#wordless ways to say i love you prompts

[paperpocalypse]

fish dad.

50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You”: 8. Buying them something unrequested because it made you think of them.

Pairing: Sparrow!Ben Hargreeves x Reader

Word Count: 3,161 words

Warnings: Swearing, one brief depiction of blood/death, Sparrow!Ben

“Before you say no –”

“Hell no,” Ben hisses at you. “I’m not babysitting it.”

“Before you say no,” you repeat earnestly, legs dangling freely as your forearms stick to Ben’s windowsill, “just consider how this would benefit you. The public loves Fei’s birds. Animals are badass.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ll throw a fucking two-inch fish at the enemy and Dad will promote me right back to Number One. Thanks.”

“His name is Ben, Jr., and I’ll have you know that he killed at least two other fish while he was with his previous owner.”

You hold the plastic bag containing the blood-red betta fish out towards Ben, who curls his lip in distaste. Still, you notice how his eyes linger on the slow, wave-like motion of Ben, Jr.’s fins before sending another glare at you.

“I have more important things to do than take care of a fish,” he says condescendingly.

You tilt your head.

“Like what?”

“Like fighting crime, dumbass!”

(Ben does not peel you away from his window for your feigned naivety, which is an improvement from last year.)

“Please, the Sparrows have nothing to do these days except walk around and look cool. My niece is staying over for two weeks, and she literally likes to sleep with the fishes.” You cut a thumb across your throat for emphasis. “Just look after him for two weeks, Ben. For me?”

He scoffs. “What makes you think I’d do anything for you?”

“Because I’d do anything for you.”

Ben’s mouth snaps shut. He makes a face as if he’d just chewed up a whole lemon, and you stare openly at his scrunched nose, Ben, Jr. dangling from your hand.

A gust of wind blows past the building. You shiver, knees scraping against the rough brick wall.

“Bullshit,” Ben finally manages.

“It’s not bullshit.”

“It is.”

“Why?”

He leans over his bed towards you, splaying his hands over the comforter. “Because if you’d really do anything for me,” he murmurs, voice a low, bitter drawl, “you’d join the Sparrows. Not unload your pet on me like a deadbeat parent.”

Your smile slackens just slightly. As it does, Ben rolls his eyes and pushes off the mattress.

“That’s not fair,” you mutter, breaking eye contact. “You know why I don’t do that anymore.”

“Your past is an explanation, not an excuse.”

Guilt-tripping me for being a child soldier is kind of a shit take, Number Two, you want to say, but you don’t.

Ben, Jr. flits back and forth in his little bag, appearing to sense your agitation. You take a deep breath in through your nose and fix the original Ben with an irritated look.

“Look, I came here to ask for a favor, not to have this conversation for the millionth time.” Setting Ben, Jr. on the windowsill, you reach back to unzip your backpack. So much for your good mood. “I guess I’ll just give him to Jenny instead.”

Ben narrows his eyes at you.

Right before you can store the fish away and start your slow descent, a tentacle reaches out and takes the bag from you.

You frown. Ben clicks his tongue and places the fish on his desk with more delicacy than you know he would ever admit, avoiding your quizzical look all the while.

“You owe me. Don’t go crying to me if Fei’s crows get to it,” he grouses.

“Keep your door closed,” you reply tersely. “You already do that, don’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. “Do I have to buy the stupid tank, too?”

“Everything he needs is in my car.”

With that, you heft yourself up and over the windowsill, hopping over the bed and landing solidly in his room. Ben stiffens when you nudge his shoulder with the back of your hand and head to the door.

“Where are you going?” he demands.

You look over your shoulder at him, still a bit miffed but ready to get a move-on.

“To get Ben, Jr.’s stuff. Come on and help me?”

Despite his grumbling and complaining, Ben trails after you down the hallway towards the stairs.

—

At first, he tells Grace to take care of the fish, but that order is quickly retracted when the robot malfunctions and starts dumping a shit ton of food into the tank. After that, it seems that taking care of “Ben, Jr.” is solely his responsibility. Fuck.

He takes great pains to ensure that nobody else knows about his situation, but this lasts for exactly two days. At least Sloane, the most tolerable Sparrow next to Chris, is the first to know.

“What’s with the fish?” she asks upon slipping into his room to borrow his blue Copic marker, staring at the five-gallon filtered monstrosity you had called an adequate temporary tank.

“Stupid present from a fan.”

His sister tilts her head. She approaches the tank, squatting down to trace the glass, and Ben resists the sudden urge to tell her to back off.

“Must be a pretty big fan. Look, it even has our colors.” She’s right. Though it’s mostly red, there are blue details at the bases and fringes of its fins, something that Ben had noticed the moment you shoved it into his life. “Did you name it?”

“Of course not. I don’t even want it.”

The quiet, piercing way in which Sloane regards him is unsettling. He meets her gaze head-on as she stands back up.

“Well, if you don’t want it, I’ll take it. I’ve always wanted a pet,” she says.

“No,” he replies without even thinking.

“Oh.”

There’s another excruciating moment of silence where she looks at him, and his short temper flares. He hates it when she acts like she knows something he doesn’t, like a mother waiting for her child to understand the bigger picture.

There is no bigger picture. He knows this – his ranking’s higher than hers for a reason, after all.

“What, Sloane?” he snaps.

She smiles, and his anger quickly turns to dread.

“I saw you carrying the tank up with [Y/n].” Oh, for fuck’s sake. He crosses his arms as she continues, her tone airy and wistful. “You should be nicer to your friends, Ben. We don’t have very many of them.”

“It’s not a gift,” Ben tells her sourly. “I’m stuck with it for two weeks while their fish-killing niece is staying over.”

“Well, it’s nice of you to look after it. You usually don’t do things for other people.”

He bristles. She says it like he’s getting soft.

“We’re exchanging favors. I’m not doing this to be nice.”

“Oh.”

No matter what he says to try to convince her, Sloane doesn’t seem to take him seriously. Nobody in this goddamn academy does.

“Just – take the marker and leave,” he ends up saying – to set a boundary, not to admit that she’s right in any way, because she has the wrong idea about all of this. “And close the door.”

Sloane nods. Casting one last glance at the tank, she takes her leave without another word, closing the door after her with a soft click.

Ben is alone once more. He glowers at your fish as it hovers near the surface of the water.

“You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

Ben, Jr. just flutters his fins.

—

At the end of the first week, you drop your niece off for a sleepover and then stop by the academy to check on the fish.

“Wow, he looks good,” you exclaim, admiring Ben, Jr.’s vibrant, healthy colors.

“Why do you sound surprised?” Ben retorts.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “I mean, you were pretty reluctant to take him in.”

“I wouldn’t kill your fish on purpose.”

“Have your siblings met him yet?”

He sends you a look of poorly masked bemusement. “Sloane saw him.”

(You know that Ben doesn’t really bother with personal matters when it comes to his siblings. Some of the Sparrows (read: Jayme and Alphonso) would probably try something stupid for shits and giggles, anyway, and you would rather not let that happen.)

(But still, you entertain the idea of the others learning that Ben can, in fact, take care of something other than himself.)

“Oh, okay. You know, she’s always seemed like the type to get a pet. A little, fluffy white dog, or something like that.”

