#this is the only post of mine that I feel like has been deeply and truly controversial. but

[liminsendhelp]

The extremity of cruelty

Hannibal is a very clever man. But still a man, much to his regret.

A tale of an orderly beating up a therapist.

First posted on 6 January 2023 with the caption: "The first completed work of mine. It has been lying untouched for a very long time. 2021.09.22"

Hannibal, no fool, was always ready to snap out of his seat, grow a new wall, and slip into the next socially acceptable role. Collected, liberated by years of revealing his essence, confident in the unforeseen, knowing everything ahead of time. But who is ready for that? Being reborn hurt like hell. And there was little to make out in the seething horde of traumatising feelings. Two seconds, moments. Two discernible counts of their's ascent, palpable in the blinding air, embedded in memory.

One. Horns sprawled and stabbed their bodies, smoldering in seconds, moments of one growing into the other, wings tearing their backs, forgotten, moulded to the falling contour. Dust, covering them in an tight cocoon, ingrained, dividing their sin equally on each shoulder.

Two. The cold water burning his breath, the pervasive stupor, the fear of losing the only creature dear to him. All preparedness, forethought, experience, could not keep the fleeting thoughts of Will's death from agony. Without time to catch his breath he dived, counting down the seconds to brain death without oxygen. Three minutes from hitting the water, five, ten. Someone was calling his name, and in the turbulent water, voices distorted multiple times. From the bottom, big bright eyes stared up at him, fragile hands reaching out, not to pick him up, but to push him out.

Hannibal sits on the shore and does not exist. A wreck instead of a man. The shore is empty.

There are no people on it and it is empty.

A scrap of mind torn from the body, that's what it has become. The water seems like ink, and Hannibal thinks that if it were bloody, the light of the moon would take away its colour.

His eyes are dry and his body is cold. There is no warmth in him, the life has held its breath, holding barely. He breathes deeply, allows himself to think. Hannibal has been called mad too many times in his life, but to see this new address is not allowed to anyone. There is only the outgrown hopes, the feelings, the quiet rustling of slick wings, black and tarred. Everything that hasn't left him, hasn't been confused. Even if Will is dead a shell, to carry a part of him to the grave would be an honour. Hannibal senses his capacity for emotion, for interpretation, for imagination. He sees so clearly, let him look nowhere. Hannibal rises only when he hears the crunch of twigs. A deep breath to get used to the fullness of the sensation of space, a long inhale with his nose to sniff. Someone is here, close by, in the blood. Not Will. Hannibal moves quickly, moving further into the woods. Picks up a weighty rock and silently approaches the source of the smell. The woman wheezes, crunching again, no longer from branches, but from her neck snapping. Two seconds, slowing Hannibal down. Two seconds of frame-by-frame footage. Chiyo is dead and he's next. Curls. Light curls sticking to his forehead, frowning eyebrows, gun. Will takes the Walther from Chiyo's weakened fingers, stands up, aims it at Hannibal's head precisely.

"I'm out of here." "Good." Sips Hannibal, releasing the stone to the ground. "You've clearly made your intention clear to me. "You must realise that this bond will eat me up if I stay. Even faster than you will. Will." So ungodly he smiles, curves his lips to the side, sounds even. Making jokes, killing moment by moment. His creation, alive and stabbing. "In three years, I was able to reconstruct a picture of what happened in Florence. I could feel your desire to kill her, the possessiveness hidden behind layers of anger and longing." "Your pain in my hands was art, again not my own." Hannibal nods understandingly. "And I chose to close that need." His voice is flat, but Will is clearly laughing. He lowers the gun. Hannibal hums, running his tongue over his split lip before he speaks: "By fulfilling my purpose." "No. By granting the impossible." They stare at each other, unable to revel in their last encounter. Hannibal walks towards him, and Will stays where he is. A hand rests on his cheek, and he is allowed to do so. Hannibal reaches for Will's free palm, brings it to his mouth. Kisses the inside. Covers his eyes, takes it in, realises he won't let go. The crunch of twigs behind him, the chill at the back of his neck. Hannibal opens his eyes, and sees remorse. Will gives Chiyo. And accepts it. Hannibal, not being a fool, was prepared for anything. But Will always knew how to surprise.

Shot.

…

Matthew runs. He hasn't stopped lately. He reaches out to Mr Graham, pacing the cell during their meetings, bemoaning the failure. The horror, the flaw, the shame. He's failed, lost, failed to be better, and won't be anything. He can't be useful, and it kills. He cannot be forgiven in any way. But Mr Graham forgives and walks away. And there's no colour left.

He doesn't count how much time has passed. It doesn't seem like much, but it's not just another agent who comes to his interrogation cell. The world comes back to life when Matthew notices him, focusing sharply on the man. Air enters with alternating success. Will sits, relaxedly flipping through the case files. Will, with a tragic crease on his forehead, clear eyes and magnificent coils of hair. "Breathe, Mr Brown," he laughs, lowering his head

Matthew explodes in his body, dying at the direct look, the slight smile at the corner of Will's lips. He runs to him. And Will responds in kind.

"I came to apologise, you know." Will declares in one of their meetings. Laughing off the previous conversation, Matthew looks up, slightly surprised at the change in mood. "The first time we met here," Will continues. "I thought I'd see anger. Hoped to feel resentment, for using you. Or at worst, I expected to see a fan." "But you saw me." "Yes. Saw you. I see you, Matthew." They stare at each other, studying each other over and over, grasping for what gives them the opportunity. "Do hawks work in pairs, Mr Graham?" overly pathetic Matthew gives out. "Oh, my God." Will snorts. "You're insufferable." They laugh together. They're side by side.

After Hannibal, before Hannibal, discussing the case, tactics for dealing with him. Jack is under no illusions about what's going on. He needs a working agent, and Matthew gives him that. The discussion is kept from Dr Chilton by the force of Jack's menacing stare. The interrogation room cameras are switched off, but Will still brings the jamming device in Hannibal's case files or in a cup of coffee.

The light in Will's eyes burns brighter at the mention of prisoner Brown. Matthew is uncompromisingly flirtatious, spewing only the truth and living only stories of childhood fears and desires.

"Oh, and, Mr Graham, that shirt suits you. And that smile too." Will habitually snorts and throws a mocking glance as he leaves the interview room. Matthew knows he'll be back soon.

They talk, talk, talk. Over and over they run off to each other.

And then he disappears.

What happened? Yes, of course.

Hannibal.

Fucker. Beast, monster. The mistake. Something Matthew will never forgive himself for.

The knife in his stomach, Abigail's death, reliving it. Matthew absorbs every rumour. He waits. And Hannibal finds himself in the same hospital as him. So close, so accessible.

Thoughts of vengeance are tied to his existence for an unbearably long time. Once he complains of head-splitting pain. Once he almost gets the key from the orderly, but he leans over to Matthew, whispers with a smile that Mr Graham has been brought back into the investigation. The key remains on his belt, plans disintegrate, weak under the weight of happiness.

Three years have passed quickly.

"Good afternoon, Mr Brown."

They are back in the interrogation room. Matthew's handcuffs are removed and he changes into an orderly's uniform. A siren announces an escape attempt, electricity fails throughout the floors. The staff tends to the fugitives' cells, the remaining employees keeping watch over Lecter. Red lights illuminate the corridors, flashing, and Matthew tries not to let the back of his saviour out of his sight. Will is here again. Smart, collected, waiting out the moment. Easily faking an escape, in disguise for the real thing, bribing the orderlies, cracking another pillar of opinion formed about himself. They run and run. To the first car in the car park, to the second at the petrol station, to the motorboat.

In the morning Will wakes to the smells of coffee and scrambled eggs from the kitchen, comes downstairs kissing his wife. In the morning Matthew wakes up free.

No contacts other than handovers in a set place, no names in short correspondence on stolen mobiles. They have a plan. Hinted at, pieced together into a perfect puzzle. Will falls off a cliff and Matthew runs again. Pulls him out, forces him to cough his lungs out of the rough water.

"Hannibal." Will whispers as they weave through the woods towards a new stage, a new escape and life. "Take care of him."

Matthew nods. Runs to the shore, leaning Will against a large tree. There's no one in the water, no one nearby either, and the possibility that nature has taken Hannibal cheerfully envelops Matthew.

Footprints. On the shore, tracks leading to the woods. Fuck. He dismounts, trotting quietly closer to the place where he left his only possession. The gun rests confidently in his hand.

Fear releases as he sees his Will, wounded but strong. Avenged, leading the idiot who thinks he's God by the nose again. Waiting for the signal. One undeath, and Hannibal lets his guard down. Will nods quietly, flashing his eyes in the careless moonbeam. Will gives him redemption.

The rustle of wings behind him, the crunch of a branch.

Shot.

#hannibal nbc #hannibal #limin #will graham #hannigram #hannibal lecter #dr lecter #matthew brown #nbc hannibal #chiyoh #brownham

[allgremlinart]

nothing has made me more annoyed with people who drive high than getting high myself. yes, even just a little bit. "it doesn't affect me" Jessica, now I KNOW you're lying. or at the very least incredibly stupid and incapable of assessing your faculties objectively.

#this is the only post of mine that I feel like has been deeply and truly controversial. but #sorry for being a narc. I AM right though #and the people I know who drive while high are so hilarious to me because they will finish telling me a story about how they had to pull #over and 'wait it out' or something else quirky and funny that they did while driving high and then in the next breath go 'but it makes me #drive better hahaha' and I just have to sit there and stare at them cus I cant say shit. ✋ its not the greatest of evils sure. but its dumb.

[aromantic-pantyanarchy]

It's me. I'm the cis, heterosexual, aromantic man. I will never marry, I will never be married, I will grow into middle age and elder age and I will die unmarried. I will be forced to support a household of myself on only my wages alone for the rest of my life. I will be asked about women and marriage and children by my family for the rest of my life (or men, the progressive ones might say). I may not ever come out to them. I feel like I burned my coming out on something stupid. I don't want to explain it. I don't want to run them through the definitions and intricacies. I don't want the acceptance without understanding, placating me with ceased questions and poor explanations to other, drunk adults.

I like my hair to be long, I spent a year with it dyed a golden blonde with dark roots because I like the trashy party girl aesthetic. I want to dye it again with pink tips. I like painting my nails, black and blue are my favorite colors. I like wearing chokers. I also like wearing baggy jeans and ratty hoodies. I like having stubble. I like having chest hair. I like having a square jaw and broad shoulders. I wish I had a flatter stomach and a thinner profile frame. I don't know what this makes me, perhaps this is something no more GNC than Machine Gun Kelly. I think about this a lot, how queer my appearance truly is. I should think about it less. I have thought long and hard about if I could be trans or if I could be non-binary or if I could be genderqueer and the conclusion I ultimately came to is that I most enjoy being a man open to whatever self-expression I want.

I don't date, but I've thought about it. I would like to meet people, and I would like to have sex with them. But I don't want to hurt them. I fear if I explain what I am beforehand it'll scare them away. I fear if I explain after they'll feel manipulated or abused. I don't know how many people in the dating scene want what I want. I fear my own lack of experience will make me a bad lay, an embarrassing story to tell to confidants in hindsight. I fear my own virginity, a boundary to those I wish to be like. All of these fears are baseless, as I've not been able to even begin a single relationship in my life. Despite this I still heavily identify with terms like "slut" and "manwhore" and "thot" because my interests lay so deeply within casual sex, sex without great intimacy or emotion. This may be some form of stolen valor. I hope the true sluts are not too mad at me.

I made this blog several years ago because a mutual of mine reblogged memes making fun of aro and ace people, making fun of the concept of aphobia, and in addition well known aphobes. I didn't feel comfortable talking about aro stuff on my main blog, for as little as I talk about it. Living through the ace discourse of the 2016 era has largely caused me to cringe in embarrassment any time I am forced to discuss my orientation with people who aren't aro or ace themselves. I no longer follow this person. I unfollowed many people I was mutuals with from that time, most of them because they posted too often about how much they hated men and I didn't want to see that, some because our interests simply drifted too far apart, only one for explicit aphobia reasons. (Also one because they became a "both sides are bad, any vote is wasted" libertarian, but that's unrelated.)

I guess at this point I don't care deeply about what strangers on the internet think of me. If a trusted friend told me that they don't think I'm truly queer that may hurt. But I am going to continue to use the word for myself. I take up no resources. I go to events that are open to me. If an event was not open to me, I think I'd not want to go anyways. I am not a hypothetical, I am not a strawman, I am a person with lived experiences both within and exterior to the queer community. If you hate me, I will permit you to continue to do so. But ultimately, I am who I am, I cannot change these facts, and I would not choose to do so even if I could.

#aromantic #aro #aro positivity #reference to aphobia

[cumulo-stratus]

They're Ours

(GIF NOT MINE)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Description: My HC's around Spencer and sharing clothes over the course of your relationship.

Warnings: slight nsfw(mentions of sex and others), !!Spoiler warning for season 10!! lemme know if theres anything else!

Flufftober Day 7: Sharing clothes

At the beginning of the relationship (in like season 1/2) Spencer doesn't even realize couple sharing clothes is a thing

like if he would come home late from a case to find you asleep wearing something of his he is kinda confused but finds he loves it

And then in the morning he would ask you about and and you would say you missed him

"your wearing my shirt-"

"I know, I just missed you"

"oh."

I think after around a year Spencer would be super used to it and wears some of your clothes too

like he would totally sneak one of your old college hoodies that are too big for him at the bottom of his go back some times

its the only time he wears hoodies

sometimes he can't wait to just go back to his hotel room and put it on

he just misses you and feels comforted by the familier smell

and after while of things like this you would regularly wear clothes from each others closet, not for comfort- just because they go better with the outfit

And this helped Spencer explore more fun patterns and colors through your clothes without the commitment of buying new clothes

and if you're an agent he would totally give you his FBI jacket

like im imagining you get bashed in the head and get a gash on your forehead while catching the unsub

and Spencer rushes over searching for you desperately

only knowing your injured, but the extent

and when he does find you and sees the goosebumps from the cold breeze he doesn't hesitate to wrap his puffy fbi jacket around you shoulders while the paramedic works on your forehead

Another image I had in my head is like gag gifts

like It would be so cute if you get Spencer those boxers you can personalize with a collage of your your face on it so he can quote "always be close to you"

and he would blush a lot and think that this was his real gift until you pull out the real gift

I think post prison Spencer would absolutely adore it when you wear his clothes because he needs that reminder that your still there when he notices a shirt or a cardigan missing

and he just meds to feel loved so he starts almost preferring your clothes over his because he's been deprived of you for so long

also I think after prison he would also find your wearing one of his shirts rly hot and when first sees you wearing one of his shirts again he has to have you

he would approach you at the counter while your making tea

He would wrap his arms around your waist and whisper deeply in your ear

"you look amazing in my clothes.."

"oh really?"

he would only hum as he kisses your neck..

you know the rest ;)

#bau #criminal minds #bau team #spencer reid #fluff #Spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x gn reader #Spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #Gay #HC's #headcannons #Clothes sharing #Flufftober #fluff prompts #flufftober 2023 #flufftober day 7

[scar-lie]

You’re Mine [Scarlett]

Summary : Scarlett got jealous over Tom Hiddleston

Pairing : Scarlett Johansson x Actress ! Fem ! Reader

Warning : Curse, unprotected sex, cock warming, rough sex, praise kink, creampie

Word count : 1,877

ORIGINALLY POSTED IN WATTPAD

No one has permission to repost my work anywhere, if you see it let me know.

We're here on the set of Civil War. Well, it's 1 a.m., and here we are outside talking around a bonfire, eating marshmallows, and just asking one another

I'm sitting besides Scar, my girlfriend of 3 years now. We sit in a love seat, and my legs are on top of hers. Her right arm was behind my neck, making it like my pillow, and her left hand was in my inner thigh.

Me, Scar, RDJ, Hemsworth, Evans, Lizzie, Anthony, Sebastian, Jeremy, Paul, and Hiddleston, who visited us and decided to stay the night here, and the others are already asleep in their trailer.

"Ok... Ok Y/N," RDJ said, and look at me. I hum.

"So who's the best kisser and sex you have besides Scarlett?" I look at Scar, who was eyeing all of them, giggling. I'm not sure if I should tell her because things can escalate pretty quickly.

Then I see Lizzie, Anthony, and Paul whispering while giggling. Oh no, they're probably thinking this will be a long night for me and Scar.

"I don't think it's appropriate to talk about it," I say, going even closer to Scar and putting my right arms around her waist, then kissing her neck.

"Oh, come on, it's not like Scar will kill them," Robert teases.

"Yeah, it's just a little game; come on," Anthony says, and I roll my eyes at them.

After some time, they started bugging me. I got irritated and sat up straight.

"FINE. FINE!" I yell frustratedly, then I look at Scar, then at Tom, and I sigh deeply.

"It's Tom," I whisper enough for me to hear, well me and Tom got together 6 years ago; we've been dating for over, like, 6 or 7 years; he's one of my greatest loves, what can I say? He's charming, kind, thoughtful, and everything good; even in bed, he's the second best. Of course, Scar is the best in the bedroom; she makes me feel so good that I've never felt it before.

He's the last ex I have, and after him, 1 year later, Scar courted me, and she spent 2 years earning my yes to be her girlfriend. Why did she spend two years courting me? Well, let's just say that after Tom, I have trouble trusting anyone who likes me, so it takes time to say yes.

"What? Louder Y/N, we can't hear you," Hemsworth said, and I closed my eyes tightly and sighed deeply.

"Tom Hiddleston, ok?" I say louder for them to hear and look at Tom.

Then I heard a loud 'ohh. Then I could feel that Scar are getting jealous, so I broke eye contact with Tom.

"So Tom was good in bed, huh?" Anthony teases, so I just nod, then another 'oohh' again.

"Is he rough? Probably yes! Duh, and probably a Daddy vibe." Robert teases and wiggles his eyebrows looking at me, so I just giggle and roll my eyes at him.

"Robert's right; I'm probably rocking your world," Evans teases and winks at me. I just roll my eyes, and then the teasing goes on until Scar gets involved too, saying that if she can rock my world, Tom can do it too.

So I snuggled up to her; she didn't say a single word this whole teasing time. Feeling her jealousy, her jaw was clenching tightly, so I buried my face in her neck and hugged her, then kissed her neck.

"I love you so much," I whisper, only for her to hear. One last tease, and Scar is already beyond her limits.

She just stood up, put me over her shoulder, and just walked off. I looked at them, and they were winking and thumbing up at me.

"You're welcome," Robert mouthed to me, giving me a thumbs up. I just put my middle finger up for him, and they all chuckled.

Scar, go to her trailer, lock the door, go to the bedroom, and throw me on the bed.

"Sca-" I got cut off when she kissed me aggressively, but I melted to it and kissed her back.

She sat up and tore my shirt off, which made me moan and bite my lips. I saw her bulge, so I touched it but got stopped immediately.

"You don't get to touch me, slut." She husked in my ears and grabbed my both wrists and took a silk rope from her nightstand, then tied it in the bedpost.

"Sca-" I got cut off again by her.

"That's not my name, slut." Then she tied it tightly, but not so tight that it could hurt me.

"Sorry, Mommy," I correct myself, that she smirked, then she tore my PJ pants, which left me with a navy blue lace lingerie set.

"I don't like how you acted minutes ago," She whispered seductively in my ears while she was teasing my folds through my thin fabric underwear.

"Is Tom your best sex mate?" she asks, then rips my underwear, which makes me moan.

