ll text my boss and see if I can do remote work for the week… can Franki get me a flight for Sunday night?” you ask, mirroring the image Naomi has in their head.

“Yeah–yeah I think so,” Naomi says, sniffling.

“I’ll text her, okay? I love you baby… so much… please get some rest, for me?”

Naomi can only nod, the tears falling quickly.

“I’m sorry,” they sniffle.

“Don’t do that, honey,” you scold gently. “How about this… I’ll call you right when I get home, and if you’re awake, we can Facetime. Does that sound okay?’

Your solution is almost identical to Naomi's when the situation is reversed.

“Yeah,” Naomi whispers.

“I love you. So much, my rockstar,” you say softly.

Naomi snorts, “That was cheesy as hell.”

“But it made you laaaugh,” you say in a sing-song voice.

“I love you babe,” Naomi says, taking a deep breath. You make an audible “mwah” sound, bidding Naomi goodbye with another promise to talk later.

Naomi lays back on the bed, lying in self-pity for a while. It eventually turns into determination, refusing to let either of you feel this way again.

#anon cutie #muna #muna mini fics #muna x reader #naomi mcpherson x reader #naomi mcpherson #naomi mcpherson mini fic #i love them your honor!!!!#i know i could’ve made this smutty but i made it sad and i hope you all can forgive me for being so me :)

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diacripticcomplex · 2 months

Note

Shu x Yui smut (Yui going back in time again?? Optional)

Shu x Yui: (Crusader time period)

TW: War and sexual violence, rape, murder.

Shu’s POV:

Our calvary managed to breech into the desert kingdom, it was quite beautiful but I just wanted to take a moment to myself…it’s been a long war, I didn’t sign up for this, nor did I lead or devise any plans that was mainly Ayato and Reiji. I don’t care for glory or power, I just want to be left in peace..

Roaming this desert area was a pain, it was unbearably hot and due to the war there weren’t any women in sight. Most of them hiding, waiting for us to take them for the capture, the spoils of war, we were allowed to do as we wished with these women, we killed their men, enslaved their children…it was the way. I sigh out to myself. “What’s wrong Shu~?” Laito’s annoying voice sang out. I don’t say anything to him. “Where are the women??!” Kanato yelled out, throwing his sword to the ground, it made an irritatingly loud sound. “They’re probably hiding in that temple over there” Laito stated, and pointed in finger to a large structure it was quite lovely, the art and the color, it was a sandy dune nothing like the churches that were built in Europe.

We all make our way to the temple, Laito was indeed correct, the women were there and they were in for a difficult time, but as I said before, this was the way of war. My brothers wasted no time and began to defile the women they found. Reiji had them strung up, naked and slice cuts all over them. He’s usually not like this, but war took away his gentlemen aspect I guess..the triplets raped women together then killed them slowly. “This isn’t right…” Subaru said to me, we were the only two not participating in this slow slaughter. “There’s no point in stopping them…I don’t care I’m going to find a place to sleep..” I tell him, and I got up the stairs on this lavish temple. There was a dark room that I entered it was much colder in this corridor also, it felt nice, I couldn’t hear the screams of the women anymore.

“You..! You can’t be here..!” A human woman shouted at me, just when I was enjoying the quietness. “Yea? Tell it to someone who cares, get out my way mortal” I reply back to her, she looks furious, I got a better look at her, she had silky slightly curled platinum hair and pink eyes, she was very pale for a desert person, she must be royalty..the princess Yui it had to be her.., always indoors she’s wealthy enough to be kept inside. I come up to her, closing in on any space she believed she had the right to, I shoot my hand to grab her face, such soft delicate features, I want her on her knees. “On your knees, we control this kingdom now, you have no choice but to submit to me here..or you’ll suffer much worse by my brothers, make your choice…” I gently tell her. “Your brothers..?” She questioned, I nodded and explained to her all the vile things they are doing to the women of her kingdom that she is supposed to protect, her face twists with sadness and fear, it wasn’t a bad look at all. “Please don’t do this to them.” She begs, I chuckled. “I can’t do anything about them…better pray my brothers give them a swift death…you however are a real treat, you smell awfully appetizing..” I state then lick her neck, I took a bite out of it right after, she hollered in pain, her cries were music to my ears. “I don’t want this..get off me!” She screamed and with all her pathetic strength she pushed me off her. “Alright I’ll give you to my brothers then..” I state firmly, and gripping her by her hair, felt like silk in my hands. I dragged her all the way downstairs like this, she kicked and screamed, she’s such a nuisance but it’s definitely giving me some energy.

“Who the fuck is this? She smells great” Ayato remarked and flashed his stupid smile. Reiji turned, he was holding a fresh head he just decapitated. “She does indeed smell quite ravishing.” He commented, all my brothers even Subaru were intrigued by this woman. “Her blood is of the finest quality..I gave her a choice she hasn’t made it yet..” I say out to them, I think after looking at all the disbursing things my brothers committed towards these innocent women she grew mortified.

“You’re all monsters…” she whispered, her eyes widened with fear, gripping her flimsy cross. “Make your choice human..” I tell her, she gulped. “Fine..I choose you.” I smirked at this answer, then I grabbed her by the back of her neck and bent her down, pulling up her dress, I guess desert women don’t wear under garments, must be too hot for that…not complaining. Her skin needed to be defiled with my handprints. I smacked her butt, hard. Instantly the skin turned bright red. I was already half hard, and decided to just take her then and there, in front of my brothers, I didn’t care what they thought..or what she wanted I cared only for my pleasure and power over this foolish human. “Know your place…you’re my slave now princess Yui..” I say, sadism and lust dripped in my voice, her moans enticed me further, she cursed at me and begged for me to stop already, I didn’t want to, and she couldn’t do a damn thing about it, she’s nothing now, nothing but my plaything.

#diabolik lovers #diabolik boys #dialovers #yui komori #diabolik brothers #diahell #shu sakamaki #smut #rape #war crimes #trigger warning #diabolik lovers community #smut diabolik lovers #sakamaki brothers #crusaders #dead dove fic

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miizzllaneous7 · 2 years

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You know I’m convinced after 20 years the Gothams elite, and high society around the world that interacts with Bruce Wayne whether through his company or personally has to be at least suspicious or absolutely certain Bruce is playing everyone. And Bruce knows they know. Or is at least suspicious they know, and he operates on that line of thought.

The public doesn’t know though. It’s a very tight knit unspoken fact amongst those who know, and they don’t actively talk about it. At least, they don’t talk about it explicitly unless behind closed doors. I mean, Bruce never really completely dropped the act before, he’s always committed to the role and if he does drop it he does it all at once. But the important part is that the ‘act’ is still too different from Batman for anyone to think he’s actually Batman. The closest high society has ever gotten to it, is probably Bruce’s all too precise or lethal verbal jabs, that are always subtle enough they’re usually brushed to aside by the public because HIMBO. But the rich? They’re smart enough to catch on to his hidden meanings, or if they’re lucky they can catch the gleam behind his eyes as he decides to. They have their theories, and know to look for it. It’s one of those things that just click when you put the pieces together. Yet, their conclusion is never that he’s Batman.