Ben shrugs disinterestedly.

Grabbing the bottle of fish food, you sprinkle a little bit into the tank.

“You said he killed at least two other fish.”

Looking back at him, you sigh. “Yeah, his previous owner dropped other male bettas into the bowl and made them fight,” you answer, watching Ben, Jr. slurp up the flakes with a frown. “Asshole got bored after a while, though, and I managed to buy this little guy. Good thing, right?”

“What kind of loser watches fish fights?”

“Losers who like how easy it is to cause them,” you say. “Male bettas are really territorial, so it’s on the owner to keep them in the right environment. Otherwise, they’ll end up hurting other fish and getting hurt themselves.” You roll your neck to the side, feeling the vertebrae crack. “Mind if I sit on your bed?”

“What do you think?”

“No?”

“Don’t put your shoes on the sheets. They were just cleaned.”

“Sure thing,” you respond, taking your shoes off and making yourself at home near the foot of his bed. “So, how was your week? Kick any ass?”

“Flew to Philly and fucked up some kidnappers. It didn’t even take ten minutes.”

“Whoa. Cool. I looked at spreadsheets and confronted Janelle about eating my lunch in the break room.”

Ben raises an eyebrow at you, blatantly unimpressed. “Doesn’t having such a boring-ass life bother you?” he asks.

You consider, drawing your legs up to cross them. Does it bother you? A nine-to-five office job, mediocre workplace drama, a normal sister with a normal daughter that visit your normal apartment twice a year. Bills. Overpriced tea. Decently ironed shirts in different colors. An old cat that follows you to the bathroom when you wake up in the middle of the night, skin sticky with sweat and head pounding with dreams of blood on your teeth and your old teammate with his skull cracked open like an egg.

“Civilian life isn’t boring,” you conclude. “Especially if you can scale buildings.”

“Whatever you say,” Ben drawls, sitting down in his desk chair, elbows on the armrests and legs spread as if he’s on a throne.

“Come on. Every superpowered kid thinks about what they’d do if they were normal.”

You don’t miss the way his jaw clenches.

“We’re not children anymore,” he informs you. “My power is a gift. I’ll always be a Sparrow. It’s who we’re meant to be.”

Wetting your lips, you scratch the back of your neck. Every time the two of you are together, the conversation inevitably circles back to the academy. It’s his life. It’s all he’s ever known and all he has, all the bells and whistles attached. Sometimes, you wonder if you would’ve had the same sentiments if your team was – better. Stronger.

In a fucked-up kind of way, you’re glad that it wasn’t.

Three sharp knocks interrupt your train of thought.

“What?” Ben sounds a little more annoyed than usual.

The doorknob turns, and you’re met with Fei’s carefully neutral expression, a single finger still raised from pushing the door open. A crow is perched on her shoulder.

“I’d appreciate not speaking through the door. It’s time for dinner,” she reports, inclining her head towards you. “You’re welcome to join if you want.”

You glance at Ben. He meets your gaze, then rolls his eyes.

“I don’t care if you stay or not.”

Geez, what a bastard. You kick at his ankle. “I wasn’t looking for your permission,” you chastise. You turn back to Fei. “I’d love to join your dinner meeting, as long as I get to sit next to Benjamin over here.”

“Don’t call me that.”

The corner of Fei’s mouth twitches. “All right, then,” she says, turning. “Hurry up and get Chris. I’m not going to wait until my food gets cold.”

As she leaves, you stand up along with Ben. “Her crow didn’t even look at Ben, Jr.,” you note.

“Her crows don’t do anything she doesn’t want them to do,” Ben says, putting a hand on your back and pushing you out of his room. “Now hurry up.”

—

You answer after two rings. Or three. Or five? He can’t count for shit right now.

“H … Hello?”

“[Y/n],” Ben mumbles, relieved. He fumbles with the phone, managing to pin it between his shoulder and ear before it slips and clatters to the floor. “Shit. I dropped you … pfft …”

He hears you snort quietly. “Ben, are you drunk dialing me at two in the morning?”

“Nooo. It’s three in the morning, dumbass. Three-oh-two.” Something in his throat catches, and he hiccups loudly, then giggles. “Thanks for pickin’ up. I hate leaving messages.”

“Well, I just woke up, so I guess you’re lucky, huh?”

“Why’re you whispering?”

“Because my niece is sleeping –”

“I lost your fish.”

“… What?”

“I lost your fish,” Ben repeats, and unexpectedly, sorrow wells up inside of him. His eyes sting, and he hangs his head, chin dipping down against his chest. “I can’t find him.”

“Did you look inside his little cave?”

“No, ’cause he left me. He left because he hates me soooo much.”

“He doesn’t hate you, Ben.”

“Yes, he does,” Ben insists. “’Cause I hate him. All he does is swim around and hide, and I hafta fuckin’ feed him and clean his stupid tank. And he can’t even be with other fish because he fights and kills them, and he flares at me when I put my face too close. I hate Ben. So now he’s … he’s gone.”

There. He finishes his explanation in one breath, then listens expectantly for your reply so he can argue some more. When you take too long to answer, Ben almost cries.

“Why’d you take such good care of him, then?” you eventually ask.

“Because you like him,” Ben slurs. What kind of question was that? Stupid.

“You could’ve just told me if he was too much. There are other people who can take care of him.”

“I’m good enough to take care of your fish. You asked me first. Don’t ask anybody else.”

“I didn’t ask anybody else, Ben. I knew you’d do a good job.”

“But I lost him.”

“Again, did you check his cave?”

“No.”

“Check his cave, dingdong.”

He pointedly looks away from the tank. “No. He needs to stay lost. He’s better that way.”

“Ben –” You sound exasperated, but then you laugh. It bumbles through the haze in his brain and he smushes his ear against the receiver to hear it better. “Fine. Do you know why I like Ben, Jr.?”

“Hell if I know,” Ben mutters.

“Because he reminds me of you,” you reply. “He deserves to be treated well. Thanks for doing that for me, Ben.”

This is frustrating. You’re frustrating. “I don’t get you,” he complains, eyes closing. “He’s just a fish.”

“That’s all he needs to be for me to like him. Look, check the cave or not, but he’s probably still there. Enjoy your hangover tomorrow.”

“You’re so fuckin’ mean,” he grumbles into the receiver.

You laugh again.

“Pot calling the kettle black. Go to sleep.”

“You go to sleep.”

You hang up. Ben drops the phone and stumbles to his feet, then stumbles toward the tank and squints into the dark maw of the small cave in the corner.

Sure enough, he spots Ben, Jr. snoozing inside.

“Go to sleep,” he also tells him.

Less miserable now, Ben is somehow able to remove his socks and unbutton his shirt before flopping limply onto his bed and drifting off himself.

—

At the end of the second week, you crawl through his window and announce that you have a confession to make.

Ben’s smile drips with arrogance. “Sorry, but I don’t date, sweetheart,” he says.

“I’ll make sure to cry in my bedroom later,” you reply wryly. “Not that kind of confession. It’s about Ben, Jr.”

“What about him?”