"N-no..Mommy." Then she started to circle and put pressure on my clit

"Is he that good in bed, slut, huh?" then she starts to suck on my sweet spot, which makes me gasp and throw my head back, tugging the rope.

"Mo-mommy...." I moan loudly, and she sits up, which makes me whine.

"You're too loud, baby." Then she took my ripped underwear and put it in my mouth.

"You look so beautiful like this slut," she said, then tore my bra too and started to suck my tits.

"Mmmmhhh," I moan, arching my back and chest.

"Are you going to be a good girl?" she husked, reaching into her nightstand, then pulling out a vibrator.

"Mmmmhhh," I moan, and then I hear a vibrating sound that makes me moan.

"Mmhh, I'll take that as a no for an answer." She smirks, then continues sucking my breast, then puts the vibrator on my clitoral area, which makes me squirm.

"Mo-momny..mmhh, please." I moan, the words muffled, and tug the ropes, wanting to touch her.

"Look at you, so desperate to touch me, huh?" Then she went lower and lower until she came face to face with my center.

"Mmmhhh, please, Mommy. Please fuck me." I'm begging, but it's all come out muffled because of the fabric in my mouth. Then I arch my hip towards the vibrator, and she slaps my inner thigh.

"Stay," She growled, so I tried my hardest not to buckle my hips.

"Good girl." She praises me, and she blows an air in my clitoral area that makes me throw my head back.

"AAHH!" I moan, wanting her to just fuck the shit out of me, then she starts to lick me.

"Mmhh, so sweet." Then she put three fingers in me, which made me moan louder and arch my back further.

"So wet for Mommy." Then she started to speed up to an inhuman speed that left me panting.

"Such a good girl for mommy, aren't you, slut?" She took off the vibrator, to be replaced by her mouth sucking it hard.

"AAAHGGHHHHHH!" I'm screaming at this point, and she continued her assault, destroying my pussy

"I'm so close; I'm clenching around her fingers, and when I'm near cumming, she suddenly pulls out and takes her mouth off of my clitoral area, which makes me whine.

"Mmmhhh," I whine, and she slaps my pussy, which makes me jolt up, pleasure rushing through my body.

AAAHHMMMMM," I moan, and she teases my folds.

"You think you can cum that easily, slut? Oh, Mommy has many plans for you." She smirks at me and starts to edge me again, leaving me so desperate to cum.

She did that for like 30 minutes, and the fabric in my mouth was long gone minutes ago, and now she was pumping in and out a fake dildo in me.

"Please........please Mommy, let me cum please, I-I'm sorry......aaahhhhh fu-fuck........ Yo-you're the best of....fu-fuck, the best, please Mommy" I'm gripping the rope tightly, knuckles go white, while I throw my head back and my legs are shaking wanting to cum

"Is that so, slut?" Then again she pulled out, leaving me on the edge.

"Mmhh, yes, Mommy, please........ I-I need you-your.....fat cock inside me, filling me up with your warm seed. Please, Mommy." I moan, bucking my hips to nothing, finding some friction to pleasure me.

"Such a slut for me." Then she suddenly trusted in me instantly, then pulled all the way out. That makes me whine.

"Mmmhhhh, please, please mommy, fuck me. Fuck me senseless, please." I'm rolling my hips to reach out for her, and she chuckled.

"So desperate for Mommy, huh?......" Then she put both legs together on her left shoulder, holding it tight.

"I'm going to fuck you real good; I'm going to destroy this beautiful little cunt of yours." Then she trusted hard and faster, making me moan loudly and grip the head board tightly.

"You. Are. Mine. Slut. Mine," She said with a hard trust, and I didn't say anything or moan because of the pleasure I'm receiving; only our skin slapping can be heard all over the room.

"Not. Tom. Not your exes. Nor anyone. You. Are. Mine," She said, and I was a moaning mess under her.

"I'll make you remember it, slut." My legs are shaking, wanting to cum. I'm so close that I'm clenching around her length, which makes her groan.

"Aaahh. I'm go-gonna cum. Please, Mommy, let me cum." She fastened her pace so much that I thought the bed would break.

"Hold it, slut, you don't get to cum without my permission." She's now jackhammering me, which made me squirm, throw my head back, and acrh my chest.

"AAAHHHHHH, I-I... CAN'T HOLD IT!" I scream, and I know she's close too because of her speed and her member twitching inside me.

"Hold it," She demanded, so I kept holding my orgasm until she's chasing her orgasm.

"Cum." With that one word, I cum hard on her, which makes my cum drip down to her balls and thighs to make a wet patch in the bed, and my cum drips down to my ass hole and butt going to the sheet, creating a wet patch too.

With that, she trusted hard and cummed all over inside me. She kept trusting hard, twitching her member inside me while she shot her warm seed inside me.

"AAAAHHHHHH....FUCK!" I scream with her, and she slows down her trusting to help us from our high.

We were panting while she's still trusting, and she dropped my legs down, and she stopped trusting, looking down to see her dick still deep inside me. That made her moan, and she slumbed down in front of me.

Both of our bodies are covered in our own sweat, but we couldn't care less; we're still panting and recovering from our high.

Then she turned us over, so I'm now on top of her, and she buried my face in her chest.

"I want you to cock warm me, sleep baby." And she kissed my head, and I hummed, tired from our hot session.

"I love you so much," She whispers, hovering over my lips, so I smile and peck her lips.

"I love you more," She chuckled, drawing shapes on my back and playing with my hair.

"Not possible, love." We both giggle until she sings me a lullaby that I love the most.

In just a few minutes, I fall asleep with her, happy and content with who we are and what we have right now!

#Scarlett Johansson #scarlett johansson fanfiction #scarlett johansson fanfic #scarlett x reader #scarlett johansson x reader #Elizabeth Olsen #scarlett johansson x y/n #scarlett johansson

[mostlymaudlin]

would you still love me if i was a worm?

ive always wanted to manufacture a situation where andrew gets to ask neil this bc i just think he deserves to be a ridiculous bf who seeks validation in silly, petty ways <3 and i think I’ve finally got something — it’s def silly but that’s the point lmfao

Andrew wakes when Neil gets up to pee.

“Sorry,” Neil whispers, brushing his knuckles against the back of Andrew’s hand as he slips out of their bed.

Andrew doesn’t bother trying to fall back asleep immediately. He’ll just wake up again when Neil returns. Instead, he pulls his phone from under the pillow and scrolls through iFunny, staring blearily at memes that do not live up to the app’s name and fighting sleep.

By the time Neil gets back, Andrew has lost the ability to move his heavy thumb, his eyes drooping as he stares at a pixelated screenshot of a screenshot of a Tweet posted to Facebook. Neil takes the phone out of his lax grip, turning off the screen and shoving it back under the pillows.

“Go to sleep,” Neil whispers. Andrew opens one eye to glare at him. He would still be sleeping if Neil hadn’t chugged a whole can of seltzer water right before bed and damned them both. Unfortunately for Andrew, the act of looking at Neil in his rumpled, tired state only makes his chest go tight in that angry, riotous way that only Neil can inspire in him. He shifts closer to Neil, pushing at his shoulder until Neil gets the message and rolls onto his side. Andrew presses up against Neil’s back, shoving his face into his bedhead and inhaling deeply. One arm wraps tightly around Neil’s waist, the other wiggles underneath the pillow they now share. Andrew throws a knee over Neil’s thigh for good measure. Neil sighs happily, resting his palm over the back of Andrew’s hand where it rests on his chest.

The lure of sleep threatens to pull him back under, but the meme he’d been staring at is still burned into the backs of his eyelids.

“Hey,” Andrew murmurs into Neil’s hair. Neil hums in acknowledgment. “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

Neil stiffens for a second, and it takes a beat for Andrew to register that they don’t really use that word. They talked about it once, a few years ago. Neither of them have anything against it, but agreed it felt shallow. Andrew thinks the word sometimes, when his brain is too lazy to be specific about what exactly Neil stirs in him. It doesn’t really matter. It’s just a word. He presses a kiss to Neil’s shoulder, and Neil relaxes immediately.

“I don’t know,” Neil says. “Why would you be a worm? How would I even know who you were?”

“You’re supposed to say yes,” Andrew says, squeezing in reprimand. “That your feelings for me transcend species.”

“Okay, well, mine don’t,” Neil says. “Worms are gross.”

In a flash of irritation, Andrew releases Neil and rolls back to his own side of the bed.

“Andrew,” Neil says, sitting up. “You can’t seriously be upset about this.”

“I can do whatever I want,” Andrew says.

“I mean, yeah,” Neil says, interrupted by a yawn. “But you’re not a worm. And I do love you.”

Andrew wrinkles his nose, flopping onto his back. “That’s gross.”

Neil huffs. He reaches a hand toward Andrew, waiting for Andrew to roll his eyes and nod before running his fingers through Andrew’s hair.

“It’s true,” Neil says. “And also based on reality.”

“Whatever,” Andrew says, he catches Neil’s wrist and tugs. “Come here.”

They resume their earlier position. When they finally settle, the slow, steady rhythm of Neil’s chest rising and falling has Andrew’s consciousness slipping. He jolts a bit when Neil speaks again.

“Would you love me if I was a worm?”

“Yes,” Andrew says, even though Neil is so annoying that Andrew should squeeze him until he pops.

“What would that even look like?” Neil asks. “Would you kiss my worm body?”

“I’d put you in a little worm enclosure,” Andrew murmurs, eyes closed. “I’d get you good worm food and toys, and keep you in a room where you could see Exy games on TV.“

“Oh,” Neil says. “That’s really nice, actually.”

“Mmhmmm.”

“I’d do that too,” Neil says, yawning again. “But different. I’ll think about it more tomorrow.”

Andrew doesn’t really care anymore. He’s warm, and he’s human, he’s holding a warm and human Neil. Sleep finally pulls him back under.

#my writing #shdjfjdjfjf I’ve been trying to do something w this for so long y’all have no idea 🤣 #aftg #aftg fic #flash #Andreil

[ohmyeyesmyeyes]

secret double life

sidney crosby x f!actress!reader

fc: dianna agron

liked by vogue, kaitlyndever and 764,982 others

ynofficial: i apologise on behalf of makeup artists across the world. i have failed you and learnt nothing since i was 17, and for that i am deeply sorry. anyway, this has been a dream come true of mine - thank you for the opportunity vogue! (i apologise for the lateness, but the video is up on YT rn!)

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user12: you can do no wrong in my eyes, even if the foundation was the wrong shade

user13: she fr worked with it and said 'trust the process'

user14: i can feel the mascara wand in my eye

user15: HER RINGS FUCK WHAT IF THAT TWITTER THREAD WAS RIGHT

user16: the twitter thread was right what are you talking about??????

user17: was it all common knowledge or something?

user18: forgetting they're married is like never remembering that ryan reynolds was married to scarlett johansson

user19: was it just me or did anyone else hear a child laugh in the background?

user20: ME!!!!

user21: babe you're looking so good

user22: thank you for feeding us with this content

liked by user23 and 14,914 others

gossip: after the news has begun recirculating, pittsburgh penguins legend, sidney crosby, has been seen attending a charity gala with his wife, actress y/n l/n. it is unknown as to how long the couple have been married, but rumours suggest 10+ years.

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user24: WHAT!!!!! THEY BOTH LOOK SO GOOD!!!!

user25: idk which one i want to bite first

user26: i'm praying for confirmation 🙏🙏

user27: it has only just occurred to me that people don't know about these two and it upsets me sm 😭

user28: parents

user29: they actually might be though

user30: I'VE BEEN THINKING THIS!!

liked by user31 and 20,008 others

unofficialnhlnews: a reporter asked crosby if he had any family in the stands for today's 1000th game for the pens, he said yes and when asked (for the first time, nearly ever), who, he replied with "well, i flew out some of my family from home, but my wife's watching today."

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user32: CONFIRMATION WTF

user33: he was so open with it what

user34: BRO STARTED BLUSHING

user35: i don't think i've ever seen crosby smile like that

user36: if this is true, i'm thinking about the baby laugh in the background of her vogue grwm

user37: tbh if they've been together for that long they literally could have a kid fr

liked by annabellewallis, monicabarbaro and 791,372 others

ynofficial: apparently i lead a secret double life?

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user38: IS THAT CHILD YOURS? IS IT SIDNEY CROSBY'S KID?

user39: it'd be so funny if it is hers and sid's with the ovi jersey

user40: the armpit scribbler is definitely sid

ynofficial: he's one of the three 👍

user41: does that count as a hard launch??????????

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liked by nhl, aleksandrovechkinofficial and 962,822 others

ynofficial: sid by me ❤ it's been an honour to experience life with you so far - i really fucking love you.

to the rest of you: i give you sid, and introduce you to mason and india!

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user45: *sharp inhale* AAAAAAAAAAAA

user46: he was so baby 😭

user47: SIDNEY CROSBY IS A DILF ⚠️ I REPEAT SIDNEY CROSBY IS A DILF ⚠️

user46: the baby in the #87 jersey i'm sobbing

user47: we said confirm pls and y/n and sid heard change lives

user48: oh 😭 my 😭 god 😭

user49: india and mason are so fucking cute

user50: the first picture is breaking hearts

user51: what about that kid that was wearing the ovi jersey?

ynofficial: mini ovi and mini crosby swapped jerseys after the all star game this year!! both dads cried

liked by alexachung, kaitlyndever and 918,926 others

ynofficial: y/n by me (sid) ❤ i really fucking love you, too

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user52: simple but romantic

user53: i'm crying

user54: THE ONES WHEN HE'S CUDDLING HER AHKSJGF

user55: the wedding photo lmao

user56: baby and bump

user57: i'm definitely dying alone

liked by user58 and 19 others

ynofficial: 😋

this post has been deleted

#sidney crosby x reader #sidney crosby social media au #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine

[mtkay13]

And yet.... another..... Face reveal illustration.

And of course, another long post, LOL.

More thoughts on the passage below!

This illustration is born from a hyperfocus of mine on this sentence:

Ah-Xu... [...] Did... did I tell you that I like men?"

他忽然发现，其实对方一辈子都不将那易容卸下来，在自己心里，也从来就应该是这样一副模样，如今看到他长得竟如自己想象中的感觉别无二致，就像是……已经认识了他很久很久一样。 [Wen Kexing] suddenly realized that, should [Zhou Zishu] have kept the mask on forever, this was the face he'd have pictured in his heart. Now, seeing this face that exactly matched the one he had pictured, it simply felt like.... meeting again with someone he'd known for a very, very long time.

This, to me, feels like the comforting familiarity of knowing, of understanding a friend, feeling at ease despite the years, the distance; the feeling of meeting a friend IRL for the first time despite knowing them for years, and yet everything clicks--

To me, the beauty in this passage is in how the mask... never really did anything, change anything. Wen Kexing became friends with the person behind the mask, felt this deep connection for this man regardless of what he could look like, and seeing him, now, his face revealed, is that comfort of, yes--I recognize you. It's you.

What I really enjoy in TYK is Wenzhou's companionship, the way they understand each other so profoundly, and their friendship. The fact that they liked each other as people first, that they connected so well despite the odds. This connection between them makes a lot of the feelings mutual, and I feel like this sentence above, part of it is felt by Zhou Zishu as well; and removing his mask, although it is for practical reasons within the context of the story, showing his face to Wen Kexing is a way to affirm trust, both ways. I trust you with my own face, but you can also trust me--because I show you, I welcome you in. This passage... almost feels like a greeting. "Hello again, friend." except they've been tagging along for a while, now.

I used to wonder if Zhou Zishu was nervous about Wen Kexing seeing his face, as I do think he's a bit self-conscious about his frail body and struggles to understand Wen Kexing's big declaration of attraction to him--sort of like, "will he still like me, what will he think of my face?". I don't really stand by that anymore, because my understanding of ZZS has changed since then. It really feels more like, it's fine, we know each other, we're friends anyway now whether I like it or not. I wonder, is he a bit happy that he gets to greet WKX with his real face? He mentions having counted on keeping his mask until he dies, but... ? It's pretty obvious that at this point in the story, ZZS is already deeply fond of WKX, so I can't help but feel like he is happy, deep down, that he gets to make that connection.

For WKX, it must be comforting, but also quite bittersweet. His appreciation, his growing love for ZZS, only comforted by this familiarity, this acknowledgement of companionship, of ease together, while he is so deeply aware that ZZS is condemned... I feel like at this moment, he must want to hug him, to keep him close, and think, I wish I could have him longer, I wish he could stay; for he's the only friend he's ever had, for he never connected with someone like that before.

Now to adress the elephant in the room and jump onto the next topic, I keep saying "friend", "companion". Needless to say that I am well aware that wenzhou have a romantic+ bond, but I just feel like this part highlights this aspect of their relationship that I profoundly cherish. And thus we reach WKX's very famous line:

It's hilarious, perfectly timed, but I especially love how I feel like, rather than highlighting how gorgeous or attractive ZZS could be, this is yet another way for WKX to lighten his own mood, to detach himself from the deeper feelings, the longing, the fondess, the comfort--given how untimely this all is. It hurts, to feel attached to ZZS as a person, because he's going to die soon, while joking about fucking and being gay always works, and it has the benefit to make ZZS flustered.

So yeah, point is, I'm obsessed with that scene.

Also, obligatory reference to the past versions, which I noticed make sort of a nice movement? haha.

I'm not really standing by the first one anymore, but it works in that context!

#wenzhou #tian ya ke #zhou zishu #tyk #wen kexing #wkx #zzs #meta

[public-trans-it]

i was a trans man until after a lot of build up of doubting myself, i finally realized that we are putting ourselves further into boxes by not accepting that we are the biological sex that we are and we can do WHATEVER we want at the same time.

clothes and makeup and certain interests do not equal gender.

and not liking being a woman is an unfortunately natural symptom of puberty and/or experiencing society’s deeply ingrained misogyny. and everyone deserves support for those problems.

but we can all fight together against gender social constructs in a healthy way without prescribing people hormones and invasive cosmetic surgery to make them more like the sex they “should” be according to… social constructs…. and help them be comfortable in who they are

Alright. Its been like 9 fucking months that I have been staring down this ask. What better time than to give TERFs some nuance than right in the middle of a fucking hate campaign going on where people (well... singular person probably) are calling me a TERF. This wont backfire.

This post arrived in my inbox shortly after I made another post about gender, and just how fucking weird it can be, and how I genuinely believed every single person on this planet has a fascinating relationship with gender, and so much nuance and personal identity in theirs. Even cis people. Even TERFs. In the tags, I even begrudgingly encouraged TERFs to talk about their gender on that post if they wanted. I genuinely think that TERFs do have really cool relationships with gender. As I mentioned in those tags, the quickest way to explode a group of TERFs is to get them to start talking about their own relationships with gender, and see how vastly different it is, and watching them stab each other in the back over it. So I told them to ramble away about how they view gender, as long as they stayed the fuck away from the rest of the blog WHICH THIS ANON CLEARLY FUCKING IGNORED.

But... this anon does bring up another topic I want to talk about.

Detransition.

Read More

I am a huge supporter of detransitioning. This is... surprisingly... not a very common stance in the trans community, and it breaks my fucking heart. Like, I get it. I understand why. A LOT of detransitioners, like the person in this ask, end up weaponizing their feelings of gender against other trans people.

My support of transition comes from the intersection of two very central beliefs of mine:

Everyone should explore their gender without feeling a need to commit! This is a pretty common belief in the trans community! Damn near universal in fact! We even have a fun little term we use for people who decide to play around with gender, only to end up a bit closer to where they started and being perfectly happy with that: Cis+. Someone who is cis, but at least put in the work to understand the trans experience, and actually CHOOSE to remain Cis instead of just defaulting to it with societal pressure. Many trans people are much more comfortable around 'Cis+' people, because they know these are people who have taken the time and put in the work of being an ally. Self examination isn't easy, especially not publicly, and doing so is genuinely one of the strongest ways a Cis person could ever show their support.