No one tries to expose him, it’s not worth it and no one would believe them. It’s the epitome of “Do you know why I told you?—Because no one would ever believe you.” It would always backfire if they try anything, because at this point Bruce has to have the entire public wrapped around his finger and they don’t even know it.

The biggest catch of them all: no one’s sure what he’s doing. Is he a secret mob boss? Is he a guy with genuine intentions? An ally or enemy? I think the most interesting part is the psychology of it all, depending on where you are in that spectrum and what they want to see from him. No matter what happens, it’s a gamble, no one’s exactly sure. If it comes out he funds the Justice League those who think he’s a vile person would just interpret it as “He has the Justice League in his pocket” Which is probably hella intimidating and only cements his power over these people. But even then, no one’s entirely sure what his intentions are and where his loyalties lie.

This earns his spots in a bunch of things, like secret auctions or private poker rooms where all the sketchy/normal rich people stuff happens where you kind of just gossip or chill with probably one of the if not the most dangerous people in the world. Or make business deals and stuff. The farther you branch out from Gotham, the less information and intimate meetings you get via Galas and parties with the man, so there’s more and more misinformation or assumptions with less and less information to go off of. If he goes to perhaps, Europe, and meets some wealthy shady people, they may by off chance assume he’s similar to them because of rumours. I’m doubtful they’d done a lot of research or remember him explicitly since he’s outside of their blast zones. Unless of course, they see him as a potential competitor, so someone’s gotta be an expert on everything legal or public they can find. Which would show for some interesting interactions I assume. It’s like a game of chess but Bruce is bluffing his way through, yet has the bite to backup the bark. He’s got a ton of cards but no one knows what they are, and it can be both his advantage and his undoing. A constant walk on eggshells he’s dancing through gracefully, because he can’t afford not to.

He can probably attend all of these functions easily. Whenever he feels like it, coming and going. It’s like Matches Malone but higher up in the scale instead of with the goons, he’s getting in with the top dogs. Its in a much bigger grey zone, more deadly I’d say since he has to tread lightly. If he makes a wrong move everyone will realize he’s not an ally and turn on him, taking away his best source of intel gathering. As for the functions he can get into itself? Think of how organized crime bosses use saunas for meeting places and illegal activities between those who rank high since actual meetings can be easier to get a drop on.

Once again! No one questions whether or not he’s Batman, why would they? He never quite completely breaks character, so no one’s completely sure what his real personality is, or if this is just it. He’s still very Brucie, but in a suave and slick way in the right company, layering on the Himbo when in more public areas. This way he caters to both sides of the theories people have. It still feels impossible to connect the Batman and Bruce Wayne together as one person, so they don’t even consider that as an option.

Plus the people he knew before becoming Batman must have remembered him before. He only started the persona after. But again, that doesn’t necessarily connect him to Batman. To some, people can chalk it up to “People change.” to others, it could be a calculated measure to keep an eye on. Then there’s the people who didn’t know him before, completely fooled, but even at least some of them have to start to catch on sooner or later. Bruce Wayne’s in the spotlight, always has been always will be. People vie for his attention, he has eyes on him everywhere. People are gonna notice things! Now what they draw away from those things as a conclusion? That’s the interesting part, it’s subjective based on who you’re asking I can imagine.

I can see the Batkids sometimes drawing parallels of Bruce for fun, just teasing but it also makes sense. Bruce acting like he’s a crime lords or something from an outside point of view. Like seriously, think about how easy it is to come across as a Crime Boss when he’s just doing his own thing. The random phone calls he picks up, the several phones he probably has on his person, the fact he’s freaking jacked, always dressed to the nines or intimidatingly/businessy not a hair out of place. Even when he’s ‘drunk’ or intensely stressed and disheveled for whatever reason, it looks intentional even if it isn’t. Similar to how people intentionally go for the bed hair look. He’s probably looks sketchy as hell over time if you’re not in the know about the Batman thing.

Going back to the catch, what is Bruce Wayne doing? Where does his loyalties lie? What does he do? It adds to the confusion. There’s always that one question every socialite—particularly those in private groups that speculate about Bruce based on their own experiences or observations—asks.

What is Bruce Wayne?

#bruce wayne headcanon #brucie wayne #Bruce Wayne is Bruce Wayne #headcanons #headcanon #bruce wayne headcanons #Brucie Wayne

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doomed-syko · 2 months

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don’t get me wrong, as happy and excited as i am about the catfish comeback and (possibility) of new music, the way nothing that has happened since summer 2021 has been publicly addressed by the band at all, leaves a very sour taste in my mouth.

not a word about dropping out of the two cardiff shows two weeks before they were happening, nothing about bob leaving in september – not even just resharing his post as an instagram story, which would've been the bare minimum – and nothing about bondy leaving after being in the band for years.... and now they’re just back? without any explanation?

idk that just seems so incredibly disingenuous to what they as a band but especially van have always preached. i’m sorry but it does not seem like you are only "in it for the fans and the live music" when you couldn't be arsed to make any sort of public statement in the over two years, that was between bob leaving and the reading and leeds headline announcement, to let your fans know what was going on.

it just feels very disrespectful, not only to the two long-time band members that left the band but also to the thousands upon thousands of fans – doesn't matter if die-hard or casual – that were left with so many questions.

again i am very excited for what is to come, i will go and see them if they'll tour in europe and i will always appreciate van for the music but my opinion of him (and benji) has changed drastically since 2021 and i don't know if that can ever change.

#sorry for the rant #just needed to get this off my chest #catfish and the bottlemen #van mccann #benji blakeway #johnny bond #bob hall

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alexandralyman · 7 months

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Neither Confirm Nor Deny (Dave York x Reader)

Dave York has taken over my life. I dived headfirst into Pedro Pascal fandom and this asshole caught me (among others, looking at you Commandante Veracruz). 7k of self-indulgence later, here's Dave x Reader as CIA agents and partners - AU, Dave went into the CIA after the military and never became a contract killer. Oh, and Carol and the kids don't exist in this.

Rated M for smut and vague mentions of bad people doing bad things

https://archiveofourown.org/works/50244982

You're a CIA agent on assignment in Europe caught up not in enemy crossfire, but in the love/hate relationship you have with your asshole of a partner, Dave York.

You hate how much you secretly love how good he is not just at his job, but between the sheets as well. He drives you up the wall most of the time (and fucks you up against them even better), but when your own agency betrays you at the end of an op, he's the only one who's still got your back.

You can never confirm what he really is to you, but you can't deny it either.

neither confirm nor deny

You practically fling the door to the safe house open, making the rusty hinges squeal loudly in protest as if to remind you about the need for stealth and discretion. Normally you’re the very model of both during a mission, but right now you don’t give a shit. Let the damn place get compromised, it doesn’t matter anymore.

Nothing fucking matters.