“Well …”

You linger on the word, and Ben crosses his arms impatiently, shooting a glance at the fish that had taken over his room for the past fourteen days. Ben, Jr. looks perfectly fine to him. He had fed him, kept the tank clean, even gotten a stupid moss ball after Sloane mentioned them in passing. For all intents and purposes, he’d spoiled the shit out of your fish. Surely him just being alive was good enough for you.

“‘Well’ what?”

“He wasn’t for you to just babysit,” you say, hands raised like he’ll unleash his tentacles on you. “He’s a gift. For you. I figured a trial run would’ve been better than just dropping him off, no takebacks. And my niece really does kill fish, so two birds with one stone, I guess.” You pat the top of the tank with an almost shy grin. “If you still don’t want him, I can take him today.”

He’s a gift.

Ben blinks. He clears his throat.

“It’d be a pain in the ass to move the tank out,” he mutters. When he sees your eyes light up, he glares up at the ceiling.

You hum lowly. Rubbing your chin, you start to walk towards him.

“So do you want the fish or do you want me to –”

“I want the damn fish,” he snaps. His cheeks flush as you get closer, and he drags his hand down his face in an attempt to scrub the heat away.

Snickering, you stop. “Okay, then. That’s all I wanted to know.”

He grunts.

His brow furrows as you spin on your heel and wave at Ben, Jr. before making your way to the window. You push the window up, and a balmy summer draft blows in.

“What are you doing?”

You put your foot on the sill and stick your head out. “Leaving?”

When Ben seizes your arm, your skin is already rough, but he maintains his grip despite the discomfort. “It’s almost six-thirty.”

“Yeah, your family dinner meeting. Don’t be late.”

“Stay for it.”

“Oh?” Your lips curl upwards. “You want me to stay for dinner again?”

Scowling, Ben lets go. Whatever sensation that’s prickling his chest seems to expand twofold when you duck back into his room.

“No. Forget it.”

“Nope. I’d never turn down a free meal,” you state. “Might as well beat Fei to it, huh?”

You leave the window open, leading him to the door. He doesn’t realize that he’s caught your wrist again until you’re dragging him down the stairs, babbling on about how Ben, Jr. might be okay with other fish if he gets a bigger tank.

Ben doesn’t care. Not at all.

#wordless ways to say i love you #source: @50-item-writing-prompts #ben hargreeves #sparrow!ben #ben hargreeves x reader #sparrow!ben x reader #the umbrella academy #tua #the sparrow academy #tua ben #tua fanfic #fanfic #reader insert #fluff #something something ben confronts his self-hate via a fish named after him #blahblahblah

[paperwayne]

worldy things.

50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You” ➡ 21. Sharing your umbrella with them in the rain.

Pairing: Titans!Rachel Roth x Reader

Word Count: 1,232 words

Warning: Religious themes

Rachel tries to make herself invisible at church.

Churches are houses of God, after all – and whatever she is housing, it is the opposite of holy, restless in her legs, itching anxiously in her chest as she sits in the pew and lets the sermon scrape the inside of her damned skull; but she stays, if only for Mom, who plunges herself into religious routine like it’s the only thing that can save them.

(So far, no luck.)

“Want some gum?”

“Sure.”

But even if church turns out to be a bunch of baloney (she banishes this thought immediately just in case it’s not), Rachel is still glad that you’re here.

Most of the members avoid talking to her. Just like the last church, they had said hello for the first attendance, eyes raking over her black clothes and black nail polish and purple hair, and figured that she was another poor, devil-worshipping teenager –

(We’re so glad you’re joining us today

We’re so glad to be here)

– and even now, Raven forces a smile as uncertainty and pity crawls from their hands to hers when she shakes them at the church door. And hey, it’s better than what she gets at school, but pity doesn’t make her feel like any less of a freak.

“… I have some Snickers, too,” you whisper as the speaker continues, pulling a handful of candy out of your pocket. “Want some?”

Rachel holds out a hand. You press one Snickers Minis into her palm out of sight of Mom, looking straight ahead during the deal. Mischief and boredom and friendliness spark underneath her skin at the contact. She squeezes her fingers around the chocolate (it’s an ‘R’), pleased, and stuffs it into her bag for later.

The sermon goes on. She keeps quiet again, listening as best she can; the preacher has a kind aura but talks for way too long, and she only grasps some of his points before getting swept up in boredom again. The verses for today are easy to understand, anyway. (If only the message translated better in real life.)

“Love is patient, love is kind …”

Rachel glances to the side, through the window. The world outside is gray and dim – it’s going to rain.

Mom didn’t bring an umbrella.

By the time the postlude starts playing, the gum is tough and flavorless between her teeth. You lead Rachel out of the sanctuary when your mom starts talking to someone and her mom goes to talk to the pastor.

“Let’s go outside.”

“Are you sure? It’s pretty bad out there.”

Finger guns. “Brought an umbrella.”

You disappear into the coatroom, then pop back out with said umbrella, and the two of you push the doors open to the thick, sharp sound of rain bursting against concrete.

Rachel does not mind the rain too much. In fact, she usually likes it so long as it’s not thundering badly. A harsh storm, raindrops sharp, air heavy and fresh – it’s probably the closest thing she’s ever felt to true peace. Purity.

Up goes the umbrella. Out into the rain go you and Rachel.

“Whoo,” you say. “It feels like hail.”

“Hell?”

“Hail,” you enunciate with a snort. “Rain is, like, the opposite of hell.”

Your tennis shoes are already soaked, and so are the edges of your pants. Rachel had always wondered why you only dressed halfway for church, pairing a nice, ironed shirt and khakis with those old, scuffed-up shoes, but she’s figured that it’s not important enough to ask. The soles of her own shoes are pretty worn too.

When you make your way to your family’s car, you ask if she’s coming over for lunch.

“I don’t know,” Rachel replies, though she’s been craving your mom’s layered three-bean dip for the past week. “I haven’t done the geometry homework yet.”

“It’s just lunch. You can go home to work on it after.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You won’t make me stay until your mom has to kick me out?”

“What? Me? Never.”

You laugh, the umbrella slipping in your hand. Rachel grabs the handle before it falls, and her grip is right above yours, so that the coldness of your skin comes with the flash of amusement and fondness that prickles her nerves like a bad shock. She withdraws.

“So, yay or nay, Rachel?”

“I’ll ask my mom.”

Rachel catches the tail end of your slow, thoughtful nod, and she folds her arms around herself as a rain-laden breeze passes underneath the umbrella.

“She doesn’t like me, does she?”

You say it so matter-of-factly, Rachel can’t help but wince. “She just doesn’t know you like I do,” she counters honestly.

“Aww.” You grin, but it’s a little smaller than usual. “Is it because I tried to talk to you during prayer?”

Rachel shrugs, looking at the puddle at her feet. That had been an issue, but only a minor one. Mom doesn’t like you because you have a weird knack for nailing issues on the head, while Mom would rather say that everything was okay until they are. But talking about that will bring up a whole load of things that you probably shouldn’t know about.

“I’ll come over for lunch,” Rachel says. “Don’t worry.”

Looking over your shoulder, you nudge her and dig your free hand into your pocket. “Hey, who said I was worrying about anything?”

You worry about a lot of things.