It is never too late to transition. This is also a pretty common belief in the trans community! It is... sadly not quite as universal though. But it is something very important that needs to be said. You could be 80 years old, sitting in a retirement home, and go "You know what? I think I'd rather wear a dress and be treated like a lady. I don't want to be buried as a man." And I think every single trans person should have that freedom!

I was discussing this with @thydungeongal the other day, far more paraphrased than this post, and she said something incredible that has been knocking around in my head ever since.

"Gender is an ongoing process"

Those five words they said to me sum up my feelings far more than this entire post could. Gender IS an ongoing process. My gender has changed SO MUCH over the past three decades. From the straightjacket of assigned gender that I was once forced into; to the very stylish and still lovable finely tailored suit of femininity that grew a little too stuffy to wear constantly, even though I do still enjoy it and try it on from time to time; to the wonderful and freeing losely fitting clothing of being aegogender, finally feeling free to be myself and just act naturally and feel natural without having to keep up an appearance!

And I think, there is no length of time you can try out being trans, and trying out new genders, before eventually coming to the realization you were cis all along. Even if you started HRT. Even if you got SRS. Heck, I don't even think you should have to call yourself trans to do either of those things in the first place, why would I be upset that someone did them and then realized they weren't trans? No single moment in your life should EVER lock your gender in place into some unchanging, set in stone thing.

So I support detransitioners completely, with my entire heart. They deserve just as much support as every other 'Cis+' person out there.

So anon, while many people may hate you and lash out at you for detransitioning, I want you to know, that I am not one of them. It sounds like your detransition might have been forced by peer pressure, which is heart breaking to hear. No one should ever force their own gender expectations on another. I hope that wasn't the case. I hope you came to the decision yourself, after realizing whats right for you. I will never give you hate for your detransition.

I WILL ABSOLUTELY GIVE YOU HATE FOR BEING A FUCKING TERF THOUGH. YOUR OWN EXPERIENCE WITH GENDER DOES NOT GIVE YOU THE RIGHT TO POLICE THE GENDER OF OTHERS, FUCK OFF. GET THE FUCK OFF MY BLOG, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!

#I think I'm gonna start doing that for Read Mores #so you can find your place easier after click it #since my 'style' in these long posts is like... a fairly longish NON-readmore post. followed by the actual readmore. Let me know if it work #text essay #gender #detransition #I uh... also have some more... complex feelings of detransitioning #that may be a LIIIIIIITTLE more controversial......... #none of it goes against what i said here #its more personal stuff with my own gender and how detransition specifically is something that exists not as gender itself #but as the societal perceptions of a persons gender #but thats a more complex topic that I'll add on to this at another date #also I am absolutely taking this ask at face value for the sake of this post #but I am not so naive as to believe that the blatant TERF that sent it was being genuine #this is ABSOLUTELY the kind of thing they send people to drive a wedge in the community #I'm not even going to fucking dignify that part of it with any mention in the body of this post #edit: ........... okay the readmore accidentally moved somehow #I fixed it now though

[downbadspanishlad]

WARNING: Some of the following content may be slightly triggering due to discussion of abuse and trauma. Please don't read further if reading about that stuff could possibly hurt you! You're valid!

Masculinity in Baldur's Gate 3:

As a trans guy who didn't have with friendly male rolemodels growing up, the male companion characters in Baldur's Gate 3 mean so much to me.

While Astarion is clearly my favorite, I have a huge amount of love and appreciation for all the companion characters (male and female). But it's the several types of masculinity the male companion characters have that offer something for male and/or masculine folks like me to aspire to (in some way or another).

Disclaimer: I've unfortunately not had the time to interact much with Minsc, therefore I won't be including him in this post, but he seems like a lovely and cool dude overall, so please don't take his absence as a sign of me not liking him.

Astarion:

Astarion's interest in murder/violence and being mean are definitely not something to aspire to, but I do understand why he does what he does. His trauma is no excuse for his actions, but they do explain a lot.

I really like Astarion mainly due to how he is as a masculine character and how he's portrayed as an explicitly queer, slightly effeminate man with trauma.

In terms of being "explicitly queer," I mean this clip from this video:

As someone who doesn't neatly fit into the stereotype of being a trans man, let alone the expectations of what it means to be a "real man," Astarion's effeminate nature is something I deeply appreciate. 

(Note: That's not me trying to insinuate that trans guys me aren't "real men." It's solely about commenting on how men who are gender non-conforming in any way are told they're 'not real men').

He's very theatrical in his demeanor, and it's one of the things I love most about him. He's hilarious, he's fun, and he's able to be the way he is without being shamed and emasculated for it. I grew up + live in an area where being as theatrical and fun as Astarion is something that can get you shamed or even physically hurt for not being "man enough" in that way. 

As someone who exists somewhere on the bi/pan spectrum, I've loved seeing how the ladies of the BG3 fandom are totally chill with Astarion being pansexual. As a man with the capacity to find people of all genders (including women) attractive, I've often felt very insecure in my masculinity for being queer and "not masculine enough."

Guys like me usually get dismissed as being "only gay." That our sexuality isn't a real or valid thing, and that we're "lesser" than straight men because of our ability to find love with people regardless of their gender. Being feminine, in any capacity, as a man is a very terrifying thing due to the shame and violence we can experience for daring to be ourselves. 

And I don't want to equate my trauma with anything Astarion has been through (especially as someone who isn't a survivor of sexual violence), but I do find a lot of comfort in how Astarion's trauma is dealt with in his story.

So long as you (the player) treat him with the respect and dignity he deserves, Astarion is never shamed or made to feel "less than" for his trauma. The story of his trauma is treated with proper respect and care, and I absolutely love that. 

He makes me feel less alone and weird for how my own experience with abuse has left me with inner demons that I've yet to overcome. Like him, I experience night terrors due to my trauma. It's a very scary thing to deal with. And as a man, it makes me feel very small, ashamed, and pathetic. But seeing Astarion go through it and not having that be something he's shamed for is something I deeply appreciate. I know he's fictional, but seeing a character as cool as him going through that too makes me feel less alone and weird for it.

Wyll:

Wyll is a close second favorite character of mine. He's just an awesome, epic, badass guy! He's the kind of man I aspire to be. He does everything he can to help others, he cares deeply about doing what's right, he's a huge nerd/dork, and he's got the biggest heart amongst the companion characters (which says a lot in my opinion since he's got Karlach and Halsin as stiff competition for that category). He's very cool and lovely, and I really hate seeing how underappreciated he is as a character.

I absolutely love the meme of people saying that Wyll was the only origin character to dust himself off and head back to doing what he was doing before to get kidnapped and infected by the mindflayers. Man is too selfless and rad to take a break from helping the tiefling children how to fight.

I do want to give credit for this meme to this cool dude called Azeem (aka blackpurist).

As well as this post here on Tumblr.

Gale:

I'll admit, I didn’t really care for Gale at first. But the more I got to know him, the more I realized that this dude is (most certainly) on the spectrum. That's not a canon thing, but I absolutely believe that he is. Not a bad thing either (and I say that as someone who is also autistic). Honestly, realizing that many of his traits are autistic recontextualized certain things about him and helped me like him way more.

I really appreciate how straightforward Gale is as a communicator. The dude puts everything out in the open, for better or worse. He has no ulterior motives and does his best to make his intentions very clear. Love him or hate him, Gale is a dude you're not afraid of (unless you're a bad guy or something).

I also appreciate how passionate the man is about the stuff he's dedicated his life to (magic, which is most certainly his special interest). Gale is also very kind and open-minded, a good example of this being what he has to say about Astarion's vampirism. Gale's not my favorite guy, but he's an absolutely chill dude, and I'd totally be his friend if he were real.

Halsin:

So long as you save him and the Emerald Grove, Halsin is totally chill with you from the first moment you meet him. He's very kind, upfront, and non-judgemental, which is pretty cool.

I also really appreciate how much he cares about consent. Halsin is polyamorous, and if he expresses romantic interest in the player character and the player character happens to already be in a relationship, he makes sure to not pursue anything without the expressed consent of both the player character and their partner. 

I know caring about consent is a bare minimum thing to do, but unfortunately there are still a lot of people irl who don't care about it which is why I greatly appreciate how Halsin (and also BG3 as a game) treats consent as an essential, inherent part of romantic and sexual relationships. Very cool, indeed!! 😎💖🌟💫

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #halsin #wyll ravengard #astarion #gale dekarios #masculinity #trauma #gender shit #astarion bg3 #wyll bg3 #halsin bg3 #gale bg3

[violetsiren90]

What the Moon Saw

Pairing: Yoongi x f!Reader

Genre: One-shot; non-idol AU; friends to lovers; young love; summer nights, angst/fluff/smut

Summary: Having been with each other through thick and thin, you and your childhood friend, Yoongi, realize that nobody knows how to say goodbye.

Listen to: "Nobody Knows How to Say Goodbye" by The Lumineers

Drabbles: Stolen Tides; Beacons Ashore

Content Warnings: 18+ (minors dni); allusions to domestic abuse; divorce of parents; cigarette smoking; infidelity (not between main couple); kissing; hickeys; making out; hand jobs; oral sex (female receiving); loss of virginity (female); moments of body insecurity; unprotected sex; cumming inside; cockwarming; characters are ADULTS at the time of their sexual encounter; LOTS of emotions

Author's note: I moved. Like, a block away from the beach, and the views and the vibes have me ALL up in my feels. I wrote this in two nights and then sat on it. I wasn't sure if I was going to post it or just keep it in my heart because parts of it are so personal to me. BUT, here it is. I want to give inspiration credit to @orchidyoonkook , because I will never ever be able to write young love or Yoongi without being influenced by the beauty that is Under the Willow Tree. 💕 If anyone chooses to read this little love story of mine, I hope it brings you something wholesome!

If no one has told you yet today, you are loved and worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️💜

    You inhaled deeply, taking the salty air into your lungs as you gazed out over the cliff side and across the rippling blue that stretched on and on until it met the soft pink glow of the horizon. Your eyes tracked the tide lapping at the smooth sands. You slipped off your heels to meet the cool pavement, but you could feel it already - the soft golden grains molding to meet your steps. These shores hadn't borne your footprints in over a decade, but here you were, drawn back again by the hypnotic crash of the sea and the lonely call of the gulls. It felt as though you had never left. You leaned over the railing of the rickety staircase that wove its way down the cliff side into the sand and scree. Your gaze trailed down the steps, one by one, until you saw it, jutting out halfway down: the lip of a ledge in the rock face. Your breath caught in your chest. Old, familiar feelings of a time gone by washed over you. The years rolled back like clouds from the sun in the western sky.

You were nineteen.

You shivered, drawing your knees up and hugging them to you as sat on the thick woolen blanket you had laid over the cool stone of the ledge. Even on a summer night like this, you should have worn something more practical. But you had worn your cotton sundress with the cherries. He had once told you that you looked like the main character in that dress, and it had been your favorite ever since.

You watched the moon dance on the dark water and thought about all it had seen. It had been watching the little alcove from the beginning. It had seen you the summer after your first year of middle school, wrapped in a blanket with book between your hands, as you took refuge from the emotional turmoil that shook your house nearly every night leading up to your parents' divorce. It had seen the boy one night, wandering the beach with a cigarette and busted lip, trying to smoke away the tears in his eyes. It had seen the boy climb the stairs, only to discover his favorite hiding place was already harboring another runaway. It had seen you look at him - skinny limbs in a jacket and ripped jeans not lanky on his small frame, tussled dark hair, round face, little bleeding pouted lips, dark sharp eyes wide with surprise - and consider that he was likely the most beautiful thing you had ever laid eyes on. It had seen him offer you a cigarette which you refused. It had seen him ask you for a light, which you didn't have. And then it had seen you become friends. Best friends. It had watched you become all that the other truly had in the small, beautiful, painful world of a child. And now it would watch him amble up the beach one last time to find you there.

Yoongi. He had been so upset when you told him that you were leaving for college, but he had tried his best not to show it. He was always like that, keeping things deep inside. You had to wait and watch and listen and coax them out. You could always find the right time to do it, when he felt safe to let you. Most nights, though, it was you pouring out every little thing in your heart. Yoongi loved it when you did that. He would listen with the softest little smile and warm eyes, creasing in the corners, as he watched your hands move with as much animation as your voice when you spoke. His nearly-silent breathy laugh would come like a breeze off the sea and waft around you, lifting your spirits and cleansing your soul. His rare, full smile spreading in breathtaking beauty over his face, pulling his upper lip away from his gums. There were the good times, and the bad ones. On hard nights you would hold each other in silence, letting the beat of the other's heart and the steady undulation of the tide carry you through to the dawn.

You remembered the first time you had awakened in his arms after such a night. The light had just started to stream over the tops of the cliffs, painting the water in rose gold. You had shivered, feeling the dampness of the cool salty air in your hair. And then you had looked up and seen him there, holding you, still fast asleep. His face was angelic, little pink lips just parted, chest rising and falling with the swell of his breath, and you swore you could endure anything life threw at you if the first thing you saw each day were his dark lashes resting gently on the apples of his cheeks. Yoongi had finally stirred and blinked down at you, just gazing silently - the little warm smile in his eyes rather than on his lips. In that moment, something had changed. In the weeks that followed, you thought you had never felt so many things at once.

You felt giddy. You felt a little sick. You felt like you could fly.

You were in love.

You were in love and you had very nearly worked up the courage to do something about it when you saw it - that horrid little purple bruise right below his ear. You had asked him if his father had done it and he had been confused at first. But when you brushed your fingers so softly over the mark, his eyes had widened and he had recoiled, pulling up the collar of his jacket to obscure it from your view. He had insisted that he was fine and not to worry. But worry you did, all the way up to the day you realized what the little bruise really was. Then your worry morphed into something different. You felt sick again, but this time it felt like a burden. You had chided yourself for being so stupid. He was beautiful and sixteen, of course he was involved with girls - girls that weren't you. Your heart broke. You pieced it back together with the succor of his friendship, and, soon, you started seeing other boys too. But you never let them give you purple bruises. You didn't want them from their lips. 

As the seasons went by, you remained tethered to one another. Regardless of friends or suitors who would come and go, you knew each other in a way that no one else could. A way that didn't require words. Laughter bubbled up without effort or restraint. Fights ended in tears and forehead kisses and never lasted more than a few moments. Never past parting. Until one day a few weeks ago when he had told you that a boy you were going with was seeing another girl. Yoongi had never liked your boyfriend, and so you had reacted badly, gotten defensive and let yourself be angry with him for telling you. You had snapped at him to mind his own business. When he had insisted that you were his business you had said no you weren't, not in that way. He had gone quiet. So quiet. And then he had left. And he hadn't come the next night. Or the night after that.

You were so angry and anxious, and you told yourself you wouldn't wait for him another night, so you stayed home for the rest of the week. Then, on the third night away, you had tucked yourself into bed only to imagine Yoongi waiting for you, alone in the darkness. You had whipped off your covers and gone to find him in your pajamas. When he had seen you he had jumped up, throwing his cigarette aside, and crushed you in his arms. He had hugged you from the other side of the railing, not even waiting for you to climb over, then lifted you to stand before him on the ledge where he had enveloped you in his arms again. You had tried to apologize, but he wouldn't let you. And then you told him what you had been dreading to tell him all summer: you were leaving. He hadn't reacted. He had just held you in silence. But there was something different in him now, something that had his eyes trained immovably on the horizon. Something that wouldn't let him look at you. Something that distracted him from all you had to say as his thumbs brushed softly over your arms. He had looked at you so strangely before you had parted that night.

Now you were meeting one last time before you would watch the little coastal town and all its hurts disappear in your rearview mirror. You needed a second chance and this scholarship might be your only shot. Your reverie broke as you noticed a figure shuffling down the waterline in the bright light of the waxing gibbous. The figure sprung nimbly, with practiced steps, up the stairs, and lightly vaulted the rail, landing with a soft thud, catlike, a few feet from where you sat. He stepped forward, standing over you as he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. He was wearing tight khakis, white tennis shoes, and a plain white tee under his green military jacket. With a smoke tucked behind his ear and that little smirk on his lips, you thought he might be cooler than Steve McQueen.

"Got a light?" he asked coolly, shoving the pack of Marlboros back in his pocket. You rolled your eyes.

"Of course not, Yoongi. And why on earth do you always ask me that when you've got one anyway?"

Yoongi smiled to himself as he brought a lighter to the little yellow-tipped cylinder between his lips. It was a secret kind of smile, the kind that made you want to snatch the cigarette from between his teeth. But tonight wasn't for fighting, even the bickering kind. He eased himself down beside you with his signature careful grace. You sat in silence, gaze trained out over the water. While you were looking elsewhere, he relaxed, and you tracked his movements in your peripheral vision. You would do this sometimes, especially when he was particularly guarded. He had always been bad at eye contact, but if you gave him a little space he would let down his walls, and you could read him like a book. Just now, he had let his gaze settle on you. Smoke hissed through his lips, his mouth hanging open just a little in that way it did when he was lost to his thoughts. His eyes roved over you in a way that made you mouth go dry. You swallowed. He suddenly shifted his gaze, coughing a bit.

"I like this dress," he offered, like an apology.

"I know," you murmured with a smile.

"Yeah?" he questioned, brow furrowing, as he took another drag. He was quiet for a beat before pressing out another question. "Paul headed out east too?"

"I broke up with him," came your answer, but without a smile this time.

  "Yeah?"

    "Oh come on, Yoongi," you bit out, "You knew that was going to happen. That's why you told me!"

His jaw ticked ever so slightly.

    "You know that's not true. He was cheating on you. I couldn't let you be in the dark about it - get hurt by another one of these assholes who don't deserve your time in the first place."

You sighed, frustration rising unbidden again as Yoongi casually hurtled the unspoken walls you had erected to make things easier.

    "What I deserve is my business. I don't go chastising you for letting random bitches suck on your neck and god knows what else so that you don't feel lonely."

The remark had been soft but laced with venom, and you had regretted breaching your own resolve against negativity the moment the words had spilled from your lips.

    "Random..." He stared at you intently, surprise and confusion mingling with another indiscernible expression in his eyes as they traced over your features. You were trying to think of a way, any way, to salvage the conversation when he huffed out a laugh.

    "You did know what it was!"

    "What?"

    "That hickey you asked about sophomore year."

Your stomach flipped.

    "How do you even remember that?" You blustered in incredulity.

    "How do you?"

    He was staring at you knowingly with those achingly beautiful dark eyes that always saw you. It was one of the things you loved most about him. But right now it was terrifying. Right now you wanted to escape, only, there was nowhere to go. So for a moment, just a moment, you didn't hide anymore.

    "Because," you swallowed, trailing your eyes back up to his, your voice shaking a bit as you whispered, "I remember everything."

A beat. Two. You didn't make a disarming jest, or a hurried qualification. You didn't even blink. In a flash as quick and heavy as a summer storm, years of yearning filled your eyes like intangible tears, holding his face in your gaze before casting it back out over the sea. Yoongi had froze where he sat, eyes trained immovably on you before he suddenly stood, tossing his cigarette and cursing as he took a step toward the edge, weaving his fingers through his hair.

"What?" you asked, almost defensively.

He didn't turn around, but you could hear the emotion in his voice, his head bowed as he wrestled with the words.