You’re met on the threshold by the barrel of Dave’s gun, aimed for a kill shot and immediately withdrawn when he sees it’s you. Protocol when entering the safe house was to knock first with two taps to announce your entry and that everything was fine.

Everything isn’t fucking fine.

“Jesus Christ,” he swears, because you never break protocol—except, of course, when you very much do—and he almost just shot you in the face for it. “What the actual fuck…wait. What happened? What’s wrong?”

Dave York is infuriatingly good at reading your moods. He knows when you’re happy and he knows when you’re angry, which is far more common and usually directed at him. He also almost always knows when you’re horny, which isn’t uncommon, especially around him, but is dead last right now on the list of emotions you’re currently experiencing. Murderous is first, and he’s familiar with that one too because it’s also frequently directed at him. It’s infuriating because you’re a highly trained CIA agent with a highly trained poker face you could easily clean out Vegas with, but at the moment even the most oblivious person in the world could tell that you’re on the verge of a volcanic eruption and not just your asshole of a partner who knows you all too well.

“They’re letting the bastard walk,” you practically spit.

Dave blinks, “What?”

“Yeah,” your voice is more bitter than the ridiculous amount of espresso he drinks like it’s water. “Apparently he cut a deal, and they’re letting him walk.”

Dave is many things, slow on the uptake isn’t one of them. “They flipped him,” he says, matter of fact. “He’s an asset now.”

You’d spent months trying to bring down Andrei “the Crow” Morozov, arms dealer, sex trafficker, Eurotrash asshole extraordinaire. Hours and hours of sorting through the mountains of intel for the nuggets of gold, late nights, shitty safe houses, getting two ribs cracked in Düsseldorf and not going to hospital because you would have been pulled from the mission, just dealing with the pain because you were so close, so close, to finally catching the slippery bastard and putting him away for good. It was all for nothing, Morozov shot you a shit-eating grin as the cuffs were unlocked and walked out of custody a free man.

“Give Irina’s mother my love,” he’d said with a wink, and three agents had to hustle you out of the room with his mocking laughter following you lest you go after him with your bare hands. The things he’d done to the poor girl, barely more than a child. You’d promised her mother, you swore to the woman that the monster responsible would be brought to justice. Instead, you watched him walk away free and clear with the blessing of your own damn agency.

“It makes sense,” Dave says, setting his gun back down on the battered coffee table that was scattered with nicks and cigarette burns courtesy of the many nameless, faceless agents who’d sought sanctuary for the night. “He’s connected to all the major players in Eastern Europe, with the amount of intel he could provide if they keep him in place it’s no wonder the plan was to flip him all along.”

That brings you up short as a new, hotter fury starts to burn under your skin. “It was? You…you knew?”

He gives a shrug with a broad shoulder that you may end up dislocating depending on what he says next. “Officially? No. But I suspected. Didn’t you?”

You…didn’t. Fuck, you one hundred percent didn’t expect the CIA would stab you in the back and worst of all, Dave did. He shouldn’t have put his gun down, because you have a new target now.

“And you didn’t fucking tell me? After all that fucking work to catch the son of a bitch? When I didn’t shoot him in Germany despite having a clear shot because I thought he was going to be locked up for the rest of his life, not let out to keep ruining lives because he’s a fucking ASSET to the CIA now?

When I was making promises I couldn’t keep, you think, but don’t say.

“The CIA has gotten into bed with much worse than Morozov when it serves their purpose. You know that. What makes this different?” Dave asks, the infuriatingly calm eye in your raging storm.

It was different because…because…

Because of Irina and all the others. The ones whose names you knew. The ones whose names you didn’t and would haunt you forever. Because you’d looked Andrei Morozov right in the eye in the underground club in Düsseldorf where he sold girls as easily as shots to asshole men and swore to yourself that you’d make him pay.

Because it was personal.

You couldn’t do this. Not now, running on no sleep and barely any food and the ash of your own failure in your mouth. Tears start to burn behind your eyes, but you’d walk barefoot through a minefield before letting Dave York see you cry.

“You should have told me. We’re supposed to be partners.”

You could almost handle being betrayed by the higher ups, the ones who sat in windowless rooms looking at names and numbers on reports and decided which was more valuable, some teenage girls or the man who’d sold them to the highest bidder. The CIA made deals with all sorts of devils, dictators, terrorists, lowlife arms dealers. You couldn’t handle being betrayed by Dave

, who was by your side the whole time you were on the ground putting faces to the names on those reports. Anna. Olga. Irina.

He calls your name when you leave, your real name, not the one you were given for the mission with a passport and credit cards to match. He’s been calling you by that fake name for months, or, when you push him onto his back in a safe house or a hotel or wherever you’re holed up for a few hours and take him inside, he calls you baby or sweetheart in a voice that gets increasingly more wrecked with each roll of your hips into his and you pretend to hate it.

The sound of your real name from a man who rarely uses it almost makes you stop on the narrow stairs of the ancient building before you reach the outside.

Almost.

You’re in Paris, the city of lights and romance and the final stop on this farce of a European tour now that Morozov’s been caught and released in pursuit of bigger fish. The station chief said to take a few days to decompress before heading back stateside. Do some sightseeing, or some shopping. Patronizing jackass. You almost stabbed him with a pen. As if you were in the mood for museums or boutiques after Morozov walked, like this was a vacation and not your life’s work. You find the French equivalent of a dive bar instead and speak the international language of alcohol to the bartender, drink until it’s too dark to see the Eiffel Tower or the Arc de Triomphe or anything except the bottom of an empty glass before ordering another. A man sidles over at some point between drinks three and four and tries to pick you up, a local with an accent you would have swooned for once upon a time. He’s attractive enough and you’re tempted, there’s more than one way to forget your absolute shitshow of a job. You’re definitely no stranger to this one, but not with anyone else since…

Fuck.

You’re not dating Dave York. He’s your partner, because you did something terrible in a past life and this is karma biting you in the ass for it. And it’s not that he’s a bad agent, far from it. He’s one of the best in the agency. He’s also smug, and irritating, and you want to punch him in the face on a near day basis. He’s fucking good at his job, and that means he knows with pinpoint accuracy just what buttons to push to drive you up the goddamn wall. He also knows just what buttons to push when he’s fucking you against a wall, which happens on an alarmingly regular basis. He understands the adrenaline rush at the end of a successful mission and the helpless frustration when a target skips through the net instead, he’s the only one who knows why you currently have a large bruise across your ribs and the unseen marks the work leaves on your soul.