“Rachel.” The sound of Mom’s voice through the rain makes Rachel’s head snap up. “There you are. Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah. I mean, actually”—Rachel gestures to you hopefully—“um, can I ride with my friend to have lunch at their house?”

“You can come too, Ms. R,” you pitch in. “My mom always makes too much food.”

Mom looks very reluctant. She has her purse over her head for cover from the rain. It does a poor job. She glances over you and then at Rachel, who puts on her best, pleading look.

After a few moments of standing in the rain, she finally acquiesces. “Well, alright. Thank you for inviting Rachel for lunch. I can pick her up at three.”

“Sweet! Thanks, Ms. R.”

(Maybe ‘Ms. R’ is a bit too casual.)

“Thanks, Mom,” Rachel says, stepping out from the umbrella for just a brief second to hug her. “Uh … you should get to the car. Your clothes are getting really wet.”

“I’ve noticed,” Mom tells her resignedly. “You have fun, sweetheart. Stay safe. Be good. Call me if you need anything.”

Rachel nods quickly. “Mhmm.”

As Mom hurries off, heels clicking, you suck in a breath. “Yeah, she definitely doesn’t like me.”

“She’s glad I have a friend, at least.”

“So we are friends! I knew I could get you with junk food. You had that kinda vibe.”

Cheeks warming at your teasing coo, Rachel rolls her eyes. “Thanks.”

As your mom comes out of the church, umbrella-less just like Rachel’s and slightly irritated because of it, you turn to Rachel.

“Mario Kart after lunch?”

“Only if you want to lose.”

The car’s headlights flash, and you open the passenger door. “Ooh, okay, I see how it is. Now I’m definitely gonna beat you.”

Rachel shakes her head, slipping into the backseat. You follow soon after, folding up the umbrella and shaking it out.

“I’d like to see you try.”

#wordless ways to say i love you #source: @50-item-writing-prompts #rachel roth #raven #rachel roth x reader #raven x reader #titans #titans imagine #dc #dc fanfic #dc imagine #reader insert #friendship #romance ?? #fanfic #*slaps roof of fanfic* this bad boy can fit so much symbolism in it #and very badly lol #tw religious themes #tw religion

[inklore]

code breaker

premise: there’s always been something there, between the two of you. unspoken and filling in the cracks of those moments where joel is helping you out of a tough situation and your offering up a thank you and sweet smile. if only it didn’t take bloody knuckles and some band-aids to finally crack the code of that something.

pairing: joel miller x (f)reader

word count: 6.2k

warnings: eighteen+ content, unprotected p in v, smut with feelings really, fem receiving oral, friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, mentions of violence and blood, alcohol mention, toxic exes and relationships discussed, dirty talk, biting and love marks mention, lots of banter, au (preoutbreak).

note: i meant for this to be darker but it turned out wayyy more fluffy and i’m actually really happy about it. i hella edited this but it still feels choppy so if it is i’m sorry ya girl has bad eyes lmao. gif made by me so don’t be an ass and steal it tysm <3

There’s words you should be saying right now. Expressing. Spilling from your mouth in a heap of thank you, I appreciate you, what would I do without you always being there for me…

But they just can’t seem to come out. The speech part of your brain—and your heart—aching and prompting you to speak. To show courtesy, your vocal cords refuse to let you get out. Like your mouth has forgotten its purpose, your throat hoarse from screaming Joel’s name in the chaos of thrown fists, people shouting, men trying and failing to haul Joel’s weight off of the bloodied body below it.

The blood on his knuckles pulls your eyes in like a neon sign: caked, dark, and drying the longer the air gets to it. If it hurts Joel doesn’t state it—show it as he grips the steering wheel. You’ve never thrown a punch before, have never seen something like this up close and personal. You excelled at resolving conflicts before they arose. Never let arguments get past the phase of unfair yelling. But you would assume his knuckles must be aching, even if only a dull pounding.

You know for certain your ex's face is.

Good. 

You hadn’t expected him to show up at the bar, your job. Hadn’t expected him to start in on the possessive act—coincidently the local patrons were less than surprised at the all-too-cliché behavior. The town having labeled him as bad news ages ago. Something you had to learn the hard way, when you finally took off those rose colored glasses. 

Joel had been staring at you for the duration of the exchange. Even after your ex left to hang out with a group of his buddies in the corner, his gaze lingered on you.

"You alright?" He asked as he slid his glass towards you, his forearm leaning against the bar. A wordless nod letting you know he wanted another. 

"Yeah, he’s not the first creep I've had to deal with. It's in our DNA as women to deal with the lesser species of the male population."

"Can’t tell if that makes me feel better or worse as a father."

"Oh," you send him a sweet smile. Setting his refilled whiskey in front of him, "no creep dare mess with Sarah. I’ve seen her make jocks cry."

"That’s my girl, taught her well." The grin he wraps around the rim of the glass makes something girlish—and foolish—spark in your stomach. 

Maybe if you had a man like Joel in your life, you would be less likely to keep making the same mistakes with no-good assholes who are good for a week and bad for the rest of the 358 days. 

A girl can dream. 

And she has. Embarrassingly. 

The two of you had continued to talk, your hip pressed against the bar as you cleaned a glass; perhaps you had been smiling and laughing too hard at what Joel was saying because your ex was back and grabbing you from across the bar in an instant.

An action that quickly landed him passed out and bloodied on the bar floor, and your boss trying to make sure Joel hadn’t taught him too good of a lesson to have him see God. 

And while the adrenaline of shock had been bruising your heart against your rib cage, your lungs devoid of air—when Joel had put his non-bloody hand against your arm, calling your name (the white noise of the commotion in the bar creating an impenetrable barrier to your ear drums), a warm thumb under your chin pulling your attention away from the limp body on the floor and up into his eyes—that adrenaline melted and turned into serendipity. 

Gratefulness. 

Those girlish sparks turning into an entire flame that quickly engulfed you as he asked if you were okay. As he comforted you with a barely there touch on your arm and chin, concern in his dark eyes. Concern for what? Frightening you? 

When your gaze is drawn to his knuckles, his body language responds with a grimace. When you see the gashes only bone against bone brings. 

He’s worried he’s upset you. As if he's done something wrong.

When he insists on driving you home you don’t argue. Wouldn’t dream of it even if the circumstances were different. It wouldn't be the first time he drove you home because your beat-up car wouldn't start or because the weather was bad and your anxiety was high.

That’s the thing about Joel. 

He was always there. 

If you needed help, he always seemed to find time. 

Because of this, and the aforementioned beating your toxic ex to a pulp, you shouldn't be allowing the silence to spread between the two of you like strangers. Like something in the air was making everything awkward, like you hadn’t sat in his truck a dozen times before. Like he hasn’t gotten you out of a pinch (minus the blood) before. 

And after he’s pulled into your driveway, engine turned off, the cicadas and crickets filling the silence, it’s Joel who finally speaks. 

Who cracks that barrier you have mentally been trying so hard to climb over. 

"I’m sorry if I," he clears his throat, flexes his fingers against the steering wheel. "If I overstepped." 