    "Nah, that's not fair. You're leaving...You're leaving and you're gonna make it even...even harder right now?"

Turns out you weren't the only one who had been building walls with invisible bricks. You jumped to your feet.

    "Oh, so this is my fault? You've been telling me my whole life to get out! You convinced me to apply to the Ivy Leagues! You spent the last weeks pushing me away! I don't understand what you want from me, Yoongi!"

He turned toward you, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth, eyes on the ground.

    "A clean break," he said lowly, "Not from you...for you. I just wanted you to run, no guilt no pain, and not look back."

You felt a lump rise in your throat as you shook your head.

    "That's not how it works though. I was always going to look back. Whenever I was frightened or lost or uncertain. Whenever I woke up in the morning or closed my eyes to sleep, or laughed, or...or felt so much joy I didn't know what to do with it. I was always going to look back, Yoongi," You took a deep breath, "I was going to look for you."

Hot tears slipped down your cheeks as you grabbed his arm and pressed your wet face into his shoulder. You could feel his body shake with little sobs.

    "Don't," he croaked out, "don't look for me."

    "Sorry," you huffed a tearful laugh into the fabric of his sleeve, "I don't think my heart will listen to you. Pretty rough deal when it's yours after all."

You had tried to say it like a joke. It had come out like a promise.

    Yoongi stilled. Everything stilled. For a moment, it was as if even the sea and the sky and the moon held their breath. He let his hands fall from where they covered his face. As he lifted his head and turned, you dropped his arm, thinking for one horrible moment that he meant to push you away. But he didn't. He reached for you, and gently, firmly - like every move he ever made, like every word he ever spoke - slipped his hand around the nape of your neck and pressed his mouth against yours.

    You gasped softly against his lips.

    Sweet, methodical, insistent. He slipped his tongue against your bottom lip and you tilted your head to slot your mouth against his, deepening the kiss as his tongue brushed languorously against your own. He tasted like mint and cigarettes and him. You could do this all day. A little dagger pierced your heart at the thought that you only had tonight. You stumbled back, tugging him down beside you onto the blanket. You pushed him to his back and slipped onto his lap, leaning down to reconnect your lips with his. He chuckled into your mouth, his cheeks still wet with tears. 

    "Slow down," he hummed.

    "No," you murmured in simple defiance, kissing along his jaw before dipping to press your mouth to the soft flesh of his neck.

You licked softly, experimentally, along the side of his throat, and his fingers tightened against your waist. He tasted like salty skin and the alcohol of that cheap musky cologne he wore and Yoongi. You leaned back, supporting yourself with hands on either side of his head as you looked down at him.

    "Can I?" you asked with a shy smile

    "Hm?" he hummed, large, lithe hands massaging your waist.

    "Leave a mark?"

His eyes squeezed into little crescent moons, and his mouth pulled up into a full smile he couldn't repress. He chuckled again, reaching up to brush his palm over your cheek, and nodded, tilting his head to the side to expose the creamy skin of his neck. Your heart hammered in your chest as you leaned down and placed an open-mouthed kiss to his throat before sucking until you had pulled a low, deep groan from him. You pushed up again, surprised at the sound, new and lovely, to find him flushed - his blown pupils darkening his eyes, and a little wet patch of smooth skin growing rosy against his throat. You felt a thrill rush through you, making you tremble. You leaned down and marked him again and again, pulling sweet moans from his lips until his neck and collarbones were littered with the proof of your mouth. You lifted your face to kiss him again, but after pressing his lips to yours twice, he pulled back.

"One more," he whispered, taking your hand from his face and guiding it down to the slight firm swell of the top of his left pec.

His eyes played over your face as you felt it softly against your fingertips - his heart. In a valiant fight for your composure, you pressed your eyes shut and buried your face in his chest. He ran a hand over the back of your head soothingly. You raised your face to meet his gaze again, choking out a little sob at the depth of its gentle affection. You slipped your fingers to the collar of his cotton tee and stretched it down and to the side, revealing his bare chest. With reverence you pressed your mouth to his skin, fulfilling his request.     

No sooner had you raised your eyes to his again than he was pulling you against his lips and rolling you to your back. His weight sank into you as your mouths moved together and you thought, maybe, under his warmth was the only place you ever wanted to be. Your body responded to him seemingly of its own accord, your legs weaving around the backs of his thighs as a thrumming ache intensified at your core. As he moved to kiss your neck you found your hips rolling up, seeking relief for the sticky ache at their center, and you were met with a firm knot in his groin that pressed just where you were neediest. Your high-pitched whine was a sharp contrast to his low growl into your shoulder. It was intoxicating - his sensation, his sound, and you undulated against him over and over to slake your want on his growing hardness and hear his breath come quick against your ear. He began to rock against you in return, and soon you were whimpering into his neck, beads of sweat cooling on your forehead against the night air as each rut of his hips became overwhelming and not enough.

    "Yoongi, please," you begged in a breathy moan, lightly squeezing the back of his neck and turning your damp forehead against his soft cheek.

He pushed up to look at you, brushing away the little hairs clinging to your brow. He looked as needy as you, but a little uncertain.

    "What is it?" he asked. You knew he knew. You leaned up and kissed him chastely before letting your head fall back against the blanket.

    "I want you," you murmured, suddenly barely able to look at him as the words formed on your lips.

Yoongi dipped to press another kiss to your mouth before sitting up and back on your thighs, and gently tugging you up with him. You noticed the bulge straining against the front of his khakis, and he winced slightly as he wiggled to adjust against your legs. He took your hands in his, that little smile tugging at the corners of his pink lips, tongue darting out lick at them as he considered you thoughtfully. Impatient, you pushed his jacket off his shoulder, which he fully shed and cast aside, and ran your hands over his cotton-clad chest. His muscle jumped when you grazed down over his stomach, which you thought must be as soft and lovely as the rest of him.

  "Are you sure you want this to happen right now, with me?" he asked tenderly. You looked up at him, your brow pinched in question. "Your first time?"

    You scoffed, your face heating as you looked away, brushing bits of sand from the blanket.

    "How do you know if it's my first time?"

His little smile spread into a grin.

    "Because I know," he offered, a bit smugly.

You toyed with the hem of his shirt.

    "I'm sure," you murmured. And then you looked up at him. "Have you ever..."

    "Yeah," he responded, almost like he was sorry, as he glanced down and took your hands in his again. He bit the bottom corner of his lip. "I don't have a condom."

You felt your heart pounding as the concept of him taking you where you sat became increasingly real.

    "So pull out," you offered nonchalantly, hoping you sounded far more experienced than he knew you were.

He nodded. You snaked a hand between you to dance your fingers over the strain against the crotch of his pants. His hand flew to encircle your wrist and still your movements. He took a deep breath.

    "It might hurt you at first. Maybe the whole time," he said, his thumb brushing in a pendulum motion over your arm. You nodded.

    "I know. I don't care."

He smiled again, regarding you for a long moment. 

    "Okay," he said, nodding and licking his lips before taking your jaw delicately between the rounded pads of his fingers. "But you have to promise me one thing."

    "Hm?"

    "You still have to leave in the morning."

You heaved a sigh. Oh, Yoongi. You thought you might cry again, so you nodded, pulling him down over you once more.

    "Promise me," he murmured against your lips.

    "I promise," you breathed.

    You kissed slowly, greedily, learning each other's mouths and mapping each other's faces and necks. At some point he dipped below your collarbone to drag his lips along the tops of your breasts. Your hand flew into his hair and he looked up at you, dark eyes seeking permission. You nodded, bottom lip clamped between your teeth as he tugged down the stretchy bodice of your sundress to reveal a simple beige bra that clasped in the front.

    "It's not sexy," you remarked apologetically.

He shook his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes, and dipped to kiss the tops of your breasts as his fingers found the clasp.

    "Shhh, it's just the wrapping," he whispered as he snapped the garment open, letting your breasts fall into view as they pushed aside the fabric cups that had confined them.

He cursed under his breath as he brought both hands to your tits and kneaded them gently, sliding your pert nipples in the spaces between his fingers. You mewled, arching your back to press your chest up into his grasp. Before you could truly revel in the feeling of his hands plying your supple flesh, they were gone, but your whine of protest was cut short by a sharp keen as his mouth replaced his fingers. He suckled and nipped at one bud and then the other, and each time he released one with a pop, you were certain you had been rendered temporarily unconscious. Soon he was sitting up and smirking down at the panting, writhing mess of you beneath him. You saw him grimace again as he adjusted his stance, and you reached for his zipper, only to find your hand caught in his.

    "No yet," he chided lightly, a twinkle in his eye, "I have to make you cum."

You drew your arm back and cast it over the top of your face, suddenly shy at his remark.

    "To get you ready for me," he explained again in a murmur as he pushed your dress up to your rib cage.

He traced his hands lightly over your naked waist and you shivered. He moved to his knees, pushing your legs to either side of him. He hooked his fingers into the top of your pink cotton panties, when you suddenly felt yourself sitting up, your dress falling back over your midriff. You were a sight - wild hair and your tits half out, still panting for breath while worry painted your features. Yoongi pulled his hands away and sat back, confusion in his widened eyes. 

    "I don't shave," you rushed out, "I know some girls do, but I've never tried. And...I don't know, I'm kind of a mess down there right now..."

Yoongi's face softened and he leaned forward to press his forehead to yours.

  "I don't care," he whispered. You huffed out another sigh.

    "But...but what if you...don't like it?"

    "I know I will."

    "How?"

He bumped your nose with his, swallowing again as his hand found yours.

"Because I love you."

He only let the words hang in the air for a millisecond before he was crashing his lips into yours again, passionately, as if it was the only way he could convey his conviction.

He loved you. You could have died. But he was pressing one of the kisses you would always remember into your lips like an oath, so you didn't. And then you let him bare your skin and lay you down and tell you that you were beautiful. You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes when you felt your heart believe him. How were you to leave in the morning when his soft, warm words felt like the sun?

    He ran his hands over your sides and thighs, dipping to trail slow, deliberate kisses down from your navel until his chin brushed the soft, curly hairs of your mound. Your breath caught in your chest as the cool air hit fresh slick dampening your sex. He leaned back again, regarding you with warm eyes, and took your hand in his, placing it over your lower lips.

"Do you touch yourself?"

    You stammered. He had asked you as simply as if he were inquiring about your favorite flavor of ice cream. With effort you admitted that you did. He stroked over your hand.

"Show me how. What makes you feel good."

You nodded slowly, feeling yourself tremble a little as you moved to stroke your middle finger in beckoning motions over your swollen clit. The motion that should have been almost automatic and familiar felt new and lewd under his gaze. As you dipped to gather more arousal from your entrance you watched his Adam's apple bob in his throat and his hands tighten where they gripped your thighs.

    "You're soaked," he murmured as he stooped to press a kiss to your belly. Then he did something that would be seared into your brain for all eternity: he scooped up your hand and brought it to his lips, sucking your sticky middle finger into his mouth. You gushed at the sensation of his lips and tongue, wide eyes locked on his as he slowly let your finger slip free.

    "You want to know how you taste?" He asked, not waiting for an answer before humming, "So fucking good."

    "Yeah?" you asked breathlessly, propped up on your forearms to watch as he laid down between your legs.

  "Mhm. Sweet. Like honey."

He kissed into your pubic hair, slipping one of his long fingers to trace over your clit the way you had showed him. You gasped as you watched him work you up, something inside your growing taut like a bowstring. And then a kind of pleasure you had never imagined, the kind that made you want to melt and scream, rushed through your trembling body as a single finger pressed slowly past your entrance while his mouth found your clit. You found your hips bucking to meet his thrusts as he pressed in a second finger. You felt a slight sting at the stretch, but the exquisite pressure of this knobby knuckles caressing your walls overwhelmed any pain, and when he pressed the pads of his fingers to massage a spongy patch of muscle, you cried out, gripping his dark locks. 

    "Yoongi!" you moaned as he repeated the motion, and when he took your clit between his lips to suck you came.

You came hard and in waves, rolling your hips into him until you were clamping your thighs shut at the raw sensitivity of overstimulation. Yoongi sat up to rub his hands over your shaking thighs and heaving belly before leaning back down to kiss you and return your spirit through his lips from the astral plane.

    "You did so good," he cooed, "Came so easy for me."

    "That's good?" you asked between pants. He chuckled into your neck.

    "Mhm."

    "It felt good, Yoongi, really good." He dropped a kiss to your shoulder, and then mumbled into your skin.

    "You still want to go all the way?"

    "Yes," you whispered, pulling his shirt up his back and running your hands over his bare skin.

Yoongi sat up and pulled the shirt over his head, tossing it to lay with his jacket. He was slender and milky, as you had expected, but his shoulders were surprisingly broad, and his upper chest firm. The soft swell of his belly was dusted with a trail of delicate dark hairs leading down from his navel. You reached instinctively for the button of his pants, and this time he let you. Trailing the zipper down, he helped you shed his tight pants and boxers, sighing in relief as he freed his erection. You bit your lip as your hand trailed over the velvety skin of his shaft. Even this part of him was beautiful, you thought - not overly long but thick and proud with a pretty vein and a smooth tip glistening with precum. You had been so consumed with drinking him in that you only now noticed the little needy whimpers falling from his lips as you stroked him. You squeezed a little firmer, pumping him with more confidence.

    "Like that?" you asked, unable to look away from the sweet sight of his face as his eyebrows knitted and his head tilted back.

"Yeah, just...no, no, I won't last," he groaned, his hand stilling yours.

When he met your concerned gaze he reached up to stroke your cheek.

"Feels too good," he murmured reassuringly, then he guided you back down on the blanket, balling up his jacket and slipping it under your head.

He lowered himself carefully over you, skin to skin, as he kissed you again and again, his right hand toying with your breast and trailing lower to caress your clit. You could feel the heat rising in you again, and an aching want inside growing deeper and hungrier with every shock of pleasure. When he trailed his fingers through your folds to find you thoroughly wet he leaned to the side, gliding his length between your lips, his smooth tip brushing over your bud. You cursed, fingers digging into his back and he huffed a little laugh, eyes sparkling down at you.

    "Dirty girl," he chuckled, before kissing the tip of your nose. "Are you ready?"

You felt a squeeze of trepidation in your chest, but you pushed it away.

    "Yes," you assured him, wrapping your arms around his neck.

For a long moment, he just stared down at you, the same look in his eyes as the morning you had first awakened in his arms, but so intent - as if he was trying to commit every feature of your face, in this moment, to memory. Finally breaking his gaze, he glanced down between your bodies, aligning himself with your entrance. His eyes flicked back up to you as he slowly, slowly breached your core. When he had pressed in past his tip you felt the searing stretch he had warned you of. You closed your eyes, drawing in a sharp breath.

"You okay?" came is worried voice, "Want to stop?" You shook your head.

"No, just do it," you panted through the pain, "I want it to be you."

You pulled him down to press your mouth to his. Every kiss between you seemed to say something. This one said that you trusted him in a way you would never trust another.

He was so gentle. Pressing in slowly, giving you time to stretch around the thickness of him, kissing you sweetly through your whimpers, until he was fully sheathed inside you. Tears filled your eyes and trickled down your cheeks. You were so full of him.

    "Why are you crying?" he cooed, touching his forehead to yours.

Your hands clutched his back as you raised watery eyes to his.

"Because I'm yours, Yoongi. Yours first and no one else's." He buried his face in your neck.

"Take me, Yoongi," you whispered desperately into his ear, "Take me like I'm yours."

You felt him let out a tiny sob against your skin and then he started to move. He kept a slow pace at first, carefully gliding against your tight walls, unaccustomed to his presence. You could feel him jerk and twitch as he moved, and thought he must be restraining himself. You found the worst of your pain had passed, and all you wanted in the world was to make him cum.

    "Don't hold back," you hummed as you rolled your hips to meet his thrusts.

He didn't need you to tell him twice, instantly setting a quicker, sharper pace that had his balls slapping your ass and his pelvic bone pressing to your clit with each forward snap.

    "You're so fucking tight," he mumbled, a dazed look beginning to overtake his features, "You feel so good, baby. So good." You wove your hands into his hair, pulling him down to kiss him as you breathed in every curse, whimper, and moan. And then he was looking down at you with dark, wild eyes.

    "I'm gonna cum, sweetheart, where do you want me to cum?"

You didn't have to think.

    "Inside," you answered breathlessly.

    "But I'm not..."

  "Please, cum inside me, Yoongi. Please," you whimpered, tempted to wrap your legs around his waist - your desire for him transcending every fear of consequence. But you wanted to give him the choice.

He raised himself up on his elbows, his thrusts coming impossibly harder and more erratic, and then he came. You watched him in exaltation as he threw his head back and cried out, emptying himself inside you. So beautiful, you thought, with his hair clinging to his brow, his chest heaving and flushed, and his face drawn in the throes of his release. You did wrap your legs around him then, and he collapsed, his head falling to your breasts as he gasped for breath. You tangled your fingers into his hair, caressing his head. You were swollen and sore and messy, and yet the thought of him abandoning you was unbearable. And the moon saw it all.

It saw you stay each other's as long as possible. It watched you both try to hide your tears as you pulled on your clothes. It watched you fight desperately, and fail, to put your heart in words. It watched him silence you, and hold you, because you didn't have to say it. He knew. It watched you fall asleep in his arms one last time.

You opened your eyes. The gulls were crying and the pale morning sunlight was spilling over the tops of the cliffs. The sea was soft and plashing and cerulean. It was the most beautiful of the ninety-three mornings of summer. But you didn't notice - all you saw were dark lashes on the apples of soft cheeks. You watched his breath rise and fall as the sun tipped over the horizon in the east, the dew trickling down your face as salty as the sea.

When Yoongi's eyes fluttered open they met your red ones, and he pressed is forehead to yours only for a moment before pulling you up to stand.

"Get outta here," he whispered shakily, hands still clutching your arms and brow still tilted into your own.

"Come with me," you choked tracing your hands over his chest.

"I can't leave her with him."

"I know." Your fingers traced over his heart and the little bruise you knew rested under the cotton fabric.

Yoongi wept.

"Go," he whispered, squeezing your arms. You nodded weakly.

"Go, goddamn it, go!" he cried, as you shook with sobs, then he crushed his mouth against yours.

Time didn't stop, you'd have any - so you stole every second you could.

And then you kept your promise.

You shivered as a zephyr sprang off the water to whip around you, disrupting your thoughts. You tugged at your blazer. It had been a long time since you wore a sundress with cherries.

It was time to let them go, the little girl huddled in a blanket and the boy with the bleeding lip. They had held your hands for so long. They deserved to be free. It was time to let them go, so you did.

With a deep sigh you cast one last wistful glance back over the great blue expanse as the sun sank into the sea.

The moon was just a silver slip in the sky that night, but it saw. It saw before you did, as you turned to go, the breath catching in your chest when a low, soft voice behind you asked,

"Got a light?"

-Fin-

#bts fic #bts fanfction #bts fan fiction #bts smut #bts angst #bts fluff #bts reader insert #myg #min yoongi #min yoongi fic #yoongi fic #yoongi fanfiction #min yoongi fanfic #yoongi fanfic #min yoongi fluff #min yoongi smut #min yoongi angst #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x y/n #yoongi smut #yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #yoongi x you #young love #friends to lovers #non idol au #best friends au

[dwarf-hat-enjoyer]

I meant to ask yesterday, but how ab some touch starved Harvey head cannons? <3

🤝Touch-Starved Harvey🤝

synopsis: Exactly what it says on the tin <3 Our favorite town doctor craves physical intimacy more than he knows. Headcanons+drabble of how he copes with it, how he reacts to physical contact, and a bonus of how he reacts to receiving physical affection! gn!Farmer, romance. SFW.

w.c.: 1.7k words!

content warnings: None!