Parisian sights and a pretty Frenchman offering a turn in the sheets both hold no allure, you go back to the safe house once the bar closes, far drunker than you should be. Not drunk enough to forget the smirk on Morozov’s face, for that you need to fuck Dave until everything else fades away. Only the small garret apartment is empty, his gun isn’t on the table and the air already feels stale, like no one’s been there for hours. Maybe he went out looking for you, although if he did, he would have found you. Maybe he went to find someone to spend the night with, someone who doesn’t throw things at his head and threatens to strangle him with his own tie when he’s being a dick. He’s seen you do it too, so it’s not an idle threat. The mission in Monte Carlo. The second one. Where the two of you posed as a wealthy businessman and his mistress, and caught the target’s eye in your cut-down-to-the-navel dress with no room to hide a gun and had to improvise. Dave fucked you from behind on the balcony of your hotel room afterwards, still in your dress and heels, and he wasn’t the slightest bit turned off by the fact that you’d just killed a man with your bare hands and a length of deceptively strong silk from Hermès. If anything he was even harder than usual, quickly unzipping his suit pants with one hand as he shoved your dress up with the other and whispering all sorts of deliciously filthy things in your ear as he buried himself to the hilt over and over again with the lights of the city glittering below like a fortune in precious jewels.

The Paris safe house is a lot less lavish than a five-star hotel, the hot water in the tiny bathroom can be described as only slightly less icy than the cold tap and the floors are so uneven that if anyone did break in they’d probably trip over their own feet before getting a single shot off. It’s extra hazardous when drunk, even for a highly trained agent, but you manage to navigate your way to the sink to splash some water pulled from the frigid depths of the Seine on your face and stay upright long enough to strip off your clothes, leaving them in a heap where they fall. You grab a T-shirt from the back of a chair that you think is yours in your inebriated state, until you slip it on and realize the shoulders are far too wide and the hem is too long. It’s one of Dave’s, well worn and soft and you drank way too much alcohol tonight to bother trying to pretend that you don’t like the way it feels to wear his clothes. He’s not here anyway (where the fuck is he?) and you’ll take it off before he comes back.

You fall into the empty bed that’s not really big enough and yet it feels like it stretches on forever without someone else there to hog the blankets and tangle your feet with his. Your own gun stowed under the lump of a pillow and the taste of failure in the back of your throat more bitter than the booze, you close your eyes and drift off in a sea of regret that a monster walked free and innocents suffered, all because of you.

Your fault.

All your fault.

********

“Bonjour. Or should I say bonsoir, Mademoiselle.”

You’re awake at once, reaching for the gun under the pillow and closing your fingers around it just as the voice registers through your bitch of a hangover.

Dave.

Sitting up is made an Olympic sport both by your not full healed ribs and whoever’s playing the drums behind your eyes like a headliner at a death metal festival. Someone you manage it and crack open a lid to find your dick of a partner sitting in a chair next to the bed. It’s too small for him but somehow it doesn’t look awkward, he sits easily, comfortably, as far as you know he could have been there for hours. As you blink stupidly at him he leans forward and taps a fingertip against your lips.

“Open up, sweetheart.”

Taken completely off guard and too hungover to argue, you do as he asks without thinking. He pops two white pills on your tongue and hands you a glass of water.

“Drink,” he instructs, like he’s talking to a child. You resist the urge to scowl like one and swallow the pills down, chasing them with the water.

One secret about the CIA is that it has access to some really good drugs. Those weren’t aspirin, and it doesn’t take long for your headache to go away and the twinge in your ribs to fade so you can feel human again. Two things then happen at once, you remember why you were hungover in the first place and that you’re still wearing Dave’s T-shirt.

Three things, you clock what he just said. Bonsoir.

Not good morning. Good evening.

“What time is it?” you ask.

“Almost 1800 hours, Sleeping Beauty.”

Fuck. You slept almost the whole fucking day. You have a vague memory of stumbling to the bathroom again at some point and then falling back into bed afterwards, still alone with no sign of Dave anywhere. It’s probably not surprising that you crashed so hard, you’ve been running on nothing but coffee and sheer rage since Düsseldorf, but it feels wrong to have been sleeping when you should have been doing something, anything, to get justice for all of those girls.

Dave is watching you carefully and while his words were sarcastic, his tone wasn’t. He knows what you went through to bring Morozov in. He was right there the whole time, pouring over intel and CCTV footage with you, staking out meeting sites and infiltrating the underground clubs and back rooms where business was conducted by men who would have killed the both of you and not thought twice about it if there was the slightest hint of your cover being blown.

“They let him walk,” you say, more to yourself than him. “He fucking smiled at me, and he walked.”

Dave tosses a phone onto the faded comforter that offered no comfort the night before, without him in the bed beside you. “You have a message,” is all he says.

It’s not the burner phone you’ve been using for the mission, it’s your real phone. You pick it up and when you check the lock screen it shows a text notification. Your heart stops when you see it’s from Irina’s mother. You gave her your number, your real number, when you swore to get justice for her daughter, not the burner one that would be discarded and forgotten as soon as the job was over.

The flash of guilt that you failed them both is a gut-punch on an empty stomach that makes bile rise in your throat, acrid and sour, and then you see what she wrote.

Thank You!!!!

You look up from the message in sheer confusion and meet Dave’s eyes. He’s still watching you with what would look like nothing but cool detachment to anyone else, but you can see the laser focus of a sniper behind that dark gaze.

“Check out the BBC’s homepage,” is all he says.

That answers nothing until you go online and see the top story staring up at you from the screen.

SUSPECTED ARMS DEALER ARRESTED AT ST PANCRAS, accompanied by that same photo that’s clipped to the dossier you read over and over again every night like a fucked up bedtime story. A quick skim of the article reveals the important facts, Andrei “the Crow” Morozov, wanted by Interpol and half a dozen countries for a variety of crimes, had been found on the Eurostar when it arrived at St Pancras station in London from Paris a few hours prior, thanks to an anonymous tip received by the Metropolitan Police. He’d been discovered barely conscious and handcuffed to the pipes in a toilet that had been marked out of order. Morozov had been taken to an undisclosed hospital, where he was currently being treated for multiple broken ribs and other injuries while under reported guard by MI6. A list of his alleged offenses followed, including the trafficking of vulnerable women and girls from Eastern Europe into the sex trade.

You look up from the screen. “Multiple broken ribs?”

Dave’s face is perfectly calm, placid, his expression betraying no remorse for what he did. It was him, you know it in a heartbeat just as you know that he can put a bullet between someone’s eyes from a quarter mile away and what he looks like when he comes undone inside you.

“At least fifteen. Maybe more, it’s hard to be sure after the first dozen. One for Irina. One for Anna. One for Olga. One for all the other girls. The rest for you.”

Morozov had cracked two of your ribs, Dave had broken most of his in return and turned him over to MI6.

“They won’t let him walk too, will they?” you ask, fingers tightening around the phone. If the bastard walks again….

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. There’s not a speck of blood on his clothes, he could have just come back from a day playing well-heeled tourist at the Louvre instead of stuffing an internationally wanted criminal into a train car bathroom after breaking over a dozen of his ribs. Hiis expression is as serene and unaffected as the Mona Lisa’s, keeping his own secrets from everyone except you.

“Unlikely. Even if they wanted to his arrest was public thanks to the cops sending out a press release, it would make them look bad to just let him go. It also makes him completely worthless now as an asset, since if he did walk everyone would suspect he worked a deal to get out of the charges.”