And the ridiculousness of him even apologizing has your mouth finally moving into action. "Joel, no, oh my gosh, no." Your palm presses against your chest as you look at him apologetically; you should be the only one saying sorry, thanking him, worshiping at his feet for this. "I should be the one saying that. I should have handled it myself or-"

"Or what?" He looks almost angry, shocked at your words. "He had a hold of you, and no disrespect, but I ain’t ever seen you kill a fly, let alone throw a punch at someone." 

"Hey! I could punch someone." 

"Could and would are two different things." 

"You sayin I couldn’t?" 

"I’m sayin' you wouldn’t." 

"Not tough enough?" 

"Your heart's too big." 

"If you knew how hard I was holding back the urge to prove you wrong by bruising that bicep of yours, Joel Miller, you’d think differently." Your scowl and threat only seem to amuse him because he’s grinning at you. "You’re lucky you’re injured." 

"I’m shaking in my boots." 

"As you should be." The laugh the two of you share makes your cheeks burn.  On the outside, many could and have labeled Joel as a complicated man. A man who takes a lot of nudging and persistence to get to know past that surface-level workaholic grump he sometimes displays. But he’s a man who would lend a hand at the drop of a hat. A man with honor embedded in his very DNA.

There’s a list you’ve kept in the back of your mind that has every bullet point filled out and doodled hearts around the edges of all the reasons Joel is a good man. A man you trust. A man you adore.

"Thank you, Joel." He starts to shake his head, but you stop him with your palm resting on his forearm, "thank you. "You're right, I don't think I even know how to make a proper fist, let alone connect it." Your soft laugh makes the corners of his lips tick up. "You didn’t hesitate to help me. You never do. It means a lot to me, I hope you know that."

He nods, his eyes only on your face. Listening. Taking in every word you’re saying, even if you know he hates the fact that you’re thanking him for this. But he deserves to know how much you appreciate him.

Your hand moves to his wrist, gently yanking it away from his vice-like grip on the wheel. Your index finger runs along a vein at the top of his hand—the one spot the blood didn’t cake on to. "Does it hurt?" 

"No. Between the callouses and the whiskey, it’s nothing more than a cat scratch." 

"You should still get it looked at."

"You’re looking at it, aren’t ya?" 

Your eyes roll. "I’m not a doctor, Joel." 

"All a doctors gonna tell me is to be more careful, hand me a band-aid, and charge me three hundred dollars."

"Well, in that case," you drop his hand and grab for the door. The dry summer air ineffective to your already burning skin from the man whose raising his brows at you, "I got band aids in the house, and I didn’t get to finish my shift, which means you owe me three hundred in tips alone sooo."

"There's barely three hundred people in this town, and you’re tellin me you make that in tips?" 

"Joel, just get in the damn house." You order, slamming the door of his truck and walking up the path to your front door. Smiling when you hear him huff and grumble under his breath as he gets out. 

A hiss—and a scowl so deadly it could scare away even the biggest and badest of grown men—has Joel’s hand twitching in your hold as you run a wet cloth along the tops of his knuckles. The fabric pulling up the caked on flecks of dried blood, the surface of the cuts along the bone already starting the healing process from being clotted with red. 

"I thought you said it didn’t hurt?" You smirk playfully. 

"Whiskey’s wearin' off," he grunts. 

"Or," you dab the cloth in the small cap of saline solution you’ve pulled from your first aid kit under the sink. Bringing it back to his skin to press gently across his cuts, his body tensing. "You’re human after all," his eyes roll. 

"Don’t alert the press." 

"Oh, they’ve already been informed." 

His hand rests on your thigh as you ball up some tissues to dry the area around his knuckles. Enough to keep the band-aids—the only thing he would allow you to use because gauze would just get in the way at work, he informed you when you insisted—from falling off. The heat from his palm burns through your jeans, and it's a blessing in and of itself that you're ignoring how it makes your insides feel; how your body's warmth is no match for how hot he feels. His legs are spread, body slouched against your couch, his knee against yours. A closeness he’s never been before. A casual touch and directness between friends that shouldn’t be making you feel feverish and cheeky. 

When he flexes his fingers a couple times and his fingertips run along the top of your thigh, you find yourself wishing you’d worn a dress to work. A skirt. Anything to have been able to feel him do that against your bare skin. A thought you chide yourself for. A thought you hope isn’t written all over your face when you look over at Joel and he’s staring at you. Eyes darker, expression unreadable and stoic, in that way you can never tell what emotion he’s feeling at that exact moment. He gives nothing away but still sends your stomach plummeting. 

After the band-aids have been stuck and you’ve cleaned up the mess on your coffee table you offer him a drink. 

"Unless you have to get back to Sarah, then I understand."

"She’s with a friend tonight." 

"You gonna tell her how you saved the day, all knight and shining armor style?" You tease as you walk back to the living room with two beers in hand, putting one in Joel’s outstretched one and the other to your lips. Taking a sip as you take your place beside him once again, this time a leg pulled under you as you face him. 

He snorts, "don’t know about all that."

"I’m sure word has already gotten around. Her friends are probably gabbing about how heroic Mr. Miller is, a real prince charming." You laugh when you see his grin. 

"Or," he says, swallowing the sip he's just taken. "She’ll give me that death glare that all teenagers possess after puberty, you know the one?"

"Oh, I know the one. Mine was so fierce my mother banned it from our house."

"It’s deadly."

"Truly."

"I’m sure prince charming will be the last thing connected to my actions. Rage and jackass sound more on the money." 

You frown. Watch as he stares down at the result of the rage he thinks will now be accompanied with his name. Tarnishing it that now people will forget the kindness that was once there, the man whose hardworking now turned into something vile all because of an act of heroism some might find obscene; with how much blood and possible damage it has caused to one mans face, you could understand why such an act would be. 

But to you—and those who knew how horrible your ex had been, how he had deserved every bone crunching punch, every spit of blood and teeth choked on—you knew that what Joel did was right. And maybe, somewhere deep down in those morals against violence everyone gets handed out to them at birth, you knew that Joel could be sitting in a jail cell instead of on your couch if those punches had been any worse. If it had been pure untamed rage like some will say. 

"You’re a good man, Joel. So you potentially hospitalized an asshole, who hasn’t?" Your heart leaps in your chest when he laughs, and you thank God that your joke landed. Thank him that this man with his disheveled hair that's begging to have a hand run through it, work shirt and jeans looking like they’ve seen better days—is in your life. Not every girl has someone willing to bruise another man's face while destroying the hand that's needed to do their job properly.

No one had acted as quick as Joel had. 

Joel Miller was a good man. 

"What did you see in him anyway?" Joel asks, taking another sip of his beer. His gaze is drawn to you from the hole he was burning into his hand. 

And if you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t know. 

Couldn’t answer that question with the full truth because you didn’t know why you always went for the assholes. The guys who liked to scream instead of talk it out. Who liked to steal money from your wallet for booze or a habit they couldn’t kick. The ones who never remembered your birthday but made sure didn't forget theirs.

Your father had been a great man. Your mother an amazing woman. You couldn’t take the easy way out and blame it on family trauma. 

So you answered with the only viable reason that came to mind. 