A.N.: BABY'S FIRST REQUEST! Thank you so much :,) Highkey this was super enjoyable for me to write and I'm REALLY happy that you liked my other post enough to pop in!!! Enjoy &lt;3

Before the farmer, before befriending Maru and assimilating into his role as the meek and respectful town doctor, he had always been rather avoidant to initiating casual physical contact. Everything he gave, everything he received- it all ranged from polite social expectancies to standard work-related procedures. He didn't think much of it. Having always been a more anxious type, the possibility of making another uncomfortable was always on his mind in these interactions, and what better way to avoid such a thing than to not have it at all? Handshakes and the occasional stiff hug were enough for him. Unfortunately, this proved to be a bit of an oversight on his end, considering the side-effects it would provide.

By the time the farmer arrives, his chronic loneliness has very much caught up with him. Not only has he distanced himself physically from others around him, but mentally as well. Outside of his clinic, the way Harvey's been so avoidant to touch has turned it into a source of anxiety for him. His self-consciousness extends to this field as well- when Granny Evelyn beckons him to lean down for a hug after he's finished his house visit to George, he worries that he's hugged her too tightly or for too long in the very back of his mind. Even the handshake exchanged with the governor at the last year's Luau haunts his memory, with the constant niggling thought that he hadn't been firm enough.

And don't get this man started on his non-existent romantic life. Moving to such a small town those few years ago, he knew that prospects like that would be limited, to say the very least. Many of the eligible singles in town, as lovely as they were, were...well, not exactly his type. And even those that were, how could a guy like him ever manage anything with anyone? The thought of being forward or flirtatious in any way practically gave him hives. But the idea of having someone to be close to, physically and emotionally...He couldn't say that he didn't crave that. But all in all, he wholeheartedly believed that it wasn't in the cards for him and his touch-starved ways.

Enter the farmer. They were just another patient to Harvey in the beginning, another member of the town for him to look after. He didn't pay much attention when they touched him or when he touched them, aside from his ordinary overthinking. He couldn't afford to think too deeply about, really. He was their doctor, for Yoba's sake, and whether it was a friendly punch in the arm or a simple tap on the shoulder to get his attention, it would be highly unprofessional to dwell on. Besides, the mystique of being new in town and charmingly single was sure to draw them quite a few pairs of eyes, anyway. How could he compete?

Well...He definitely began thinking about that. Time marched forward as time does, and an unexpected friendship began to blossom. Harvey being Harvey, it was hard for him to recognize his developing feelings at first. Their gestures became more frequent, and his heart swelled with each one. Whether it be grabbing his wrist to drag him to see their chickens or a grateful hug for patching them up after a night in the mines, it lingered in his mind longer than it should have. When the day came that he idly pondered asking them to the coming year's Flower Dance, it all suddenly became clear to him: He'd fallen. And he'd fallen hard.

Everything suddenly became so much more meaningful. The coffee and pickles they'd frequently brought him, fresh from their farm. When he caught them looking at him and only him among the faces of a festival crowd, was that a sign? Did they think about him as often as he thought about them? Did they think about his touch the way he thought about theirs? With all these thoughts swirling about in his head, he would suddenly become much more reserved around the farmer, quiet and flustered as if a single word could shatter the friendship they'd so carefully cultivated already.

Eventually, something would have to be said about his behavior. This is Harvey, after all- and even if it weren't, who in their right mind would suddenly clam up the way he did for no good reason?

Clamming up...Was that what he was doing? Harvey sighed to himself as he took in the early summer atmosphere. He brushed his knuckle over the surface of the fountain's water, sitting contemplatively at its edge. It was on days like these where he wished he had the confidence and sense to dress down a little rather than sweltering away in his slacks and button-up shirt, but there were other things on his mind. The sweat on his brow was the least of his concern. How could it be anything else? He'd recently realized that it had been two or three weeks since he'd realized his feelings towards the farmer, after all- which marked two or three weeks since his overthinking was pushed into overdrive by every little moment between them. His mind wandered back to the early days of their friendship. When Harvey closed his eyes envisioned his feelings, true to his bookish personality, he saw a graph. With every little moment between them, the line grew bit by bit until it became positively exponential. The way the farmer aided him at George's check-up was the first incident he could recall. When George, being every bit the stubborn old man he was at first glance, chastised Harvey for his advice, their sudden appearance ended up making the appointment much less of a headache than he expected. Their own appointment went a similar route, with them being one of his easier patients. It went as smoothly as it could have. Harvey had nearly forgotten the incident, but their pulse stuck out in the otherwise unremarkable memory. They were a farmer, for Yoba's sake. They had a business to run, physical labor to attend to and an entire town to entertain to keep themself afloat both financially and socially. Any other doctor wouldn't've thought twice about it and simply moved on with their day. Any other doctor wouldn't've fallen this hard for a patient, he reminded himself grimly. "Hey, Harvey!" In an instant, his thoughtful silence shattered like an egg thrown at the mountainside at the sound of the familiar voice. They'd sought him out. Did he really mean that much to them? Damn it all, doctor, don't get your hopes up! The contents of the farmer's backpack rustled and clanged with every step as they trotted up to him. With a proud grin on their face, they held out their hand expectantly, a small something clutched in their fist. "Oh. Erm...Hi. How are you today?" Harvey asked politely. The farmer blinked, then smiled warmly. "I'm doing alright. Just got back from the mines. Don't have a heart attack, I managed to find that purple mushroom you asked for at a level that wouldn't kill me." Harvey chuckled stiffly, reaching for the mushroom presented in their hand. Big, big mistake. It was a simple brush of their fingers. He hesitated to even call it a mere accident. They seemed so calm, despite the fact that he'd definitely lingered for a millisecond longer than he should have. In the moment, he cleared his throat awkwardly, preparing to apologize- "Harvey." "Ah, I'm sor- Yes?" he stammered, smiling in a way he prayed didn't seem nervous. "If you're going to apologize for touching me," the farmer began, gently yet firmly, "I'm gonna take that mushroom right back. You're squeezing that poor fungus to death, anyway." It was only at their words that he noticed his death grip on the mushroom. He opened his mouth to apologize anyway, but the farmer continued, "That's just something I noticed, you know? One, you've been super quiet with me lately, and two, every time we so much as brush up against each other when we do talk, you start tripping over your words and apologizing as if you just slapped me." "I know that you do get bouts of anxiety, but..." The farmer trailed off, "We're still friends, right?" Their question was genuine, concern-wrought and excruciatingly, painfully innocent. Harvey could hear their voice quieting as it left their lips- not accusatory, simply gentle and ready for whatever answer he'd give.

Harvey fumbled over his words before they'd even left his mouth. To explain himself would be to reveal the absolute fool he had been. Avoiding them for as long as he did would've only harmed their relationship, just as the farmer revealed had happened that moment. Of course they were worried. Of course they wondered whether or not he was mad at them. Of course they'd be hurt by the way he'd shied from every touch of theirs, all because he had made great towering mountains out of the littlest molehills. "Harvey…?" "It's complicated," he blurted out. The farmer's eyes widened as the words poured out of him. "I've tried to keep our relationship professional at first. After that, I- I thought it would be strictly platonic. I didn't even consider the fact that I would feel this way about you." "What do you mean 'this way?'" they prompted him gently. This farmer was going to kill him with how sweetly patient they were being. With a deep breath, he spat it out. "I'm interested in you. Romantically." What Harvey expected in that moment was a kind let-down. A small speech about how they value him as a friend, but can't see any sort of future with them. At worst, a sneer and a more curt rejection. They wouldn't be the type to laugh and mock him, this much he knew. What he hadn't expected was the smile pricking at their lips. Nor did he anticipate the way they reached softly for his hand and the electric joy that set every nerve in his body alight at their touch. It was all clear now. And damn, he truly was a fool to believe so deeply that they didn't feel the same. "Is that all, big guy?" … Oh, farmer. You'll be the death of this doctor yet.

~FIN~

#stardew valley #stardew valley harvey #harvey stardew valley #stardew harvey #stardew valley headcanons

[lady-phasma]

Зимний Солдат (Zimniy Soldát)

Part 1 of 2 (cross posted from AO3)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI; from my AO3 - "Bucky's metal arm kink"; mostly p n v sex, fluff, canon typical discussion of Bucky's past and violence, implied/referenced past noncon. Written in first person fem!reader.

Summary a/n: Some feels but mostly reader and Bucky are simmering at this point. (This is how old this fic is: Events take place after F&WS Episode 5 - I want to add some plot and character details but there are only 6 episodes so I’m waiting until we find out what episode 6 brings us.) No beta. 3k words.

“Like dancing, it’s been a while,” he smirked as he looked down at his gloved hands. A pained smirk. He ran his thumb across the knuckles of his left fist.

“I’m sure it has,” I said. I reached up and brushed my fingers along his jaw, coaxing him to look at me. “Dancing has changed a lot in 78 years, this hasn’t.” I smiled and his face softened. His shoulders relaxed a little.

Without speaking I took his hands in mine and started to slowly remove each glove. First his right hand, grazing his palm with my fingers, then his left. The vibranium was warm to the touch. He flexed his fingers as if taking off the glove reminded him that his arm was metal. I held my hand out, palm up, offering it to him. The warm metal folded around my hand.

“How much can you feel?” I asked him.

“Everything,” he said and made small circles with his thumb in my palm.

I stood up from the couch and let his hand fall to his lap. He looked up at me as I slid my hand into his jacket. I slowly started to remove it but he got the hint and shrugged out of it. I straddled him and surprised him by sitting on his lap. I gently pressed on his shoulders, getting him to lean back on the couch, relax a little. His chest heaved with a sigh. My hands rested lightly on his t-shirt clad shoulders. “Well maybe it has changed a little,” I grinned as I teased him.

“Yeah, I don’t remember it quite like this,” he smiled and winked at me.

“I hope that not all changes are bad,” I whispered as I leaned in to kiss him. My hair fell by my face and he reached up to tuck it behind my ear. He placed his palm on my cheek and kissed me back. I wanted to pace myself, not rush anything, but it was proving difficult. I wanted to feel his tongue, to part his lips with my own tongue, but I was really enjoying this 1940s kissing as well. I pulled back a little so I could look at him. His eyes were closed. I pressed my cheek into his hand.

He opened his eyes, seeming to wonder why we stopped kissing. When our eyes met I turned and kissed the palm of his hand. His hips twitched slightly underneath me. I put my hand on top of his and pressed my lips harder against the metal. I began to make my way down his palm and wrist to his forearm, weaving my fingers between his. I glanced up at him as he leaned his head back on the couch. I watched the rise and fall of his chest as I kissed his arm. I slid my free hand up his bicep to his shoulder, fingering the ridge at the connection of metal and skin briefly before resting it on his chest. His heart wasn’t racing but I could feel it beating. I closed my eyes, sighed warm breath against his vibranium, and kissed the inside of his elbow. I released his hand as I kissed his bicep and he placed his hand on the back of my neck.

“Damn,” he sighed. “Definitely not how it was in 1943.” He raised his head and smiled, blue eyes sparkling. He gently pulled me toward him and kissed me. His hand moved into my hair and pushed me harder against his lips. His tongue slipped past my lips and I opened up to let him in. I pressed my chest against his and breathed deeply into our kiss. Bucky moved his hips as if he were uncomfortable so I spread my legs a bit wider. I moaned, deep and quiet, when I felt him hard against me. I shifted my weight in his lap and he inhaled sharply and grabbed my ass with both hands. He raised up to kiss me and lift me off his lap in one motion. Before I knew what was happening I was sitting on the couch and we were no longer kissing.

“What? Is everything-““Yeah, yes,” he cut me off. “It’s… fine. I just need a breather. You know… just don’t want to end this too early.” He looked down at his hands.

“Okay,” I said. “Do you want to talk?”

“Sure.”

“I have wanted to ask you something for a while now,” I stammered as I looked at my own hands. “It’s strange but I was curious if you really had never, you know, in all those years…”

“Is that a question?” he asked but didn’t wait for me to answer. His voice got lower and his tone was immediately serious. “Um, yeah, a few times I guess. I remember every mission, every encounter, every command. So, consenting? Not in almost eight decades. As him at least a handful of times.” “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “God that sounds so lame when I say it out loud, but I am very sorry.” I reached out for his hand. His skin felt cool when he took my hand in his. I slid closer to him so that our legs touched. I placed my hand on his thigh.

“Well, I’m only in a little bit of a hurry,” I winked. He smiled and leaned in to kiss me. He placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed a little. I immediately noticed how much more intense that touch was. Not more forceful but there was no give, no softness, in that hand. I moaned a little into our kiss. He pulled back and looked at me. I couldn’t meet his eyes so I smoothed my hair behind my ear. I intertwined our fingers and pressed my shoulder into his other palm. I encouraged him in a feline manner, pushing against his hand. He understood. His hand slid down my arm, onto my breast. When he paused I inhaled deeply and forced my chest out. His hand tensed and relaxed. He started to make small circles over my nipple with his thumb. Feelings like electricity shot from where he touched me to my crotch, making me jump a little. I finally met his gaze and languidly smiled at him.

He untangled his hand from mine and placed it on the small of my back, guiding me with the slightest pressure. I followed and moved back into his lap, straddling him again. So many sensations all at once: his hand pressing harder against my breast, his dick hard against me, his hand sliding up my back under my shirt.

“Bucky,” I moaned. I leaned into him, breathing near his ear, pinning his arm between us. I ran my hands through his hair, down the back of his neck, and over his biceps. I nibbled at his ear and kissed his jaw. Slowly, his hand slid away from my breast, toward the top of my jeans. “Yes, please,” I encouraged.

He cursed under his breath a bit as he got closer and fumbled with my buttons. I straightened up long enough to help him then pushed my body against his. His vibranium was smooth and warm against my belly. His fingers brushed against me not teasing but taking his time. I wanted so badly to speed things up but I didn’t want to pressure him. This was on his time but my hips twitched involuntarily and he inhaled sharply. He seemed to hold his breath as he slipped one finger over my clit.

“You are so… wet,” he mumbled.

“I know,” I replied. “I want you that much.”

Almost timidly, he slid his finger further down, then inside me. I rocked my hips on his lap and kissed him, hard. He slipped a second finger in. I moved slowly with him inside me, watching him. I held his face in my hands. He seemed so relaxed, so peaceful. For the first time I saw the scowl fade away from his brow. He closed his eyes. His fingers curled slightly inside me while his other hand travelled down my back and onto my bare ass. My jeans needed to come off but I didn’t want to stop him. I groaned and ground my hips into his hand. The vibranium seemed to match my body temperature and where I expected to feel metal I felt only him. I kissed his forehead, his cheek, his neck, his shoulder and then… I was back there, my lips on his arm. The metal worked and flexed as he moved with me.

I couldn’t take it anymore and began to move to take off his shirt. He looked at me and picked up on the hint. Neither of us wanted him to move but both of us wanted more. More skin, more contact. I lifted his t-shirt up and he moved his hands out of my pants. Oddly, I noticed his his left armpit was also metal. The crazy things we think in these moments, my brain said to me I bet he saves money on deodorant. I felt myself smile. I dropped the shirt on the floor, ran a hand down his bare chest, around a nipple, and over his stomach. Wow. Super soldier indeed. I think he blushed at my touch. I gently lifted his dog tags and then let them clank back onto his chest.

“You still have dog tags, Sergeant?” I teased.

“Uh, yeah, actually,” he mumbled, looking down at them. “Steve gave them to me. I guess, after HYDRA got me, these got stashed somewhere. He never said where he found them but they’re mine from the war.” My eyes widened at the thought of what these tags had been through over 70 years. I ran my fingers over them, the chain, and up to his neck, barely touching as if they, and he, were fragile.

I slowly reached down to unbutton his jeans but he grabbed my hands and gently began to push me back. I stood up. Before he could start I slipped my shirt off and stood in my bra and jeans. He kissed me just above my belly button. Smoothed his hands up my back to unhook my bra. I shrugged it off. He pulled me to him. His face was hot against my nipples. The cool air in the room and feeling him on me made them hard. He kissed one then the other. With his face still close to me he pushed both hands into my jeans and panties and slid them down until I could step out of them.

I was normally too shy to be this naked, this vulnerable, standing in front of a man but James made me feel enough. I didn’t rush to hide my stretch marks or try to distract him from looking at me. I let him look. His eyes followed the curve of my hip as he trailed his hand down my thigh. His vibranium hand slid to my ass and squeezed. He smiled and pulled me closer, covering me with kisses. I sighed deeply and ran my hands through his hair. I wanted him so badly. Why was he still wearing pants?!

I bent down slowly and ran my hands down his sides. His smooth skin taught over strong muscles. I got my fingers just in the waistband of his jeans when he understood and leaned back. He unbuttoned them and raised his hips to let me pull them off. Taking both underwear and jeans off at once required some awkward movements but then there he was. Just as vulnerable as I was. The scars at his shoulder stood out in contrast against his lightly-tanned chest. I reached out and touched the edge of the vibranium just where it met his skin. He shivered.

I moved toward him but he shook his head. He gently guided me to lay down on the couch instead of sitting. I smiled. He slid to half-kneel between my legs and pulled my hips close to him. My small giggle surprised even me. He ran his hands down my thighs, placing my legs so I could wrap them around him. Then he leaned forward. His biceps quivered as he propped himself up on his hands, one on either side of my head. The black and gold vibranium catching the light in the room, his dog tags swaying between us. I could feel him watch me looking at his arm. He kissed my neck. The movement resembled a push-up and I couldn’t take my eyes off the flexing of his arm. He kissed my collarbone, my shoulder, my breasts, each kiss accompanied by that flex and release. I ran my hand along the vibranium tricep, feeling it move under my touch.

“Bucky,” I started.

“Mmmm?” was his reply.

“Do you, well, I don’t know how to ask really… Does it bother you?”

“Not at all,” he looked into my eyes. “It turns me on actually. I like that you like it. Instead of it being this weird, shiny elephant in the room. Hell, you could be disgusted by it I suppose. But, no, not bothered in the way you mean.” He grinned that half-grin and raised an eyebrow. “Plus, it’s not going anywhere.”

“Good, that you aren’t bothered, I mean” I looked away. “One more question… are you sure you want this, now I mean? It’s not too fast?” He replied with a deep kiss. He slid his hand under me, to the small of my back, leaving his vibranium arm by my head. Then, for the first time, I felt him hard against my naked skin. I groaned and bit my lip. He slid his dick over my clit and between my lips before tentatively sliding inside me. His face was a little scrunched with concentration and his eyes were closed. I took that as a cue not to move or take things beyond his pace. So I kissed his forearm. I moved a hand to his back and then to the curve of the top of his ass. I didn’t pull but pressed my fingertips enough to let him know he could keep going if he was ready.

I felt every inch of him move into me, so slowly I thought I would lose my mind. I was so used to fast fucking, little intimacy, and not near-virgin sex. I reminded myself that he wasn’t a virgin and I let out a deep breath. He opened his eyes and kissed me as he began to move, began to pull out and return, a steady pace. His hand on the small of my back moved to grip my hip and pull me toward him. Harder. I moaned. I lightly grazed my fingernails over his back. He shivered.