Dave York is very, very good at what he does.

“And if they do,” he continues, unconcerned by the prospect, “well, he won’t get far.”

You know it’s true, because you know him.

“Everyone must be pissed,” you say, imagining the utter chaos that must be going on in the upper ranks. To catch and lose Morozov in the same day, publicly, no less, and to have him end up in custody of MI6. Publicly the CIA and MI6 were allies…privately they each had their own agendas that didn’t always align.

Dave’s facade cracks at last and reveals his amusement. “Oh, they are, baby. I was there when the call came in from London. The station chief was already on thin ice, he’s going to get demoted for this and sent to a far less desirable posting where he won’t be served fresh croissants for breakfast every morning. Thought he was going to have an aneurysm when he was on the phone to D.C, serves him right too, the fucking prick. Everyone else is scrambling to avoid the fallout.”

You cross your arms over the soft cotton of Dave’s T-shirt, annoyed that you forgot (didn’t want to) take it off. “Don’t call me baby. Do they have any suspects?”

Translation: Do they suspect you?

He shrugs again, still completely unconcerned. “Sure. Do they have the right suspect? No, and they won’t. Now as good as you look in nothing but my shirt, go make yourself pretty. We're going out for dinner, I worked up an appetite today and I’m not eating alone.”

Go make yourself pretty? He’s such an ass. You ignore the burn in your cheeks at his casual acknowledgement that the only thing you’re currently wearing is his T-shirt and throw a pillow at his head with deadly accuracy.

“Clock’s ticking, partner,” he says, catching it easily in one hand.

Well…you could go for some actual food to eat after the liquid dinner you had the night before. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway. You’re a CIA agent, you’re an excellent liar. Especially to yourself.

You don’t visit the Eiffel Tower or hold hands on a famous bridge or do anything soppy and romantic. You’re not dating. You’re two CIA agents who caught a very bad man, have barely eaten in the past week, and who fight like mortal enemies and fuck like rabbits. Sometimes both at the same time.

Dallas. The conference where you were chasing down members of a suspected South American terrorist group. You had a screaming argument while you were riding him, his large hands tight on your hips guiding you up and down even as he said you wouldn’t recognize good intel if it slapped you in the face and you called him a self-important jackass who thought he was God’s gift to intelligence and he could take his intel and shove it. You only stopped yelling at him when you came.

Three times.

Dave leads you to a nondescript restaurant off the tourist path, tucked away down a narrow street. The service is French, otherwise known as indifferent, the food is excellent, and while you’d sooner stab yourself with one of the steak knives than admit you made yourself pretty for him, the dress you pulled from your cover identity’s wardrobe is pretty by any objective definition of the word. It may not be a date, but it is dinner in Paris and you’re supposed to blend in while on assignment. It’s not for him.

Another lie you tell yourself.

Dave likes the dress, you can tell. He pulls your chair back like the gentleman he most definitely isn’t and his hands brush over your bare shoulders when you sit down, lingering for a moment against your skin. When the waiter finally deigns to appear Dave orders the braised short ribs without bothering to look at the menu, saying with a wink across the table that he’s got a craving.

You order them too, because fuck men who hurt women and enjoy it.

They’re fucking delicious.

You don’t feed each other dessert or stroll along the Seine afterwards looking at the lights. You do duck into an alley, because Paris is for lovers and for two CIA agents who got paired up unwillingly and drove each other crazy fighting before falling into bed and doing the exact same thing while fucking instead. Dave doesn’t kiss you when he presses you against an ancient wall that’s probably seen its fair share of forbidden trysts over the centuries, instead he sucks a mark into your neck that’ll bruise like your ribs from pleasure instead of pain, one hand shoved under your pretty dress and the heat from his body keeping you warm in a cold, unforgiving world.

“Here, baby?” he asks in a voice that echoes right between your legs, nuzzling and nipping at your skin with one hand at his belt ready to unbuckle and unzip. You’ve fucked him in alleys before, buzzing with adrenaline from a mission and riding high on success while riding each other hard. But not tonight, as easy as it would be to wrap your legs around his narrow waist and muffle your cries in his shoulder while he fucks you against the wall.

“No, not here.”

Not the safe house either, with its shitty mismatched furniture and the ghosts of CIA agents past lurking in the shadows. You find a hotel instead on a cobblestone street, the kind of thing tourists would book for its classic Parisian charm without considering the lack of an elevator. You don’t have any suitcases to lug up the stairs to your room, where Dave presses you against the door as soon as it’s closed, caging you in with both arms. You feel anything but trapped.

“You should have told me,” you say, hands flat on his chest and looking into those dark eyes. You should have told me those girls didn’t matter, you should have told me they were going to stab me in the back and make a deal with the devil, you should have told me!

“You should have known,” he retorts. You should have known they didn’t, you should have seen the knife before it struck, you should have known.

You’ve seen Dave flatter, flirt, and charm to get what he wants, but with you he doesn’t placate or sugarcoat his words. He’s also right, which you hate, you should have known and you would have if you hadn’t let it get personal.

“But,” he continues, head tipping down with a sigh, “yeah, I should have.”

“Me too.”

His admission deserves yours. You’re still going to be salty about it for a while though. Maybe until your ribs fully heal. The bruise is a sickly yellow now, the edges starting to blend back in with the surrounding skin. It’ll disappear eventually but you’ll always remember where it was, a souvenir of your trip instead of a fridge magnet or a keychain. Dave will remember too, he’ll remember examining it in another hotel room when it was the purple of overripe fruit, before winding an ace bandage around your middle with his mouth set in a thin line. His fury had been silent, as quiet as the moment of calm before the storm, while his hands were careful, gentle even, for a man who could and did kill with them his touch had been delicate and feather-light.

Yours hadn’t been, when you jerked him off afterwards with rough strokes that made his silence turn to deep groans as his hips rolled with the movement of your hand. It wasn’t quid pro quo, you just needed to do something to deal with the frustration and that always ended with doing him. He couldn’t reciprocate, not then, not for a while, couldn’t make you come with his fingers or mouth or cock, not when it hurt just to breathe, let alone have an orgasm. Or three.

Now though, he strips the pretty dress from your body with far too much efficiency for a government employee and grazes fingers across the still-marred skin. Somewhere in London there’s a man lying in a hospital bed with his whole torso turned black and blue because he did this to you. You know the only reason Morozov isn’t dead at the bottom of the Seine is because you wanted him to rot in a cell for the rest of his life instead. Dave would have killed him otherwise. Fifteen broken ribs was him showing restraint.

You lift his hand to your mouth and suck on his finger, wrapping your lips around it. The backs of his knuckles are faintly bruised, a match to yours. He’s still fully dressed in charcoal trousers and an army green sweater. The man wears clothes beautifully, something you used to find irritating. He looks even better naked, something you also used to find irritating.