"Loneliness makes you ignore all the bad stuff." You take a sip, swallow it down (washing away the pinpricks of potential embarrassment for being so brutally honest with Joel). "It makes you talk yourself out of throwing all their stuff to the curb or burning it in your backyard, because it’s not always bad. Some days are good. Some of them wait to be assholes before the novelty wears off; others wait until you're two years in and they’ve already slept with half the town behind your back. And some will bring you flowers every time they mess up, until one day you look around and realize you don't have any room to put this new vase and there's dried flower petals all over your floors. But hey, at least you’re not lonely, and your house smells really good." 

The smile on your lips fades when you see the look on Joel’s face. See that he’s finding no humor in this story. And the gulp that swallows down the beer in your hands burns your throat the entire way down. Your cheeks are burning, and you have to look away from him. Distract yourself by picking at the label on the bottle. 

"Or maybe it’s as cliché as saying I haven’t found the right one yet." You try to save, nervously chuckling under your breath. In hopes that he forgets everything you’ve just said and clings to this one shitty joke. 

"Look at me."

You do, and you wish you hadn’t. The roughness of his voice makes your stomach swoop and fall like a rollercoaster of emotions you did not prepare yourself for. Hadn’t imagined this being in your future when you’d walked into work. But you’re looking at him. Meeting his eyes. Seeing the stern glower in them before he speaks. 

There’s a million things you imagine him saying. Telling you how much better you are than that, than all of those meaningless assholes. How you deserve better, and you’ll find it someday. Hell, you expect him to scold you with how low his brows are.

What you don’t expect is to feel his lips on yours. His fingers digging into the skin at the back of your neck, his chest inches from your now-heaving one. And it renders you speechless. Still. Your brain not computing with the signals your nerves are giving off right now. 

When he pulls away and looks at you, it takes you several blinks to meet his gaze. The air in your lungs weighing your chest down. You shouldn’t speak. Should allow yourself to get your bearings in order. To catch your breath and sort through everything you’re feeling right now. "Was that a pity kiss?" 

"A what—pity kiss?" 

"Cause of the," you swallow, lick your lips, "of the aforementioned assholes?" 

Joel’s breath fans across your face when he chuckles, "anyone who’d pity kiss you deserves to be added to that list of assholes. And I might be on many asshole lists, but hopefully not on yours." The fingers on your neck skate forward to your cheek, thumb pressed gently along your jawline. His features grow serious again. "I didn’t just knock that asshole out because he had it comin'. And if you haven't noticed, I’m either working or at home with Sarah. Both keepin' me more than busy."

"Too busy to be making house calls for leaky faucets and tarnishing your good name with your fists?" 

"Exactly." 

There's a long pause between you two, as if you're both waiting for the other to say something, anything, to put these unspoken mutual feelings out there.

"Joel, are you saying you coming over to fix my faucet and staying for the occasional beer was you…flirting?" The grin he gives you makes you laugh, "who taught you how to flirt? And please don’t say Tommy."

"No. If I had listened to him we’d be–" he doesn’t finish. Just shakes his head and chuckles under his breath. 

And maybe affirmative action with your hands wasn’t your forte, maybe you couldn’t do what needed to be done when it came in the form of actions. But when it came to words, to saying what you wanted, needed, craved when it was right here in front of you being hinted and teased at, you didn’t hesitate. 

"Maybe you should have listened to Tommy." Your hand mirrors his own, resting on his cheek. You already knew he ran hot from his palm alone. But his cheek feels just as warm as you do, burning right through to your bones. His gaze falls to your parted lips, and a decision is made in the seconds it takes him to return his gaze to yours.

An agreement. 

"C'mere." His lips collide with yours in a heated kiss of nicks of teeth and tongue that taste like whiskey and beer and something that your brain will forever recognize as Joel. A taste you know you’ll be wanting to swallow down again and again. To feel the burn of his beard against your chin until your skin is raw and blotchy from how hard his mouth is devouring yours. An arm wrapped around your waist pulls you into his lap, and your forgotten beers spill and stain the cushions of your couch. "Shit, sorry, let me," Joel starts, but you stop him with your hands on his cheeks. 

"Leave it, just come here." You insist, lips returning to his. 

"Yes, ma’am." His smirk molds to your mouth, wipes away as his tongue runs along your bottom lip to press against yours. A hand on your ass squeezes and presses you forward so you’re grinding against his lap. The seam of your jeans rubs up against the wet patch that's quickly forming on the fabric of your underwear, becoming sticky and clinging to your pussy. Joel's other hand runs down the column of your neck, gripping and pulling you away from his mouth so that his lips can latch onto your sensitive skin. A gasp leaving your lungs, teeth and tongue making you shudder and cling to his shoulders. 

Shoulders you don't let go of until your back hits the mattress and you're both pulling your shirts above your heads, your fingers quickly working the clip of your bra, joining the discarded pile of shirts and shoes on your bedroom floor.

Your heart feels as if it’s beating a hole through your chest, like it’ll fall into Joel’s hands as he leans over your body, knees between your open legs, as his palms run down your chest, between your breasts. Over the globes of them, calloused thumb circling around your nipple. Your breath caught in your throat as you press yourself up into his touch. He’s taking you in, letting his eyes trail every dip, possible mole, scar, and marking on your skin. How your chest heaves in response to his hand. How your breasts fit in his palm. How you gasp and cry into the air when he leans down and swirls his tongue around one of your nipples before sucking it into his mouth, teeth lightly scraping against the sensitive flesh when he pulls off and does the same to the other one. 

His mouth finding its way back to yours again. His hips canting against yours; you can feel his cock digging into your thigh. And when you let your hand skate between the two of you to give him more friction. A dizzying desire to feel more of his heat and need for you burning through your skin and to your core, where you truly crave him. 

The deep grunt that falls from his mouth and onto your waiting tongue sends a shockwave of arousal through your entire body. Being. You want to hear it again, want to pull every noise from this man with your body and mouth until you are both drained and cursing yourselves for not doing this sooner. And you know he wants to do the same. Wants to catalog every pressure point and sensitive bit of your flesh so he can draw this out, can rile you up with a simple touch, scrape of teeth, run of his tongue along your jugular. Until you tell him how badly you can’t stand not having him inside of you. 

He's leaving a trail of kisses down your stomach, his fingers digging into the skin above your jeans, holding your hips still. Preventing you from moving them the way you want to from each press and prickle from his mouth and beard—scalding the nerves of your skin and making your insides whirl. 

"Lift your hips for me, sweetheart." Joel murmurs into your skin as his fingers curl into the waistband of your jeans. Your body feels barren and cool away from his heat as he sits back on his knees, your hips lifting as he frees your legs from their confines. His thumb runs along the lace of your underwear, dipping lower and lower until it’s pressing into that wet spot. A silent, smug praise tugs at the corner of his lopsided smile as his eyes look up to yours.

If your mind was working coherently and not filled with Joel Joel Joel (the way he smells woodsy and rugged, the way something deep and gruff reverberates in his chest when your teeth sink into the skin of his neck, and how he keeps looking at you like a fine art piece hung in the Louvre. Movements quick and gentle as he pulls your underwear down your thighs, making quick work to push your legs apart, fingers digging into the back of your thigh as he lets himself take his time adorning you fully on display for him) there'd be a sassy remark aimed at him.