I squeezed him tighter between my thighs and felt him deep inside me. Tiny drops of sweat were starting to bead up on his forehead. He was concentrating so hard. I buried my face in his neck; kissed and nibbled my way to his shoulder. I wanted to try something but I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate. I tried to think of a way I could ask. It was selfish, of course it was, but I was going to cum soon. If I were going to ask it needed to be while I could still make a coherent sentence. His hips rocked between us and the feeling of his entire body against mine was the incentive I needed.

“James?” I whispered close to his ear. I moved my face directly in front of his and placed my hand on his cheek.

“Hmm?” He slowed and looked into my eyes.

“Um… would it… would you like me to say it? To call you that?” I didn’t take my eyes from his. I didn’t know of a better way to ask without just being direct.

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second when he understood. He blushed. He stared at me and nodded. Then he tucked my hair behind my ear with his vibranium hand and leaned down to kiss me. As he did, I arched my back to meet him, our bodies pressed firmly together. We kissed for a long moment.

He pulled back, took his hand from behind me, and propped himself on both hands again. I loved this safe space, this intimate place between his arms. I could barely see anything but him. I caressed his back and shoulders and kissed his vibranium. He increased his pace every time I did that. I felt my muscles start to tense and the heat build from our connection. I couldn’t catch my breath. As I came I put my lips near his ear, moaned as the orgasm rushed over me, and said:

“Zimniy Soldát”

He drove hard into me and his breath became shallow. I put my hands on his neck and the back of his head, making soothing noises in his ear.

“It’s okay,” I told him. “You are safe. I want you to cum because you want to. I want to feel you do that. I want you, Zimniy Soldát, all of you.”

He let out a sound, somewhere between a cry and a moan, and bit his bottom lip. He dropped his face into the crook of my neck and fucked me as the waves of pleasure shook his scared, beautiful body. He dropped to his elbows and pulled me into a fierce hug, fucking me deeper. I groaned so loud neighbors could have heard me. Something warm was on my shoulder and I wondered if he had shed a few tears. Before I could even think to turn his face toward me to sooth him, he moaned and froze. He whispered my name. All of his muscles seemed to tense at once and I felt him twitch inside me, the last of his cum spilling into me. I didn’t want to move, to make him feel like he should move yet. I turned my head slightly and kissed his jaw. His vibranium hand slid up my back and he curled his fingers in my hair, tugged just a bit.

He raised up and kissed my neck, my jaw, and then looked down at me. He brushed his lips against mine. I tensed around him and he groaned into our kiss. Our breaths mingled together. He slowly pulled out of me. It was my turn to groan. I moved my legs so he could sit up. Instead, he moved one of them and laid down behind me on the couch. He pulled me to him, the full length of our bodies pressed together. He ran his hand down my side, my hip, up my belly, and over my breasts. I listened to the slight mechanical whirring with every movement. He tucked my hair behind my ear, then gently kissed my neck.

Part 2

#winter soldier #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #winter solider x reader #marvel fanfiction #falcon and the winter soldier #probably need more tags #tw noncon mention #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction

[vodkabodies]

Invisible String

Summary: An endless search for a remedy comes to a halt when Harry realizes he’s been tied to it, to her, all along.

Pairing: Harry Styles x Musician gf

WC: 475

Warnings: If you're NOT a fan of romanticrry, this is not the post for you ;)

A/N: Can you tell I’m a sucker for fluff? Here’s a little ‘thank you’ for the love you’ve given over my previous post <3 This is a really short one but still, enjoy!

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You were there all along, hidden in plain sight. At award shows, at after parties, even at our mutual friend’s wedding ceremony. Sometimes I wonder, what took us so long, then? For years you were always just a friend of a friend, an artist under the same record label, and now you have your own mugs in my kitchen cabinet and a side on my bed that will always smell of you.

Whenever I get lost in my thoughts like this though, as if by instinct, a connection only you and I are tied to, a brush of your fingers through the curly strands of my hair always wipes the questions away. As I lay here, sulking in your gentle yawning and the scent of your shampoo, there wouldn't have been a more perfect time than now. Not seven years ago when you were getting out of a toxic relationship, and I from a boy group I’ve been in for years to pursue my own endeavours.

We were meant to cross paths, eventually. At the perfect place, and at the perfect time.

I was scheduled for a meeting the very night of your opening show. I ran into my good friend, your manager at the time, who was on his way to support you. At that very moment, I received a call that our meeting was postponed. He invited me to join him instead, and so I did. With no intentions of coincidentally meeting my twin flame that same evening.

Ever since then, it’s been you.

As if tied to an invisible string, distance from you started feeling like hell. Like being pulled by rip currents, away from the safety of the shore.

I started to fear that every song I'll ever write from that day onward would be about you. And how you snorted a laugh when my voice pathetically cracked the moment I introduced myself to you, your hands that fit perfectly in mine as you shook it, and that voice, the one that grew a bed of flowers over the barricades that disabled me from running directly to you, the same one that now hums me lullabies.

You are the cure to my sleepless nights, the remedy for my mundane days, and extra lonely drives. I, a hopeless romantic, an artist, the product of loving and losing, has fallen deeply in love with you in a way that only words can explain, and only lyrics can describe. 

I’ve written about finding no antidotes for curses, been convinced that loving someone else in the past was the cure, and thought another person had it all along. But it was you. Not a pill I could swallow, an action I could do, or something someone could possess. All along I was tied to the one I’ve spent lifetimes searching for.

“You are the antidote.”

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A/N: Hope you guys caught all the references I snuck in here. If you did, feel free to comment them below! I appreciate the support and feedback for my first work <3 More to come! (possibly a new fic??) As always, thank you for reading!

Twitter: @vodkabodies

#harry edward styles #harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfic #fineline #fanfic #harry styles x reader #harryshouse #fine line harry styles #harry styles x yn #harry styles x you #harry styles story #one shot #harry styles one shot #harry oneshot #one direction #harry styles sweet #harry styles imagine #harry imagine #harry drable #harry styles au #y/n #yn #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic rec #harry styles fluff

[blueywrites]

Where you and Steve swing with Eddie and Chrissy, and it gets complicated.

TO KNOW YOU'RE MINE (modern!swingers!au) (18+ only)

eddie munson x chrissy cunningham x steve harrington x you

fem!reader, chubby!reader, minimal use of y/n, body insecurity, swingers, angst, hurt/no comfort (there will be a happy ending!)

chapter ten : overcome (10k) | playlist | AO3 | next

🎵 in this au, deftones=corroded coffin. the playlist is a combination of R's sad girl music vibes and some foreshadowing. the songs for this chapter are #29-#33. Eddie's two songs aren't mentioned by name, but the others are. #34 is a good add-on at the end if you want to cry harder.

Do you ever wonder what it’s like 

Losing what you cannot be without? 

I’ll keep running

Overcome — Skott

You’re staring down at the kaleidoscope of color that makes up your salad. The green of crisp cucumbers, delicate arugula, and soft, fragrant mint. The deep purple of olives. The burnt gold of rich chickpeas and toasty pine nuts. The pale cream of fluffy quinoa and the bright white of tart feta. Your gaze lingers longest on the oven-roasted tomatoes scattered like gashes of red amongst the roughage. 

It's a Mediterranean salad your sister kindly prepared for your first lunch at work post-breakup, and it looks delicious— vibrant and fresh, promising a palate of savory flavors that will dance on your tongue. Yet since you sat down in the staff lounge to break for a late lunch, not one bite of salad has made it past your lips. Your elbow is planted on the table, fork listlessly poking around in the glass container as you slump, leaning your chin heavily in your hand. Your mind is far from the allure of color. It's distracted, just as it has been since the moment you woke.

You’re thinking about Eddie.

Now that your relationship with Steve is over and you’ve had the weekend to process it, your relationship with Eddie— whatever it is, whatever it could be— has been all you can think about. Longing, fear, hope, and guilt mix into a tempest while you chart patient records and call names into the waiting room. By your two-thirty lunch break, the storm has accumulated into a vague feeling of nausea that overwhelms your hunger. Your thoughts are relentless, swirling around in a looping pattern that seems never to resolve.

You dwell on Eddie’s gentle brown eyes, the softness of his kisses, and the rough pads of his fingers wiping your tears. You think about his manic smiles and his playfulness, his unapologetic dramatics and his frenetic energy. You remember the smoke words that still swirl around in behind your ribs even now. ‘I want you, y/n. I don’t want to hurt you; I really care about you. Anything for you.’ Wings flutter, your flowers bloom, and red fruit yearns to spill from your tongue. 

But then the guilt resurges, sticky and insistent, mixing with the freezing bite of fear. You know you care for Eddie deeply, but how can you expect to compete with Chrissy? Saccharine-sweet Chrissy, with her powdery-soft skin, bright blue eyes, lithe arms, and delicate waist? How can you compare to high school sweethearts, to five years of history, to plans for engagement and talks of children? Five years versus five months. That’s all you’ve known him for. How could you expect Eddie to throw all of that away? You’ve told one another that you care. But when the allure of desiring what he can’t have is gone— now that you’re well and truly split from Steve— when it comes down to it, would Eddie balk at the reality of what that means?

And even if he doesn’t balk, you can’t stop hearing Steve’s words echo in your head. 

‘I just feel bad for Chris.’

Despair slinks back, drool dripping from its maw to hiss as it contacts the tender growth of your green, singeing the leaves with bitter poison. Yet light and smoky charcoal— Eddie’s black and white— chase it away, nourishing the damaged leaves until all are new again, and the cycle repeats.

It circles over and over until you’re left with a final thought: Wanting Eddie to be with me… asking him to… it—

“Y/n?”

You startle, wide eyes darting to the doorway where Denise leans half-inside, stethoscope swaying. “Yeah?”

“Dr. Nichols is looking for you.”

You nod quickly, snapping the lid back on your uneaten salad. “Thanks, Denise. I’ll be right out.” You shoot her a quick smile, and she smiles back before leaving you with only the refrigerator's hum to accompany the swirling of your thoughts. 

You know the loop can’t last forever; it must resolve somehow. And as you remember the hurt in Eddie’s eyes when he’d asked whether you were too busy to listen to his song, you also know you can’t leave him waiting. You need to talk to him.

So you find yourself seated at Penny’s kitchen island later that evening, facing an empty wine glass placed carefully beside the black screen of your phone. The wine bottle stares at you, and you stare back until you give in, pouring another half-glass of deep red liquid with slightly shaky fingers. The two in your stomach are already spreading warm from your belly to fuzz in your head, taking the edge off your nerves as you direct your stare down at your inactive phone. 

The loop has been resolved, your decision has been made, and now, you’re just mentally preparing to ask Eddie if you can see him. The sooner, the better, you think, though the squirmy, tight nervousness has kept you from actually going through with it.

Finally, your nerves are numbed enough by the fuzz of the wine for you to make your move. You down your final half-glass of wine, dry and tart as it clings to your tongue and the roof of your mouth; the glass clinks definitively against the marble countertop, and you fix determined eyes on your phone. Before the courage can leave you, you swipe it open and find your text message chain with Eddie.

The last message is still Eddie’s song, and you try to ignore the pang it conjures as you type quickly and hit send before you can overthink it. 

‘Can I see you?’

Straight to the point, no preamble. A little bald, truthfully, but it’s the best you can do. 

Your fingers tap against the edge of the countertop as your eyes dart compulsively. They flick to the empty wineglass and the drop of burgundy clinging to its lip, then back to your phone, to the plants on the sill above the kitchen sink, then back to your phone. Back and forth as if you’re desperate to escape but can’t pull your eyes away from those four words for too long.

And then one more dart, from the shine of the stainless steel fridge to the screen, and Eddie’s reply is suddenly there.

‘Now?’

Your heart skips and thuds as you surge with nerves. You’d thought the sooner, the better, but you weren’t ready for that soon. You type with fingers unsteady from adrenaline. ‘Not tonight, but maybe tomorrow?’

His answer comes quickly. ‘I have a show tomorrow night. Come. We can do something after.’

You suck in a tremulous breath, stomach sinking even as you flutter with anticipation. Going out alone isn’t something you like to do; you tend to feel even more self-conscious without the buffer of a friend or partner to shelter behind. And considering the private conversation you’re planning to have with Eddie, inviting a friend only to ditch them as soon as the show is over seems selfish and inconsiderate. You chew on your thumbnail, debating for a tense moment. In the end, you think of the first time you met Eddie, how his brown eyes had crinkled with his wide, genuine smile when you told him you liked his music. 

You know you can’t deny him.

‘Same place as last time?’ you ask.

‘Yes,’ he answers. 

The loop has been resolved, but you’re slowly spinning as your fingers tap your final reply. ‘I’ll be there.’

–

The crumbling brick facade and fissures in the asphalt are the same as the first time you’d visited this bar, but the dry, brittle skeletons of weeds are now plush with green flesh and butter-yellow heads. When in February, the winter wind had cut through your puffy coat, your arms are now bare, skin dewy in the June heat that ushers you from your car to the front door. There are no frozen puddles for Steve to guide you around; you aren’t dressed in skin-tight white. Instead, your blue dress swishes against your thighs, and your sandals take you straight up to the front door. 

You’d showered and changed after work before going out for the night, wanting to both feel fresh and use the ritual of preparing to help the time pass quicker. You opted for something light, a comfortable dusty blue summer dress with short sleeves that will hopefully keep you cool in the sticky humidity you anticipate will fill the bar during the show. Fumbling for your driver’s license in your crossbody bag, you approach one of the bouncers. He eyes you shrewdly as you finally wrench it from your wallet and pass it over. You stand with your hands clasped sheepishly until he gives it back to you, his face now impassive. Timid steps carry you inside.

You freeze at the threshold of the main room. It’s brighter inside this time; the lights have not yet dimmed for the performance, and rock music plays through tinny speakers, hushed slightly under the light buzz of conversation. It’s also much less crowded tonight since it's a Tuesday, though you are surprised by the disproportionate number of girls in the place. Generally, you’d expect to see more men than women on a Tuesday night in a seedy establishment like this. You spot the chalkboard sign beside the bar: ‘Tuesdays are for the Ladies! $6 well drinks and $3 shots.’ You suppose only ladies in college or young enough to be reckless with their Wednesday morning workdays would be willing to stay out late for cheap drinks, which explains the girlish squeals and tiny skirts lingering near the bar. They’re all clustered in little groups, pairs at the very least; a quick glance and you can already tell you’re the only girl here alone. 

You inhale slowly through your nose, fighting against roiling nerves as your eyes scan the room for another reason. Luckily, not many tables are currently occupied, and you cut a direct path to the center of the room, hopping easily onto the stool and pulling your small purse into your lap. You take out your phone to check the time: it’s a quarter to eight, so you only have about fifteen minutes to wait before Eddie’s band comes out. 

A peal of laughter has your eyes darting toward the bar, where many of the young women are still loitering, though some have wandered toward the front of the stage to wait for the show to begin. You turn pointedly from the bar, settling your elbows against the bartop as your knee begins to jolt. Though you know a drink would help to calm your nerves, you don’t want to be anything but sober for this conversation. It’s too important. So you weather your nerves, distracting yourself with your muted Tiktok feed until the lights suddenly dim, drawing your eyes to the stage. 

Your breath quickens as the darkened forms of four masculine bodies trail out amid grinding ambient sounds, illuminated from behind by piercing red light. Feminine chatter crests like a wave as a crush of silky heads crowd together around the base of the stage. Though your view remains hazy, obscured by the harsh red backlighting, three bodies slowly materialize, gaining shape in the haze. And then, the final form takes center stage. It’s a familiar silhouette you would recognize anywhere.

A crowd of heads tips up to watch as the grinding ambient sounds fade, voices hushing until the entire room seems silent, as if put under a spell. After a lingering moment of tense quiet, two snappy drum hits cut through the air, and the front lights finally flash on as Eddie strums the first notes of the opening song. 

He’s a study in black and white with a gash of red, and just like the first time, the sight of him consumes you entirely. 

His legs are splayed wide, clad in tight dark jeans slung low on narrow hips. His long dark curls kiss his strong shoulders, wild and beautiful as they frame his pale quartz face. A white tank, near thread-bare and ripped, barely conceals his torso, which is branded with a tapestry of dark ink that smatters across his chest and travels down his arms like body armor. His deft pale fingers are adorned with those chunky silver rings, fingers that strum his sleek blood-red guitar with intent ease as he gazes out at the crowd. From this distance, you can see Eddie’s face clearly: sharp jaw, full lips, soft nose. Dark eyes that, despite the enthusiastic feminine squeals and reaching fingers of the women at his feet, scan restlessly until they skim yours, only to return and catch, holding fast once he realizes it’s you. You see the instantaneous shift— the way the dark umber of Eddie’s eyes lightens to honey and a corner of his lips tugs up in a crooked smile. He presses them against the mic to croon the song’s opening words: “Hey you.”

Your moth wings flutter at the intimacy of knowing that despite the multitude of women at his feet, Eddie Munson is singing to you.

As you watch Eddie perform for you, he watches you watch him. When his fingers shift on the frets, you feel those calloused pads rasp along the doughy flesh of your thighs. When his plush lips kiss the mic, you feel them brush warm along the shell of your ear. When those curls dampen with sweat, you feel them drag and tickle your soft stomach as he travels down, down, down your body. And when Eddie sings— when he drawls and croons and shouts til grit roughens and breaks the timbre— you inhale every ounce of smoke he exhales until it settles deep within you, heady and more intoxicating than alcohol could ever be. 

Yet despite the charisma of Eddie’s performance, underneath it all, the writhing nerves never leave you, like you can’t allow yourself to forget the conversation that looms ever larger with each passing song.

After an extended set of seven consecutive songs, Eddie’s white shirt has gone near translucent from exertion and the humidity you’d predicted would accumulate in the room. That pale chest inked with armor is heaving, but his brown eyes are bright, lips split in a manic smile as he addresses the crowd with a hoarsened voice. “How’re we doing tonight?” He doesn’t shout; instead, he smolders, that amplified murmur almost a purr as the crowd shrieks their enthusiasm. You can feel how much they love him, and it doesn’t make you jealous; instead, beneath your nerves, you feel pleased for Eddie, warm with the knowledge that others appreciate him just as much as you do. 

He continues, “We’re Corroded Coffin—” 

A surge of more shrieking, and Eddie chuckles, husky and full, as his eyes flash to yours. He sees your broad smile, the pleasure in your flushed cheeks, and his smirk softens. “That’s Gareth on the drums—” Eddie gestures behind him, and it almost feels like he’s introducing you as Gareth tosses his brown hair and lifts his sticks before beating out a short, frenetic fill. “Jeff is on rhythm guitar—” The dark of his skin is broken by a flash of white teeth as he salutes before strumming a short chord, bending the strings so they whammy. “Brian’s on bass—” The larger guy with the bristly hair walks a baseline with thick, capable fingers. “And I’m Eddie.” Another round of cheers and clapping, and he grins again when you clap enthusiastically like one of his groupies. 

Eddie’s grin fades, and he pulls off the mic; he says something inaudible to Jeff, who nods, communicating to the others. Before you can wonder about it, Eddie murmurs again into the mic, smoke voice low and close to intimate. “Wrote this one this weekend. Came together pretty quick.” And then he looks at you, and the expression on his face makes your throat go thick. “This is for someone sweet.”

Immediately you can tell that the mood of this song is very different from the ones that came before. Delicate and atmospheric, pensive, but not quite melancholic. You watch Eddie’s pale fingers pick the strings, knuckles ruddy above chunky silver rings as the notes ring out in the silence of the bar. And you feel it: the quiver of your roots, the stretch of your green as it strives for him. A deep, poignant yearning that mixes with a somber sort of weight as he starts to sing.

“Floating on the water, ever-changing. Picture hours out from that in tune with all our dreams.”