Dave replaces his finger with his lips, reaching down and hoisting your legs around his waist to carry you to bed like he carried you in Düsseldorf after Morozov caught you in the side with a tire iron. You fall back to the mattress and he stops kissing you only long enough to yank the sweater and T-shirt underneath over his head before he’s on you again, nipping the underside of your jaw while his hands roam the length of your body and push your thighs apart. You’ve been wet and ready since the alley, since dinner, since you made yourself pretty (for him) and his fingers find no resistance between your thighs despite how long and thick they are. Just the slightest touch has you trembling, clutching at his arms and legs widening in silent invitation.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, quickly shoving his pants and underwear both down with his other hand so that he’s wonderfully, gloriously naked. “What do you want? What do you need, baby? My fingers? My mouth? This?”

He’s got his cock in his fist, rubbing it up and down your slick heat without letting it slip inside. It’s difficult to breathe, but not because of your rib this time.

“Yes,” you moan, lifting your hips to try to line him up with where you need him. It doesn’t work, the bastard keeps himself just out of reach.

“Hmm,” he chides, breath hot against your skin as he trails his lips down your neck and across the tops of your breasts. “Even I’m not capable of using all of them at once on your lovely pink cunt. You have to choose. Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you.”

You want his smart mouth to eat you out, and not just because he’ll finally stop talking. You want his long fingers pumping deep. You need his thick cock to fill you, to fuck you, to find every last sweet spot the way only he can and absolutely ruin you.

“Dave?”

He looks up and meets your gaze. “Yes, baby?”

“Fuck me with that big dick you’re so fucking proud of until I can’t fucking walk, and then do it again.”

He smiles, showing his teeth. It’s the smile of a man who just got handed exactly what he wanted on a silver platter and you’re too needy and desperate to care. He leans down and presses a kiss to the tip of your nose, a sweet gesture from a man who’s capable of such shocking violence. But then again, so are you.

“There now, was that so difficult? All you ever have to do is ask.”

It’s getting less and less difficult, with Dave. He’ll give you what you want, what you need, you know he will.

His hips thrust and his aim is as accurate as it is with his sniper rifle, precise and true. He buries himself inside of you and adjusts his trajectory as he goes to follow the arch of your back and the tilt of your hips as you take him all the way in a hot slide that pushes the air from your lungs as he fills you with him instead. Your nails dig into his shoulders to carve your name into his skin in cuneiforms of lines and half-moons, an encryption only the two of you can decipher. He rests his forehead on yours, weight braced on his arms, breathing more heavily than he ever would while sighting a target, giving you both a moment to adjust before he does what you asks and fucks you. It’s hard, it’s fast, it makes your toes curl into the hotel sheets and your pulse race under his mouth when he presses it to your neck and whispers hot against your skin.

“That’s it, baby, taking me so well. So fucking deep. How? How is it always this fucking good, drives me fucking crazy.”

You wrap your legs tight around his waist, tug on his hair, run your nails down his back and scrape your teeth against his jaw like you’re lighting a match. All the things that you know drive him fucking crazy. He lifts you with an arm under your lower back like you weigh nothing, changing the angle to that one that’s like gasoline on a flame and pulling a high-pitched cry from your throat that he echoes with his own deep groan. You hate that he’s the only one who’s ever done this, fucked you like it would be a war crime to stop. His hips move in a rapid-fire tempo, unrelenting, cock a piston, impossibly thick and hard as it drives into you again and again and again. You can’t stop any of the noises that escape you, the cries, the moans, the desperate pleas, the yes, yes, more, please, more and your only consolation is that neither can he with his grunts and growls and fuck, yes baby, yes, take it, fuck!

Dave yanks you against him with those large hands, holding you flush to his hips, and grinds instead of thrusts. The effect is immediate, your thighs tremble, your stomach tightens, your nerves sing as he hits every sweet spot inside you at once and lights them all up like Times Square. You clutch at him helplessly, jaw dropping with a silent scream that he hears nonetheless.

“Let go, baby, let go.”

It’s not an order, it’s a plea from a man who wouldn’t beg for mercy under torture and it breaks you instead. You let it all go and fall over the edge, keeping him locked tight inside and bringing him with you.

You’re partners, after all.

He groans, giving a final, dirty grind of his hips. A lock of dark hair falls on his forehead and his broad chest is covered with a faint sheen of sweat as he shudders through his own climax until he finally collapses down

Dave groans, giving a final, dirty grind of his hips, a lock of dark hair falling on his forehead and a faint sheen of sweat on his broad chest as he shudders through his climax and collapses down into your arms. You run fingers through his damp hair, his weight pinning you to the mattress and holding you fast. You’re not going anywhere, not this time.

Afterwards he lays next to you with his long limbs stretched out on the bed, naked, skin marked in places from his time in the service. Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country. At what cost though?

“I can hear you thinking, baby.”

You flick him on the shoulder. “Don’t call me baby,” you say, but there’s no bite to the words. He never does in front of other agents or contacts. A cocky young field agent called you “sweetheart” once in a briefing and lived to regret it. Dave had watched you sharpen your tongue on the man and run him right through with it as you tore his piss-poor interpretation of the data to shreds. Then he told the analyst to get you a coffee and to take notes silently for the rest of the briefing.

That night in bed with him you were sweetheart and baby and darling and sugar, each ridiculous endearment teased into your skin and whispered in your ear, until you finally shut him up with your mouth and ignored the point he was making. No one else gets to call you those things, only him.

In another bed you stare up at the plaster ceiling with its graceful antique fixture and feel his eyes on you. I can hear you thinking. Even the sex wasn’t enough to quiet the thoughts in your head tonight.

“How do you-“ you start, and stop, not sure if you really want to go down this particular road. Dave waits with a sniper’s patience, going even more silent and still beside you. “How do you make it not be…personal?” you ask the one man who won’t lie to you.

Irina. Anna. Olga. You would have shot Morozov through the heart despite the orders to take him alive if you’d known they were going to let him walk, and ruined your career in the process.

“Who says I do?”

Dave puts his fingers under your chin, turns you to face him and brushes a thumb over your lips. His eyes are dark and hooded, the eyes of a trained killer, a man more dangerous than any two-bit arms dealer and the one you let into your bed. He looks at you and sees what other men would miss, that even though you’re naked and flushed you’re still so, so angry.

“If you take nothing else from me ever again, take this piece of advice. Don’t work for the CIA.”

“Kinda late for that,” you interrupt with a roll of your eyes.

His thumb presses back against your lips. “Hush now and listen. Don’t work for them, make them work for you. The intel, the equipment, the slush funds, take it all and use it. Put men like Morozov in prison when they won’t. Because you’re not the kind of agent who won’t let it become personal.”

From anyone else you would have taken it as an insult, the first rule of intelligence work is compartmentalization. It can’t be personal. It’s just supposed to be names on a list and numbers on a page. Let bad men walk to catch worse ones. Collateral damage is a given, whether it’s a few cracked ribs or some broken girls.

“That sounds…” a number of different things go through your mind, starting with the fact that it sounds very much like treason, but you settle on one word, “…dangerous.”