The callus of his thumb nicks your swollen clit, eliciting a whimper from your lips, your hips following the descent of his finger as it spreads you apart. Trailing a line from your clit to dip into your entrance, gathering your arousal on the pad of his finger, his eyes on yours as he presses it against his tongue. A burning hunger in his eyes as he sucks your wetness from his fingers. 

You're a panting mess by the time Joel positions his head between your legs, arms wrapped behind your thighs, lips, teeth, and tongue trailing up your inner thigh. Your fingers clench the blanket in anticipation, need, and want. The closer his mouth gets to your center, the more you can feel his hot breath moving in, the potential love bites and marks he’s leaving on your inner thigh—all a certain type of torture you don’t think you’re strong enough to put up with right now. 

You lift your head to start begging, to plead with your torturer, but he’s speaking before you can. 

"Wanna take my time, sweetheart." His tongue swirls at the joint of your inner thigh. And just as earlier, the words you mean to get out, to speak from the storm cloud of lust in your head, die in the back of your throat when Joel runs the flat of his tongue up the seam of your pussy. The torturous muscle wraps you around his tongue, following the slowest path to your clit, until the tip of his tongue flicks, making a pattern of strokes and licks, until his lips wrap around the swollen nerve, making you feel delirious. Keeps pulling gasps, moans, and pants of pleasure and ecstasy from your parted mouth; head thrown back on pillows; legs trembling around his head from the blazing fire that grows and grows the more he consumes you.

The more his nose nicks your clit when he fucks you with his tongue, the more his fingers dig into your quivering legs to keep you anchored to the bed and his mouth. 

It feels like hours with how slowly he goes. Keeps you dangling from the ledge with every stroke and suck. Every soothing indent his fingers are leaving in your thigh. Your skin slicked with sweat, knuckles cramped from its grip in the blanket. When your moans go up in pitch he goes slower in that motion, that spot that has you seeing stars. Then he lets your breath come back to you with slow strokes of his tongue at your entrance, giving attention to the other parts of you that you didn’t think could elicit such erotic noises from your lungs. 

Your fingers find their way into those disheveled strands you’ve been waiting a lifetime to thread through. To pull and keep yourself from the feeling of floating away from the intensity of the pleasure. From your orgasm coming closer and closer until you’re panting his name, "Joel, Joel, Joel–fuck," your body shaking, the cries pulled out from this man burning your throat as you finally fall from the ledge and into him; his tongue coated in you, his chin wet with your essence. 

Your body sensitive and heavy as you come down, a sweaty heat making you feel sticky. Joel’s fingers seem to bypass every sensitive part though, as his palm caresses the tops of your thighs, your hips, your curves, the side of your breast. Until he’s reached your burning cheeks, mouth pressing the gentlest of kisses to your lips. The kiss was slow and gentle. Your arousal coats your taste buds when his tongue meets yours.

The kiss feeling more intimate than before, more heady. Knocking you right back on that loop you just got off of. That ache and throb he just sedated starting again in your belly, moving to where your thighs are soaked. 

"You’re overdressed," you murmur against his lips. Joel kisses you again, your open mouths exchanging a breathy chuckle.

"Do you wanna change that?" 

The question holds more than just the surface level of a joke and an answer of "yeah, obviously."  There’s a seriousness to it that makes you pull back from his lips and stare up at him. His thumb traces a soothing pattern into the bottom of your chin, his eyes holding an unspoken reassurance that he’s fine with it ending right here. With him just pleasing you, getting to take you apart and reassemble you with tender touches and a torturous mouth.

It can be all about you.

It is all about you.

You deserve nothing less.

His eyes and soft grin speak unspoken. 

Your nod is slow and reassuring. Your fingertips copy the motions of his thumb against the patches of skin in his damp beard. "Unless you’d rather help me get the stain out of my couch that you caused."

"I caused?" His brows shoot up. 

"It's to be expected when you can't keep your hands off of me," you say before shrieking as he pinches your side. His lips kissing your scowl away—a problem you foresee in the near future.

The kiss lasts for minutes (centuries you wish). Your fingertips never lift from the other's face, moving along jawlines, chins, and cheek bones. His chest comfortably against yours, giving you that heat you missed so dearly. His cock still stiff and hot in his jeans, grinding slowly against your pelvis. 

Is this how it’s supposed to feel? When feelings haven't even been discussed yet, but you just know? Already know what each touch, kiss, and caress holds behind it. Telling a wordless story in the way he had wanted to give you pleasure first—to taste—and take his time making you feel everything his mouth could do. Everything he wanted to do to you.

He wasn’t thinking about himself after the fact. Wasn’t rushing to put you in a position that made it all about his pleasure. Giving you little to no space to cool down, regain your bearings, and have that fire slowly relight and become more tantalizing, as he is right now.

You really did date assholes. 

Your fingers move to his chest, splaying your palm along his body until you’ve reached where he’s hard and pressing against you. Your fingers curl around the outline of him. Stroking, massaging. 

"I want you, Joel." You breathe into his mouth. 

He growls against your lips in something akin to frustration and agony. It makes something inside of you sink, overthink that maybe he doesn’t actually want to push it past the points you’ve already reached. Maybe it’s too much, all too soon, for this new territory of your friendship—even if it already seemed a little too late with the couch confessions and his saliva still coating your center. 

He must see the thoughts volleying in your head because he’s scolding himself under his breath and shaking his head. A soothing touch placed on your skin. "I feel like I’m some horny teenager again, with how bad I want you." His chuckle soothes your heart, "I don’t have-"

And you can't help but laugh at his waving hand towards his pockets and the sentence he's about to finish.

"Jesus, Joel. Bless anyone who's ever thought you were the ungentlemanly type." Here you were worrying about whether or not he wanted you, the proof being clearer than just his dick against your fingers. While the only thing on his mind was protection. 

"Glad I’m amusin’ to you." 

Cupping his cheeks, you pull him back to your lips. "All a girl wants is a decent man to make her laugh, not break her heart, and be able to make her come. And so far you’ve done all three." You let your tongue slip between your mouths and run along his bottom lip, "I’m good if you are." 

I’m clean.

I take a little pill every day because life is chaotic enough and I don’t want any surprises. 

We’re protected.

Now take me already.

The drag of your tongue, the roll of your hips against him, the little whimper you let out when he bites your lip—speaks for you.

It’s all either of you needs to rid Joel of his jeans: hands tangled in belt loops, tugs, pulls, pushing until he’s completely bare in front of you. Your breath hitches when you feel the underside of his cock spreading you and running along your clit slowly and languidly. The heat of him feels nothing compared to your own, the throb and ache of requisite in every roll and drag. 

And when neither of you can stand it anymore, when he’s grunting and you’re begging, he leans up on an elbow, hand wrapped around his cock, lining himself up to your entrance. Your breath leaves your lungs, stomach falling falling down to where he’s pushing into you. Stretching you, filling you until there’s no telling where either of you ends or begins. Attached by that intangible string of pleasure and bliss of only being able to feel each other.

"Fuck," Joel groans. Mouth finding your shoulder, breath hot and heavy. His thrusts start leisurely, taking his time in that way you’re learning he loves to do. Loves to compartmentalize up what you need—more, faster, harder. Going off of the moans panted into his neck, nails digging into his back. 