Eddie’s voice is always beautiful, and you told him that. But there’s something different about the smoke that flows from him now. As it rakes down your spine, its touch is gentle. As it enters your mouth, its taste is sweeter. You think it must be written all over your face, how it’s making you feel— how your white flowers open their faces even as a deep ache blooms behind your sternum, pricking at your eyes. Yet you don’t look away. You can’t look away because Eddie is singing to you. 

But he isn’t just singing to you. He’s singing about you.

“The ocean takes me into watch your shaking. Watch you weigh your powers, tempt with hours of pleasure.” The intensity of your feeling increases as Eddie presses close to the mic, eyes scrunching closed as his voice goes higher, almost a caress. “Take me one more time; take me one more wave; take me for one last ride; I’m out of my head—” 

He gasps a ragged breath, and your heart squeezes as the passion leaks through in that one word. “—tonight!”

The music intensifies, and the girls clumped around the stage are swaying, reaching their dainty fingers towards Eddie’s feet, hopping in their high heels to the beat. Because despite never having heard this song before, they love it. And, of course, they love it; the song is good. But you think even if the song wasn’t good, even if it was nothing more than clumsy notes spilling from trembling fingers and a cracked smoke voice, you would feel exactly as you do now.

Hearing how Eddie has interpreted and translated moments of your time together— holding each other in the ocean, trembling beneath him as you orgasmed for the first time, driving you home in his van, the only time you’d been alone together since the first night you’d met— is nearly overwhelming. It’s breathtaking; it caresses your green and pierces you at the same time. 

Eddie sings about you, and as a watery smile blooms on your face, you watch him answer it with a gentle spread of heartbreaking pink.

–

When the show finally ends, the crowd at the front of the stage disperses. You remain seated on your barstool, your purse cradled in your lap, only stirring when you feel the vibration of your phone.

‘Come backstage. Use the unmarked door near the bathrooms.’

You suck in a shaky breath, trying to calm the immediate pounding of your heart. Here goes.

You venture in that direction, hugging your arms close as you skirt around bodies, following Eddie’s instruction. You duck into a narrow hallway and tentatively push open the door beyond the bathrooms, eyes darting down the darkened corridor until they catch on black and white at the end of the hall.

Eddie’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest, the toe of one black boot planted against the concrete. Behind him, the door is open, and the warmth of the summer air rushes in with the chirping of crickets, soothing against your cheeks and neck as it blows back your hair. He’s cast in the glow of a floodlight just outside, which illuminates the darkness of his curls with warm light. As you approach him, fingers worrying the hem of your dress at your side, his features sharpen, growing clearer until you can see him fully.

He still looks incredibly overheated— the white of his ripped tank sticks like tissue to his abdomen and chest, and his curls are damp with sweat, corkscrewed at his hairline and hanging limp at the ends where they trail against the charcoal ink on his shoulders. You can see the visible rise and fall of his chest as he drops his arms, still panting from his exertions on stage. But his brown eyes are bright, and his pink lips are split in a manic grin. And as you get closer, you notice the wet spot on the front of his shirt, like he’d sloppily guzzled a water bottle and rushed right outside to see you. 

Your heart lurches as you realize he probably did just that.

The poignancy of your yearning swiftly overtakes you. As you reach the threshold, Eddie steps forward, brown eyes warm. “Hey—”

You fall into him, arms crushing around his back, squishing your face to his sweaty chest. Eddie staggers slightly with an audible ‘oof,’ clearly not expecting the suddenness of your hug, but his arms circle you unhesitantly, holding you as you press yourself to him. You relish the warmth of his body despite its dampness; the tattoo of his steady heartbeat under your cheek; his scent in your nose, musky from exertion above notes of smoke and delicate apple. He chuckles as you cling to him, warm and husky. You sigh as his breath fans against the top of your head, and his chest vibrates under your cheek with his laughter. You hold on until you feel his chuckles subside, until the moment has lingered too long for the hug just to be a hug hello, but you can’t wrench yourself away. Eddie quiets, arms simultaneously softening and holding you tighter, and one palm settles heavily on the back of your head. It’s a comforting weight, giving you the strength to shudder a breath against his chest and finally pull away.

Eddie seems to have picked up on your nerves, and his brow is furrowed slightly even as you smile at him. “You were incredible,” you say sincerely, and a corner of his lips quirks. His fingers run lightly along the length of your hair, brushing it back from your face. 

“Thanks,” he says, though the warmth is dampened by the question clearly pressing behind his teeth. You scrape your teeth against your bottom lip, taking one tiny step back. Nerves wriggle up from the pit of your stomach to squirm in your chest, and you fight against the urge to fidget under Eddie’s stare.

“Can we sit in your van?” you ask, voice small as you look up at him. “I have to talk to you about something.”

“Sure.” Eddie's reply is immediate despite the concern creasing his face, and he ushers you forward with a warm palm on your back, kicking aside the brick that was propping the door open. It thumps closed behind you.

The slight breeze is gone now, and the air is warm and stagnant, thick with humidity as if a summer storm is soon to come. Eddie’s boots crunch on gravel as he silently leads you to his van, parked alongside crumbling brick, waiting to be loaded after the show. He opens the passenger door for you, and you take his proffered hand, relishing the rasp of his callouses against your soft palm as he helps you up.

When Eddie clicks the door shut, the muffled silence— the sudden cut in the rhythmic chirping of the outdoors— leaves you feeling almost bereft. The chirping returns as he opens his door, stretching his lanky legs under the steering wheel as he settles into the driver’s seat. Sharply, he pulls the door closed, plunging you into silence again.

Words don’t come easy to you; you often don’t know what to say. And though you’d practiced it, these words are no different. It takes you a moment to struggle against the nerves and fear because you really don’t know how Eddie is going to react to this. It feels even harder than breaking up with Steve. Your fingers are trembling, and you clench them tightly in your lap as you push yourself to meet his eye. 

Eddie still looks concerned, but his expression is open and accepting; his white is on display, and it helps you part your lips. Your voice is quiet but perfectly audible in the hush of the van. “On Saturday morning, I—” 

Your words choke in your throat as your nerves spike. You push through, though you can’t stop your voice from wavering. “I ended things with Steve.”

Eddie’s shock is clear. His eyebrows jerk violently; his brown eyes widen as his face goes slack. Your eyes dart between his, anxiousness leaping into your throat to curdle there. You almost don’t want to examine his reaction, but you can’t help yourself. You watch Eddie attempt to school his features: brows resetting, adam’s apple bobbing in a thick swallow. The silence is becoming oppressive, and you almost feel the need to break it yourself, to fill it with babbling or tell him exactly what happened, every sordid detail. Anything to disrupt the overwhelming silence.

Finally, Eddie’s tongue darts out to lick his lips; they part, and he just asks one question. “Are you okay?”

His voice is such sweet relief from the tension that you release a sigh, but it’s the question itself— the fact that Eddie’s first thought is to ask you if you’re all right— that has your eyes stinging. There’s a sudden lump in your throat not borne of nerves, but it doesn’t stop you from speaking. “Yeah, I’m okay.” You take a deep breath, eyes darting around the cabin as you attempt to explain. “Something was always missing, I think, in our relationship. I just didn’t know any better. Steve was really my first boyfriend. I’d dated guys casually before him, but nothing was ever as serious as it was with Steve. And I thought things were good, and I guess they were for awhile. But….” Your eyes dart to Eddie almost shyly, darting away again from the intensity there. “These last few months changed how I saw the relationship, and I couldn’t pretend like everything was okay when it wasn’t.” 

The flow of words slows to a drip until you feel you’ve finally released them all. You fall quiet, watching your thumb run against your fingernail for a moment until you hazard a glance up at Eddie again. When you make contact, he nods, expression open and accepting again, and his dark curls sway around his face. You want to tuck them behind his ear, but this next part is important, and you don’t want to distract from it. You hold his gaze as you add, “And you should know… I didn’t tell Steve about Friday. What we did. I couldn’t do that to him after Nancy; it would’ve hurt him so badly.”

Eddie nods again. “I get it,” he says. “I do.” And you think he does. His brown eyes flick away as he licks his lips again. “Was he… upset?” 

He sounds careful, almost hesitant. You wonder if Eddie wants to ask whether he came up in the conversation, but you suspect, from the look on his face, that he already knows he did. You think of the dullness of Steve’s hazel eyes, the briny mud. You think of his mirthless chuckle, of the words he’d spit at you. ‘‘Cause then it means you can have Eddie. And you can convince yourself you don't have to feel bad about what you've done.’

You nod, and it comes out shaky and weak, just like the words do. “Yeah, he was upset.”

Eddie’s face creases further, and you think it could be guilt, that ooze you’re so familiar with. “Are you upset?”

You don’t have to wait for your answer to well up; you feel the words pooling on your tongue already. You marvel over how it should be awkward to talk about this with Eddie, but somehow it isn’t. “There is a part of me that’s sad it’s over. We were together for three years, you know? And sometimes it was really good. But after what he told me about Nancy and about—” You shake your head, interrupting yourself. “I don’t really wanna get into it, but… I don’t think Steve ever really healed after what happened. And it seeped into us. I think he did love me, and I loved him, but he was never able to be fully open and honest. And I don’t know if he ever would have gotten there with me.”

The familiar weight of sorrow coats your skin as you mourn what you’ve lost, but it isn’t as heavy as it had been on Saturday night. And you find that as you speak the words to Eddie, it makes you realize that the problem with your relationship with Steve was always as simple as that— that he wasn’t able to tend to you the way you tended to him. 

Eddie nods again. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet this entire time, though you suppose it isn’t out of place for the circumstances. And then he’s tilting toward you to reach over the armrest. 

Your breath catches as you realize his intent; you untangle your hands in your lap in time for him to take one. His hold is soft, skin warm and rough as he anchors you with it, offering silent support. His thumb rubs slowly over the back of your hand, and the feeling makes your wings stir. When he finally speaks, Eddie’s smoke voice is quiet, still hoarse from his performance. “I’m sorry, y/n.” 

You let out a shaky breath, feeling both comforted and nervous. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “I’ll be okay.” You lean your head back against the headrest, allowing yourself a moment to indulge in Eddie’s touch before your nerves get the better of you. Gently, you pull your hand away, smiling to reassure him that you welcomed his comfort. Eddie answers the tilt of your lips with a little smile of his own. 

Your eyes wander as you sit quietly in the interior of Eddie’s van, which smells like stale cigarettes and soapy, artificial pine. There’s a new pack of Twizzlers in his cupholder, not yet opened. You stare at it as you gather your courage, breath trembling in your freezing chest. 

The conversation isn’t over yet.

“So—”

“Eddie, I—”

You snap your mouth shut as your voices overlap, and so does Eddie; your eyes catch, and he laughs. Though it’s a little awkward, the husky sound still hits you in that same spot inside, deep at the bottom of you. “You first,” he offers easily, brown eyes warm and glinting in the warm light of the van’s cabin. 

You’re nearly shivering with the freeze that spreads along your sternum, and your heart races desperately behind your frosted ribs as if trying to escape its cage. Because it’s finally here: the moment you’ve been fearing. Dreading. 

The conclusion of your loop.

“Eddie,” you say, “I need to be honest with you.” The impact of your words is immediate; the lingering smile slides from his lips. Despite yourself, you pause for a moment to memorize the way he looks before everything changes. 

Eddie Munson is beautiful. His eyes are deep like warm honey, wide and framed by long, dark lashes. You remember how they crinkle when he smiles. His nose is soft, soft like the dark bangs that feather across his forehead. You remember how he buries it against your skin when his face finds the crook of your neck. His lips are pink, so plush and full. You remember how they feel trailing tenderly across your skin. His jaw is strong and sharp, and his neck is pale and corded. You remember how his throat rumbles against your lips when he hums contentedly. Eddie’s curls are wild and dark, and they skim the ink that darkens the pale quartz of his skin. You remember the black and white that has always drawn you in, the smoke of his voice that, from the first moment you heard it, called to something deep inside you.

Your eyes want to dart away, but you keep them on beautiful brown. “Part of why I broke up with Steve is because….” Your voice wobbles, but you steady it. “Because of how I feel about you.” 

Your words fill the space between you, and you watch that beautiful brown go wide. And when it transforms— when it starts to melt, to spread gentleness onto the tops of Eddie’s cheeks— you hurry yourself along. Choking out the next word. 

“But—”

The freeze of Eddie’s expression, the sudden arresting of his features, pierces you. But it doesn’t change what you realized. What you’ve decided.

You think of the loop: the poison of doubt dripping from despair’s maw, the hope of Eddie’s light and charcoal repairing its damage. But Eddie isn’t the only person that matters.

Chrissy matters, too. 

When you pictured the beloved face of your friend, the charmingly crooked teeth in her broad smile, the sound of her giggle and her sweet voice… it wasn’t the sourness of jealousy that resolved you. It wasn’t the fear that you can’t compete with five years and talks of girls and boys or the insecurity that you’ll never be as beautiful as she is. Instead, it was the injury you knew you would inflict, the haunting question you couldn’t dismiss. You’d finally realized the indisputable truth.

Wanting Eddie to be with me, asking him to… 

It isn’t right. 

It’s nothing but selfish. 

Selfish to want to take this man from your friend, a person who has never been anything but good to you. Selfish to break her heart for the sake of yours.

So you finish your sentence.

You look into Eddie Munson’s gentle eyes and whisper, “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

Eddie’s head jerks back; he recoils as if you’ve slapped him. His voice is no longer hoarse from the exertion of his performance. Now, it’s dry and cracked. “What? But—”

You rush to cover the cracks of his voice with your own. You know you can’t give Eddie a chance to say anything that might change your mind; this is already too hard. You picture bright blue eyes pierced with hurt. “What we did… it wasn’t right. Not to Steve, and not to Chrissy. We should never have betrayed them like that.”

Eddie’s mouth works soundlessly before he stammers, “I, I mean, I don’t… y/n, I don’t regret what we did. I’m—”

You cut him off again, pleading for him to understand. “I can’t get in between you and Chrissy, Eddie. You’ve been together for five years. You’re high school sweethearts!” Your chin begins to tremble. Earnestness becomes tinged with desperation as you admit your selfishness. Your shame. “She told me how— how you’re gonna propose to her soon. How excited she is to be your wife. How she wants a boy, and you want a girl. You’ve made plans for the future, and she was so excited, so happy.”

The impact of your betrayal hits you fully, and your lips press tight to contain a dismayed whimper. Horrible guilt oozes, crawling up, up, up to press against your teeth, to coat the back of your tongue until you feel ill with it.

Eddie looks pained. He looks nearly as ill as you feel. And you suppose it's finally hitting him, too— what the two of you have done. The realization only resolves you in your decision, and you let the ooze of your guilt leak from your lips, dribbling out to coat the center console that separates you. Your voice is thick with it. “She told me all of that, and then I still—” 

You choke on the viscous ooze, unable to voice it: that you knew how much your friend loves Eddie, and you fucked him behind her back anyway. Your eyes sting with tears more insistently than before. “I know— I know you think you want me, Eddie, but we can’t do this to Chrissy. I can’t—” 

You break off, shuddering a breath as you fight against your tears. You blink up at the ceiling, and as you wait for the tears to recede, your eyes are drawn to the warm light above. The one that glints off Eddie’s dark curls, haloing them in a bright glow. It burns into your retinas, darkening a rectangle in your vision, but you can’t tilt your chin back down. You can’t look away. Not until you feel the caress of smoke from Eddie’s quiet voice against your cheek. 

“Is this what you want?”

Almost by instinct, you breathe the question in; almost by instinct, your eyes seek beautiful brown. Your growth quivers, reaching, striving. Your ripe fruit trembles on the vine, begging you to let it fall from your lips.

You want to say, No, Eddie. I just want you. 

Instead, you say, “Yes. It’s what I want.” 

And then he’s nodding like he had before. Accepting your words; never pushing for too much. Tending to you always. "I understand," Eddie tells you, and the lack of resistance brings relief and pain.

After all, it’s what he said. 'Anything for you.'

Eddie splays his fingers, holding out his hand palm up to you. A silent offering. 

Lip wobbling, your eyes run over the callouses on Eddie’s fingertips, the glint of chunky silver on his fingers. His touch calls to you, and you give in. You allow yourself this last thing. 

You take Eddie’s hand.

You weave your fingers with his, slowly, slowly, relishing the rasp against your soft skin, the warmth of his broad palm. And then, when your eyes turn from your clasped hands to his face, Eddie squeezes your hand. And he doesn’t release his grip; he keeps your hand squeezed tight. And so do you; you squeeze Eddie’s hand, and you keep it squeezed until the pain of your grief and yearning burns like a deep ache in your chest. Until it’s so unbearable that you can’t stand it anymore.

Only then do you break the silence. “I should go,” you whisper.

Your hand slips from his, and Eddie loosens his grip. You wrench your eyes from beautiful, glossy brown, and Eddie blinks and looks away. You find the door handle, and when you push it open, the chirp of crickets floods the silence. Eddie’s voice doesn’t join them. You breathe the balmy summer air and it chases the scent of smoke and apples from your lungs. 

You shut the van door, and Eddie doesn’t stop you.

As you cross the cracked asphalt, leaving black and white behind, your leaves droop. The vines that hug your ribs sag as if shuddering a heavy sigh. Your blooms close their faces; your petals wilt, turning down toward the earth. Roots curl into themselves, seeking respite from peat now sapped of nutrients.

Because the source of your light has gone, and in its place, a full moon rises.

–

You don’t see Eddie Munson again for four months.

By the time summer’s heat has cooled and fat yellow dandelion heads have puffed white and blown away, you’ve grown used to the moon. But it wasn’t always so. The loss of those two men who once were so important in your life stirred up your dirt, leaving spaces needing to be filled; the earth within you shifted, groaning as it adapted to its new normal. It had been difficult at first. Their absence, the disruption of your daily life, was felt keenly. No longer did you reach for your bedside table upon waking at one in the morning to see the screen lit with a song. No longer did you exchange soft giggles with a dear close friend. No longer did you know exactly what you’d be doing on Friday nights— week after week spent tangled pleasurably with expensive perfume, citrus and sea salt, and smoke and apples. No longer did you stretch against the cool sheets of a king-sized bed; instead, the cheery window in Penny’s old office cast thick stripes of morning sun across your twin comforter. But the change of scenery did help. You established a new routine; there wasn’t even any reason to venture into the city aside from the weekends you’d spend leaning into old friendships you renewed with vigorous attention. Gradually, you eased into your new normal, and soon, the absences were no longer keenly felt. By fall, your moth wings have settled, adapting to the deep twilight that bathes you in a cool glow. You’d spent the first twenty-four years of your life illuminated by the moon, and you’d been content. You would be so again.

Never mind that contentment means cold. It means frost on sluggish wings. It means dormant growth, leaves curled towards stems, and fruit desiccated on the vine. Never mind that, because at least the ache has been numbed until it can no longer be felt. There’s a kind of peace in the coldness of the full moon.

And you’d just grown content with living without the light when it returns suddenly and without warning one innocuous Friday evening in late October. 

The dusk casts deepening shadows over the couch in Penny’s living room, and the curtains stir in the crisp breeze where you’ve thrown open the windows. You’re seated at the kitchen island. A bouquet of flowers rests in a glass vase in its center, faded just slightly now, bought last week at the market on 28th Street. Paper plates form a ring around your cutting board, holding mounds of chopped carrots, red bell pepper, and onion that will be added to your stir fry. Your sharp knife raps rhythmically against worn wood, shearing broccoli into little crowns as your speaker cycles through your Liked songs on Spotify. Air So Sweet by dodie complements the peace of the moment— the smell of autumn leaves seeping into the deep mahogany of Penny’s kitchen cabinets, the rhythmic thumping of your knife, the words falling from your lips as you sing quietly under your breath, your voice high and delicate. “The air so sweet, I gulp and gasp for more—”

Three sharp raps cut through the peace, and your eyes snap to the locked front door. 