Dave drags his thumb along your jaw. “The best things in life always are. Now, I believe you told me to fuck you with this big dick I’m so fucking proud of until you couldn’t walk, and then to do it again. And you know I always follow orders.”

You know he doesn’t, Dave York gets results like no other agent, but that’s not the same thing as following orders. He only follows the ones he wants to.

He rolls easily on top of you, making space for himself between your thighs. He’s making space for himself in others places too, something you wouldn’t acknowledge under torture. This is all you’ll allow yourself, to run your hands down his broad back to where it narrows at the waist, muscles rippling and flexing under your touch while the rapidly hardening line of his erection is hot against the crease where your thigh turns to hip.

“Is this what you want?” he asks, voice low and rough. One hand goes under your knee, pushes it back, opening you up. You’re still aching, still needing more, as wet as he is hard, and while his fingers can drive you crazy and his smart mouth never looks better than when it’s fitted snugly between your legs, what you want, what you need, is for him to break you into the mattress again until you shatter completely.

“Baby-“

You pull his head down to kiss him silent, kiss him deeply, kiss the man who’s gone to hell and back with you and would do it all again tomorrow. He pushes inside with a grunt, not making you beg any more than you’ve already done. This time he sinks down into you, warm and thick like honey, chest against your breasts, face buried in your neck, and fucks you with steady rolls golf his hips that you feel all the way down to your toes. It’s slower this time, less frantic, a more gradual build under your skin. Dave’s pace never falters, you feel that he would do this all night long if you asked. A hotel bed in Paris, an alley in Boston, in the back of a car, in a field, Dallas, Monte Carlo, Düsseldorf, Jakarta, you’ve fucked and fought your way around the world with Dave. You’re not dating, you don’t go to the movies on Saturday nights or argue over whose turn it is to do the dishes, there’s just this. Mission completed, Morozov file closed, new assignment in the morning.

What happens in the hours between stays there. It has to. You’re already compromised enough.

Dave groans, his hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together against the mattress. You keep your legs locked around him, thighs wrapped tight over his hips. Everything else fades away, there’s nothing except him on top of you, inside you, doing what you asked and fucking you until you tighten around him and cry out, shuddering through another orgasm. He doesn’t stop, the bastard just keeps going with a quick kiss to your temple as he fucks you through it and starts working you up again.

“One more,” he pants, shifting his hips. “Need you to come on my big dick one more time for me.”

You let out a huff of a laugh that turns into a bitten-off moan as he finds that blissful angle again, because his big dick is doing a hell of a job getting you there. The thick drag of it is more delicious than any fancy French dessert, sparking across over-sensitive nerves and hitting that spot buried deep in you on each stroke. You gasp and clutch at sweat-slicked skin, Dave fucks you and fucks you and fucks you, until you can’t take it anymore and fall apart in his arms. Even then he doesn’t give in immediately, drawing it out like the final note as he plays you as expertly as a concert pianist. That part of you that secretly wonders if he’s just been playing you the whole time is silent, drowned out by the hot rush as he floods you with warmth while you’re still quivering, pulsing hot to the same rhythm until you’re both fully spent.

After a few long, blissful moments where neither of you move or speak, Dave stirs first.

“Can you walk?” he asks. It’s not a rhetorical question. Fuck me with that big dick you’re so fucking proud of until I can’t fucking walk, and then do it again.

You’re tempted to lie, you’re so tempted because the absolute last thing Dave York needs is an ego boost. You’ll give him this, though, he earned it tonight.

“No,” you mumble, and wait for the inevitable smug, smart-ass remark. It doesn’t come, there’s only a quiet hum from him as you stroke fingers over his damp hair. His large hand splays over your ribs, covering what’s left of the bruising. It could have been worse, you could have run into that building and not come back out again. You got off easy with two cracked ribs, relatively speaking.

This job, this life, is dangerous. It wasn’t the first close call and it won’t be the last. You know it. Dave knows it.

Sleep is a luxury now, alongside regular meals, relationships that aren’t built on half-truths and lies, and downtime. It steals up on you, eyes closing against the anonymous room that you’ll never see again after this night, in a city that’s just another name on a map. There’s a faint rustle of sheets, and a warm body that settles next to you with a brush of lips to your cheek.

Whatever comes next, Dave York will be by your side.

Your partner.

(yours)

#dave york x reader #dave york x you #dave york smut #dave york fic #unapologetically in love with this asshole

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willthewise-blog · 10 months

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GUYS!!! I WANT TO SPEAK ABOUT SOMETHING VERY IMPORTANT TO ME RN!!!

I recently watched the movie Close (WHICH I REALLY RECOMMEND TO YOU GUYS)

and ofc it reminded me of byler A LOT🤧🩷

⚠️‼️LOTS OF TEXT‼️⚠️

It’s about two teenage boys; Léo and Rémi who are best friends since always! they are inseparable, spend all their time together, having sleepovers, eating together, playing together, everything!!!

⭐️🩷 they support each other on their hobbies, they have meaningful conversations; like they talk to each other with so much love and it’s just pure, beautiful friendship, the way they look at each other and how happy they are, says everything!!!!💞💐:,D they share such a strong bond and live happy without any prejudices!!! UNTIL….. they go back to school (after summer break) to start a new school year, and it’s there where their way of expressing themselves freely, and their love it’s seemed as “weird” or “wrong” by the other kids at the school and that their friendship didn’t look as it “should”😿😿… which causes Léo to push Rémi away, because he doesn’t want to be interrogated about why they’re always together, Rémi is so confused because he’s trying to act like they have always been, but it’s obvios Léo’s fear of being judged by who he is, is causing him to reject Rémi and acting strange, he doesn’t want to have that intimacy with him anymore, he deprived himself of the love he wanted to give….😿🤧🤧

Rémi feels so, so sad because of Léo distancing himself from him🤧🩷😿

The beautiful thing about this movie is that the character’s sexualities doesn’t really matter, because the real meaning of the movie is that we don’t need to know!!! (like the director said in multiple interviews🤠)

because Close it’s about how society treats boys that doesn’t fit in the “toxic masculinity stereotype”, when they see boys that are more “feminine” and want to express themselves the way they are and want to express love and affection in a cute way, they immediately judge and bully and mock them🤕🤕😿 the worst part is that they don’t know what consequences this could have :,(❤️‍🩹 specially to young boys!!!

(I have seen many people saying that the movie isn’t queer coded, but I think it is because of this)

MUBI is the official streaming platform where you can legally watch close, and they categorize it as LGBTQ+

all of these where literally said by the director and his younger brother who are both gay :D

The director was asked “are you worried that homophobic parties are gaining prominence in Europe?” and he said that (the interview was about another of his films named “Girl”)😺

I think their relationship have lots of similarities to Will and Mike’s💞💞💞🎆🎆🎆💐💐 I see Will in Rémi and Mike in Léo!!!! :D

IF YOU WANT TO WATCH IT I WARN YOU!!!! IS SUPER SAD :,((🤧🤧😿😿

#byler #byler canon #byler tumblr #will byers #byler endgame #stranger things #mike wheeler #mike wheeler is gay #noah schnapp #byler confirmed #byler nation #gay #lgbtq+#byler brainrot #byler related #close movie #💞💞💞:3 #i love byler

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 7 months

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By: Matt Johnson

Published: Jan 27, 2023

“Christopher Hitchens: From socialist to neocon.” It was an irresistible headline because it’s a story that has been told over and over again. The novelist Julian Barnes called this phenomenon the “ritual shuffle to the right.” Richard Seymour, who wrote a book-length attack on Hitchens, says his subject belongs to a “recognisable type: a left-wing defector with a soft spot for empire.” By presenting Hitchens as a tedious archetype, hobbling away from radicalism and toward some inevitable reactionary terminus, his opponents didn’t have to contend with his arguments or confront the potentially destabilizing fact that some of his principles called their own into question.

Hitchens, who died in 2011, didn’t make it easy on the apostate hunters. To many, he was a “coarser version of [conservative commentator] Norman Podhoretz” when he talked about Iraq, and a radical humanist truth-teller when he went on Fox News to lambaste the Christian right: “If you gave Falwell an enema,” he told Sean Hannity the day after Jerry Falwell’s death, “he could be buried in a matchbox.” Then he gave Islam the same treatment, and he was suddenly a drooling neocon again. He defied easy categorization: a socialist who spurned ideology, an internationalist who became a patriot, a man of the left who was reviled by the left.

The left isn’t a single amorphous entity—it’s a vast constellation of (often conflicting) ideas and principles. Hitchens’s style of left-wing radicalism is now out of fashion, but it has a long and venerable history: George Orwell’s unwavering opposition to totalitarianism and censorship, Bayard Rustin’s advocacy for universal civil rights without appealing to tribalism and identity politics, the post-communist anti-totalitarianism that emerged on the European left in the second half of the twentieth century.

Hitchens described himself as a “First Amendment absolutist,” an echo of historic left-wing struggles for free expression—from Eugene V. Debs’s assertion of his right to dissent during World War I to the Berkeley Free Speech Movement. Hitchens argued that unfettered free speech and inquiry would always make civil society stronger. When he wrote the introduction to his collection of essays For the Sake of Argument in 1993, he had a specific left-wing tradition in mind: the left of Orwell and Victor Serge and C.L.R. James, which simultaneously opposed Stalinism, fascism, and imperialism in the twentieth century, and which stood for “individual and collective emancipation, self-determination and internationalism.”

Hitchens’ most fundamental political and moral conviction was universalism. He loathed nationalism and argued that the international system should be built around a “common standard for justice and ethics”—a standard that should apply to Henry Kissinger just as it should apply to Slobodan Milošević and Saddam Hussein. He believed in the concept of global citizenship, which is why he firmly supported international institutions like the European Union. He didn’t just despise religion because he regarded it as a form of totalitarianism—he also recognized that it’s an infinitely replenishable wellspring of tribal hatred.

He also opposed identity politics, because he didn’t think our social and civic lives should be reduced to rigid categories based on melanin, X chromosomes, and sexuality. He recognized that the Enlightenment values of individual rights, freedom of expression and conscience, humanism, pluralism, and democracy are universal—they provide the most stable, just, and rational foundation for any civil society, whether they’re observed in America or Europe or Iraq.

And yes, he argued that these values are for export. Hitchens believed in universal human rights. This is why, at a time when his comrades were still manning the barricades against the “imperial” West after the Cold War, he argued that the North Atlantic Treaty Organization should intervene to stop a genocidal assault on Bosnia. It’s why he argued that American power could be used to defend human rights and promote democracy. As many on the Western left built their politics around incessant condemnations of their own societies as racist, exploitative, oligarchic, and imperialistic, Hitchens recognized the difference between self-criticism and self-flagellation.

One of the reasons Orwell accumulated many left-wing enemies in his time was the fact that his criticisms of his own “side” were grounded in authentic left-wing principles. When he argued that many socialists had no connection to or understanding of the actual working class in Britain, the observation stung because it was true. Orwell’s arguments continue to sting today. In his 1945 essay “Notes on Nationalism,” he criticized the left-wing intellectuals who enjoy “seeing their own country humiliated” and “follow the principle that any faction backed by Britain must be in the wrong.” Among some of these intellectuals, Orwell wrote: “One finds that they do not by any means express impartial disapproval but are directed almost entirely against Britain and the United States. Moreover they do not as a rule condemn violence as such, but only violence used in defense of the Western countries.”

Hitchens observed that many on today’s left are motivated by the same principle: “Nothing will make us fight against an evil if that fight forces us to go to the same corner as our own government.” This is a predictable manifestation of what the American political theorist Michael Walzer calls the “default position” of the left: a purportedly “anti-imperialist and anti-militarist” position inclined toward the view that “everything that goes wrong in the world is America’s fault.”

Indeed, the tendency to ignore and rationalize even the most egregious violence and authoritarianism abroad in favor of an obsessive emphasis on the crimes and blunders of Western governments has become a reflex. Much of the left has been captured by a strange mix of sectarian and authoritarian impulses: a myopic emphasis on identitarianism and group rights over the individual; an orientation toward subjectivity and tribalism over objectivity and universalism; and demands for political orthodoxy enforced by repressive tactics like the suppression of speech.

These left-wing pathologies are particularly corrosive today because they give right-wing nationalists and populists on both sides of the Atlantic—whose rise over the past several years has been characterized by hostility to democratic norms and institutions, rampant xenophobia, and other forms of illiberalism—an opportunity to claim that those who oppose them are the true authoritarians. Hitchens was prescient about the ascendance of right-wing populism in the West, from the emergence of demagogues who exploit cultural grievances and racial resentments to the bitter parochialism of “America First” nationalism. He understood that the left could only defeat these noxious political forces by rediscovering its best traditions: support for free expression, pluralism, and universalism—the values of the Enlightenment.

Hitchens closes his book Why Orwell Matters with the following observation: “What he [Orwell] illustrates, by his commitment to language as the partner of truth, is that ‘views’ do not really count; that it matters not what you think, but how you think; and that politics are relatively unimportant, while principles have a way of enduring, as do the few irreducible individuals who maintain allegiance to them.” Despite the pervasive idea that Hitchens exchanged one set of convictions for another by the end of his life, his commitment to his core principles never wavered. They are principles that today’s left must rediscover.

Matt Johnson is a journalist and the author of the forthcoming book, How Hitchens Can Save the Left: Rediscovering Fearless Liberalism in an Age of Counter-Enlightenment, from which this piece is excerpted.

#Matt Johnson #How Hitchens Can Save the Left #liberalism #liberal ethics #universalism #pluralism #freedom of speech #freedom of expression #free speech #first amendment #identity politics #identarianism #woke authoritarianism #authoritarianism #tribalism #religion is a mental illness

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