You balance your knife against the edge of the cutting board, sliding off the barstool with a fond if exasperated sigh as dodie eases into Before the Fall. You pull your loose flannel tighter around you, gliding in your socks and worn, stretchy leggings toward the front door. Penny has been a wonderful sister for these last four months of living together, but sometimes, she can be a difficult roommate. For one, she is very particular about the organization of the fridge, and she has a strict and somewhat complex schedule for laundry and dishwashing that you have struggled to get used to. Despite her meticulousness in other areas, this wouldn’t be the first time she’d left her house key behind and needed you to let her in. Not a shoe is out of place in the rack near the front door, and yet Penny can’t be bothered to hook the key back to the keyring after getting a copy made for you. 

You reach for the handle, huffing your tease through the wood. “Again, Pen? You know, I could just leave you out here. How much do you love me—?”

Your words die in your throat as the door swings open to black and white.

Eddie is standing stiffly at your door, hands jammed deep in the pockets of his tight black jeans, his wallet chain caught on his pale wrist. He’s wearing short sleeves despite the weather, the ink of his armor on full display, arms pimpled with gooseflesh in the autumn chill. You’re staring at the deep burgundy of his band tee, the first color you’ve ever seen him wear. His chest expands with a deep breath, and at the motion, your eyes flit to his almost by instinct.

Eddie’s dark curls frame his pale quartz face like a wild stormcloud. The softness of his nose, the plush pink of his lips, the brown of his eyes— they’re all exactly how you remember. A gust hits him in the back, and as his shoulders scrunch toward his ears, it carries the scent of smoke and apples. 

When you look at him, Eddie’s mouth stretches in a twitchy, crooked smile. One booted foot taps out a frenetic pattern against the brick of your front stoop. When you look at him, moth wings twitch, awakening. They stir powdery snow, which falls silently to frozen earth.

And then Eddie speaks, voice like smoke incarnate. “Hi.”

You tip your chin up, and the smoke passes through your parted lips, sinking into the frozen earth at the bottom of you. Four months, and that’s all it takes: one glimpse of light in brown eyes, one caress of smoke against your mouth. 

You thaw. You yearn.

You swallow down the surge of feeling inside you to hush a greeting back. “Hi.” 

As you stare at each other, Eddie’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. He seems hesitant, unsteady, shifting his weight as if he’s uncomfortable in his skin. Another gust of wind wracks his lanky form, and his sudden shiver draws you out of your daze. You nearly trip over your words to ask, “Do you wanna come in? Come in—”

You step back, and he ducks inside, long limbs jerky like a newborn colt. You close the door against the wind, pausing in the tiny foyer that connects branching rooms. The paper plate vegetable mounds peek from the hallway in front of you; the kitchen speaker is muted by distance, but you can tell that Before the Fall’s acoustic guitar has subsided into the lonely piano and haunting vocals of Overcome by Skott. It’s exactly as you left it, that room, but when you glance back, the man now inside is suddenly sucking in all the light, standing like a gash of black and white stained red in the foyer of your sister’s condominium. 

You don’t know what to do with him.

Your voice is a soft hum, almost sounding hesitant to draw his attention. “Um—” He’d been glancing around inside, but at the sound, Eddie’s brown eyes flick right to yours. “I was just making dinner—”

“Oh,” he says, face creasing ruefully, “shit, did I interrupt you?”

You rush to assure him, melting further as he winces. “No, no, it’s fine….” You edge toward the hallway to the kitchen, and thankfully, Eddie gets the hint without you needing to say more. He follows you, bootsteps heavy as you shuffle on your socks back into the kitchen. He’s behind you, but every sense is honed to his presence— the swish of his clothing as he walks, the hush of his breath. The hair on your arms stands on end as you gingerly pull your kitchen stool out, intending to sit back in your spot before second-guessing it immediately. You’re melting, you’re yearning, but nerves begin to squirm low; your fingers twist as you cast for something to say. 

What would Penny do?

You find yourself blurting, “Do you want a drink?” Your brows pinch at the sudden shrillness of your voice overtop the soft vocals from the speaker. ‘Some lights are a different kind, never burning out,’ she sings; your gaze darts to Eddie’s eyes and away again.

“No, I’m okay.” Eddie’s typical confidence seems dampened; his voice is stilted, and his posture is stiff. He hovers somewhere between your fridge and the island. His awkwardness— the thought that he feels just as tense as you— is the only thing that keeps your nerves from becoming overwhelming. 

Eddie speaks suddenly, and it nearly startles you. “How’s your car been?”

“...It’s fine,” you say, wondering if that’s why he’s here— to check in on your car, which broke down four months ago. Penny had picked it up for you; when you’d explained what you’d done, tears of shame pricking your eyes as you told your sister why you didn't want to go yourself, she hadn’t hesitated to act in your stead. Mercifully, though you know she hadn’t approved of how you’d betrayed your friend, she’d held her tongue. She could tell that any criticism of your selfishness from her would be nothing compared to your own. 

You keep following this precedent of asking questions. "How did you find me?" 

Eddie shrugs, a jagged little thing. Grinning now, casual— but his eyes say something different. "Just asked around." 

You nod slowly. "So, how are you?" you try, pulling your flannel sleeves over your hands. “How's…?" 

Her name sticks in your throat, conjuring imaginings of strawberry-blonde waves and soft smiles. Imaginings of dainty fingers painted red, a diamond glinting from her ring finger, brilliant as it shines in the light. Your eyes scan the rings beneath Eddie’s ruddy knuckles. All are the same, but then again, they would be. 

Men don’t wear engagement rings.

There'd been a time you and Chrissy had shared part of life together, and now you haven't talked to her in months. You wonder if she'd been confused about the distance between you, how one day you’d just never spoken to her again. But she'd never reached out to you, either. You assume she must know you’d broken up with Steve by now; it must be old news— 

"Y/n." 

It stalls your train of thought entirely. The way Eddie says your name— like a tortured sigh, like rain after a drought, like the whisper of eyelashes against your cheek— makes you instantly silent. Your heart skips in your chest as you register the look on his face.

Eddie’s jaw is twitching. The cords of his neck are stretched taut, dark brows knitted over honey-brown eyes. Not angry, but bothered. Maybe anguished. He licks his lips, and despite the moisture, his voice still comes out hoarse. "I've been trying to do what you said. I've tried for the last four months."

Your breath catches, but the smoke sinks right through your flannel and into your chest, settling rich and heady behind your sternum. You’re standing beside the barstool, and you search for it with your fingers without moving your eyes from Eddie’s face. As he continues, your fingertips brush wood; you clutch tight to anchor yourself, each word cracking your ice to shards.

Eddie stares intently into your eyes as if his words don’t communicate enough. “I missed you. Every day, I missed you. And I tried to forget, to bury it, but I can’t….” He sounds so earnest that your brow crumples and your eyes sting. Eddie sees it and steps closer around the island, narrowing the gap between you. Honey brown holds you fast as he rasps, “Y/n, I can’t stop thinking about you. I care about you so much. So fucking much it hurts.”

Eddie looks down into your face, and he’s so close you can almost feel the tickle of his curls against your cheek, the brush of his plush lips against your forehead. You can almost taste the smoke and apples, the spice of his mouth. His hands outstretch, hovering near the softness of your flannel as if he wants to clutch at the curve of your waist. You nearly press forward to feel them, but you can’t. Not until there aren’t any diamonds in your mind’s eye.

Yet you can’t stop your ice from melting. And as it dissolves into water, roots absorb it greedily. Leaves perk, deepening to verdant green. The water surges through them, through stems and along vines, flooding into desiccated fruit. Red flesh plumps, growing sweet again. Waiting to be tended by calloused fingers. It bends, seeking him. And so do you; as if by instinct, you lean towards the light, swaying on your feet until you feel the heat from Eddie’s calloused fingers against your waist, urging him with your body, with your eyes, with your heart to touch you. 

But Eddie doesn't touch. Instead, he speaks. “That’s why I…” He swallows thickly, eyes flicking between yours imploringly. “I wanna break up with Chrissy.” 

I wanna break up with Chrissy.

I wanna break up with Chrissy.

I wanna break up with Chrissy. 

The words echo in your head, and you blink. Your confusion is clear; your questions are simple, like a child’s would be, asked in a small voice. “You want to? Why haven’t you, then?” 

“I—” Eddie scratches the back of his hair, all frustration and sharp edges. All flashing eyes that dart from yours. “She’s— she’s just got a lot going on right now, with her mom, and… next week is finals for her classes, and I’ve just… I’ve been working overtime—” 

Your heart shrinks from every word until it’s cowering behind your ribs. Eddie pulls roughly at the neck of his shirt as if it’s too tight for him, and you see the truth behind the tar of guilt oozing beneath his collar. Eddie does want you, but not enough to forsake five years. Not enough to crush plans made for boy or girl. Not enough to rend his flesh, to wrench the claws from his back by force. Claws that will never retract on their own.

You force a weak smile to cover the wobble of your bottom lip. A smile of understanding. Quietly, you say, “You don’t need to explain, Eddie.” You nod, bobbing your head as if you’re agreeing to something he’d said. “Thanks for coming over to talk.” 

Eddie must see the conclusion written all over your face; his contorts with distress, with urgency. He’s pleading with his eyes for you to understand. “No, y/n, I—” 

Each word makes you shrink further. You try to force your voice to raise, to be firm, but it comes out wobbly anyway. “You should go, Eddie,” you tell him, eyes darting from that pleading expression. From the light in brown eyes. Because if you look too long, you’re afraid your moths will disregard the danger, flutter up, and chase it forever. 

Eddie’s hands are still hovering near your waist, extended as if in entreaty; he dips them, and your breath catches as he boldly grasps your hands, squeezing tight. “Please, I really do.” His voice is a husky whisper, the timbre thick with yearning. “I wanna be with you.” 

A flick of wings; a flutter, and then another. You look into Eddie's eyes and tell him the truth, even though your chin wobbles. “You can’t have us both,” you whisper, and he looks even more pained. 

“No, I know,” he says, squeezing your hands so tight it’s almost painful. “I know. I don't…” He breaks off, voice trembling. “Can I please just… can I just hold you right now?” 

It's so tender, the sound of his voice. It’s so poignant, his request. It’s so hard to resist the promise of Eddie’s warm body against yours, his arms holding you close, his heart thumping against your breast, his plush lips skimming your brow, his hand cradling your head as you dig your nose into his neck, breathing him in. And you could let him hold you; you could pretend, for a moment, that there is no Chrissy Cunningham.

You could pretend, but you don’t. It’s hard to resist Eddie, but you do. 

“No, Eddie,” you whisper, pulling your hands from his. He lets you go, but reluctantly; when your hands drop to your sides, and you step back, his fingers outstretch as if by impulse. “I can’t,” you choke. “Not if—” not if I can't have you. But you can’t say that; you would crumble under the weight of those words. “We can’t,” you say instead, entreating him to understand. 

You look up into Eddie Munson’s face, and every fiber of your being yearns for him. Your green quivers, reaching. Your wings flutter, seeking. The fruit of your soul is on your tongue. 

You want to say, Please, Eddie. Touch me. Hold me.

You want to say, Please, Eddie. Love me.

Love me.

But you don't.

"Go home, Eddie," you say, and you try to be strong, but you can't help it; you never can when it comes to him. All the water within you— in your leaves and stems, in your flowers and fruit— rushes up to flood your eyes. It spills over, and with a tiny whimper, you start to cry. 

Eddie’s instant distress is hard to endure. His broken voice begs, “No, no—” He closes the gap you’d widened easily, and you sniffle, inhaling smoke and apples as, in his haste, he misjudges the distance and brushes against you. Calloused fingers reach for you; they wipe your face tenderly, trembling thumbs swiping tears that fall and fall and fall with no reprieve.

And you shouldn’t, but goddamn you, you let him. 

“Please don’t cry,” Eddie whispers, sounding utterly distraught.

But you can’t obey because everything inside you is crying out. The smoke is leaking from your pores— you're surprised Eddie can't see it clinging to you. It's condensing into fat drops of charcoal tears, running tracks down your face. Because you want him so desperately, but not like this. 

It's not enough— to be with Eddie, but know he isn't yours. 

You back away, and Eddie’s hands fall from your face. Three big steps, a gulf of distance between you. Words are hard for you, and there are none you can say right now.

Eddie’s face is creased. Those beautiful brown eyes are big and glassy, and there’s misery in the corners of his lips. 

You’ve never seen him like this, but then again, he’s never seen you like this, either. He's never sounded like this— smoke voice thick and tight as if he’s barely keeping himself at bay. “Don’t cry, sweet girl.” 

The sound of Eddie’s name for you fractures you further. You shake your head as if trying to shake the name free from your ears. Your tears still flow silently; your body trembles as you try to keep from losing control. You feel it pushing up your throat— a desperate cry. Despair. Not a hound, but a snarling wolf, growing fat off the verdancy of your green, now reawakened in the presence of beloved light.

As you shake, breath hitching, tears dripping from your chin, Eddie must finally realize the futility of it all. Abruptly, he fists his fingers in his hair. “Fuck,” he yelps, frustrated, helpless. Afraid. 

He stalks away and back again, pacing restlessly as you hug yourself, trying to press the despair back in. No words to say. Just thick drops of charcoal tears. 

And then, you hear a tortured sigh, like the way he’d said your name. You glance up, and Eddie’s smoke voice whisps from his plush lips, tight and thick and high, lingering in the gulf between you. “Fuck, I’m— y/n, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” 

Your face screws up, breath hitching and catching. Words finally come; you push them out. Firm, loud, and clear. “Just leave, Eddie. I can’t see you anymore. Just go—!”

As soon as you say the words, you feel it. The growl, the gnashing of teeth. You grit your jaw against it, nostrils flaring as you avert your eyes to your socks. You listen, and you wait.

Slowly, so slowly, Eddie’s heavy, slumping footsteps retreat down the hall. You’re fighting, nearly whimpering with your effort. The doorknob jiggles, and you suck in a desperate breath. The door creaks, and then softly, so softly, it closes.

Finally, you're alone, and finally, you release it. The wolf howls; its cry explodes from you in a ragged sob. And once you start, you can’t stop. Not until Penny tries the door handle and finds it unlocked, eyes widening as she hears the anguished sounds echoing down the hall. She finds the vase of flowers, the plates of carrots and bell peppers and onions, the mound of broccoli, and the sharp knife. She finds you collapsed on the kitchen floor, red-faced and howling in a puddle of your charcoal tears.

Eddie’s visit was cruel, but it was cruelty unintended. Eddie could never be cruel to you, and you know that. And you know something else. Something you didn't want to acknowledge, something you'd been trying desperately to numb in the cold of twilight, though seeing him tonight confirms it.

Eddie Munson planted the seed in that dark place at the bottom of you, the one you didn’t know existed. He tended it with his gentle touches and his quiet words. And now, your growth is firmly rooted. It has grown tall, weaving around your sternum, vining through your ribs, sprouting through your center. And it’s not just at the center of you. It is the center of you. The fruit of your soul, budded and ready to thrive; the source of your love, one and the same. Under the full moon, it had gone dormant, but it could not be uprooted. 

And perhaps, in time, your green will cleave from the one who’d cared for it. But it’s clear to you now. 

It will take much longer than four months for your love for Eddie Munson to wither.  

#blueywrites #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fic

[snaillock]

your relationship with bllk men as mitski songs

(kaiser, sae, oliver)

my posting has been very slow recently so to celebrate mitskis new album (and to feed into my eternal obsession for her music and lyricism by combining it with another thing im way too obsessed with), i dug up this old ass draft and finished it instead of giving y’all an actual fic

tags: gn!reader, angst(it’s mitski duh), yeah basically no fluff/comfort in here, suggestive-ish in the oliver one, me being a dork and combining two big interests of mine

michael kaiser - i don’t smoke

So if you need to be mean Be mean to me I can take it and put it inside of me If your hands need to break More than trinkets in your room You can lean on my arm As you break my heart

his career can be a lot on his shoulders at times even with the cocky and arrogant facade he puts on for the performance of each match he plays. he has a tendency to keep it all in to bask in the glory of his luxurious life.

you understand. you know he’s currently too prideful to deal with his true feelings, especially all on his own. you just want to be there to know he isn’t alone and that he can be open with you. so you sit there, giving him a listening ear as he lashes out and releases every awful word in the book towards you when everything finally becomes too much for him to bear. you wouldn’t want him to have a very public meltdown when it happens so it’s better this way. you have remind yourself to take none of it to heart because he doesn’t mean those all harsh words. he just needed an outlet for those frustrations.

you also don’t want the weight and significance of his career to separate you two. you’re already so damn lucky to be with someone like him. you want to prove that you can handle it. you know you can. you’re sure you can help him figure this all out somehow. love just takes compassion and patience, that’s all it is. just taking it one step at a time.

it’s just compassion and patience. right?

Just don't leave me alone Wondering where you are I am stronger than you give me credit for

sae itoshi - i want you

You're coming back And it's the end of the world We're starting over and I love you darlin' And I am done, dear

he swears he will make time for you someday. sure those words have been promised over and over again like a broken record but he truly does love you. however you’re starting to wonder if mutual love is truly enough to keep you two going.

the truth is his life is currently too big and important for him to take any focus away from it. the last thing he needs is a distraction. all of which he has very clear multiple times, even along with his contrastingly hopeful promises. though his tone is quite neutral, never letting his emotions seep through as if he’s programmed to do so. meanwhile you have to desperately hold yours back to not seem like an idiot.

it’s never been easy to express how you feel in front of him. you desperately wish you could but the inconsistency of your relationship that’s barely holding up renders it pointless. this over and over/back and forth thing that’s going on between you two is exhausting. it only leaves you lost and confused. you begin to wonder if staying is even worth it at all. even with the speck of hope that it could eventually work out. even if you love him.

You're in the house And I am here in the car I just need a quiet place Where I can scream how I love you

oliver aiku - eric

You like control, well, I do too Take off my clothes and watch me move You can come closer, I'll let you hurt me how you choose

you deeply crave a loving and fulfilling connection with another but unfortunately the other you desire is him. a guy who’s born to be a player and only wants to fool around with multiple people.

you know getting attached would only cause you so much unnecessary pain but your naive heart couldn’t resist him. you know that he doesn’t see you for more than what you give him at night but you were still a fool to fall for him.

enough of a fool to fall for him knowing he’s not ready to settle for one person. you could see it from how you would lovingly gaze at him while he leers at someone else behind you. you would still give yourself up to him if you could, offering anything he wanted out of you.

despite better judgment, you stay with a pained and aching heart. constantly yearning for more.

But how long, how long can we play this way? I'm tired, I'm tired of not loving you My heart, my heart wants to hold you But I know, I know, I know the rules

taglist(lemme know if you wanna be added): @userwithlotsoftime @lucas2060

#★ snail.writes ★ #it was so damn difficult picking between a loving feeling or eric for olivers part #blue lock #blue lock angst #blue lock x reader #michael kaiser #kaiser x reader #sae itoshi #sae x reader #sae itoshi x reader #oliver aiku #oliver aiku x reader #literally didn’t let myself sleep on a school night until i finished this #mitski posting