There's a hand gripped in the pillow beside your head, another at your breast, his mouth connected to your neck, your jaw, your chin, your lips. His hips slamming against your open thighs, thrusts deep, sharp. His cock hitting places that make your back arch, his name strung together with pleas for more. The slapping of skin and wet squelching of bodily fluids between the two of you making a symphony of lewd delight. 

When the hand at your breast hikes up one of your legs, the cry you let out is swallowed by his mouth. The deeper he fucks into you, the more your body shakes, the more you feel him completely consuming you. turning you into someone who will never get enough of this. Of him. Of how good he's making you feel. 

"Sound s’pretty," his tongue brushes against the underside of your chin, teeth nipping at the bone. A trail of him brought down to the shell of your ear. Where his heavy breaths and grunts fill you just as his cock does. Fills you to the brink of pain turned satisfying pleasure, as each stroke brings you closer to a precipice he’s already pushed you from. "Can’t believe I held myself back from you."

"Joel."

"I should knock out every asshole who thought to hurt you, t’not love you the way you deserve. Put you first," he slips his hand between your slick bodies, palm hot against your pelvis as his thumb rubs fast tight circles around your clit. His words getting filthier, ragged. Becoming heaving breaths against your ear as he fucks you faster. As his thumb matches the pace, as you grow closer and closer. Led by his words and pushed over by his cock. 

"That’s it, sweetheart." He’s encourages as you come. As he fucks you through it, as that white-hot heat makes your body contort against his. Cling and squeeze around him. The string of groans and curses, your name mixed with something incoherent but soft and deep, makes your chest swish—bit into your skin as Joel comes not long after. 

And after the two of you have cleaned up enough to call it satisfactory, two new beers condensing on your night stand. Your cheek pressed into his chest as your bodies lay pressed together under your sheet. His chin resting atop your forehead, a soft brush of fingertips at your spine—there’s cheesy grins on your faces, "Tommy’s going to have a heyday."

"He owes me fifty bucks."

There’s faux shock on your face when you turn and lean on your elbow to look at him, "excuse me?"

"He didn't think I'd ever tell ya," Joel shrugs as his hand caresses your shoulder. A fondness in his eyes, "I never do anything for myself." You press a kiss to his thumb, "I think we both deserve something good for once though." 

"I guess I solved the mystery of how to get Joel Miller to be soft," you joke. Nip at the skin of his thumb playfully. 

"I ain’t soft." He grumbles.

"Postcoitous Joel disagrees with that statement," you say. The dramatic roll his eyes do makes you laugh. Your teeth nipping his thumb harder, a bite this time, you shift so you’re on top of him. Sitting up on your knees. "Since this bet is half at my expense.."

"Expense, huh?" His palm grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes, causing you to rock in his lap. His cock already twitching to life again.

"I think we should get you your money's worth," you smirk.

"That's the smartest thing you've said all night," his fingers tangled in your back hair, pulling your mouth down to his in a hard kiss, before you get the chance to at least pretend to be offended.

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller one shot #joel miller x y/n #joel miller imagine #joel miller x you #pedro pascal smut #joel miller fluff #the last of us smut #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #the last of us fic #pedro pascal fics #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction

[merakiui]

risky rascality (tsum sex).

azutsum x (female) reader x azul ashengrotto cw: nsfw, non-con, tsum sex, tsum has a dick, ntr, shameless smut, loss of virginity, cumflation, characters written as 18+ note - don't underestimate the importance of body language. (or: azul's tsum misreads your intentions and fucks you.)

You’ve found yourself in Azul’s VIP room plenty of times in the past, so it’s impossible to explain the anxiety that washes over you. Sudden like a devastating tidal wave, it rocks you to your core the moment Azul offers you a casual smile. He’s so charming. You almost forget you’re here for your usual tutoring session and not a study date. One can dream.

“Before we begin, I’ll have to step out for a moment. There’s something that requires my immediate attention. I shouldn’t be too long. In the meantime, would you mind getting your notes out and turning to the chapter we last left off at?”

Having been so caught up in admiring the way he stands in the doorway, you startle at the sound of his smooth voice. “Next chapter… R-Right! Yes, of course! I’ll do that. You do your thing. I’m not going anywhere.”

With a nod of acknowledgement, he shuts the door behind him. The stiffness in your shoulders ebbs away then, and you slouch back against the sofa. With an embarrassed groan, you drag your hands down your face.

Be normal for one minute, (Name). This isn’t anything special.

Something nudges your thigh and you lower your arms to find Azul’s tsum pushing your textbook towards you. He struggles more than he makes any apparent success, and it’s a cute sight that has a smile sprouting on your lips.

“Thanks, little guy.” You lift the book up to spare him of the burden and set it on the table. A cup of tea rests inches away, steam curling from the liquid in fragrant tendrils. The tsum blinks up at you, wordless like always. “You don’t have to stay for this, you know. I’m sure you’d much rather explore campus.”

The tsum stares and then, as if your words have somehow offended him, he rears forward to knock his head into your thigh again. His fedora falls off in the process, but he pays it no mind and continues to bump into your leg.

“Okay, okay! You can stay.” You laugh and hold your hands up in surrender. “I never said you had to leave.”

Lifting the tiny fedora from the sofa, you place it atop the tsum’s head. It’s uncanny how much of Azul you see in him. Even the beauty mark is in the right place… How peculiar.

Seeming pleased with this, the tsum scrambles to get into your lap. You place your hand under him and help him up. Even though he doesn’t have a mouth, he looks very happy here, bouncing up and down with what you think is a show of enthusiasm.

“You’re adorable, Azutsum. I wish I could say that to your counterpart. He’s great, you know? The most amazing guy I’ve ever met.” You squish Azutsum between your hands and sigh dreamily. “I’m actually not that bad at magic history. I just pretended so I could spend more time with Azul outside of class.”

Azutsum narrows his eyes at you.

“You disapprove?”

He squirms out of your grasp and jumps up towards your chest. You catch him before he can fall back onto your lap. It doesn’t look like open disapproval. Maybe the tsum just doesn’t understand your feelings. You don’t expect him to. If he’s anything like Azul, he’s probably more focused on the lounge or money. Azul did mention he spent a good half of the morning testing the tsum’s affinity for business.

You glance at your textbook. One day you’ll confess. It won’t be today, though. With a sigh, you resign yourself to your reality and place the tsum on the table. You manage to open the book and flick through a few pages before Azutsum pounces on top. He glowers at you, demanding attention. In a way, when he isn’t being expressive like this, he reminds you of a turtle. That thought prompts a chuckle from you and you nudge him away gently.

“I’d love to play more, but I’ve gotta start reviewing. It’ll look odd if Azul walks in and I haven’t made any progress.”

Despite this, Azutsum persists. He prods at your hand, squeaking at you in what sounds like annoyance. A needy thing, this tsum. You’ve never known Azul to be so shamelessly direct, so it takes you by surprise when his tsum rolls around to wrinkle the pages. You gasp just as it tears.

“Don’t be so careless!” You grab hold of the tsum before he can cause further damage to your precious book. Pinching his cheek in light admonishment, you hold him close to your face. “All right, you have my attention. Please don’t destroy my books.”

The tsum beams.

“Aren’t you proud? Seriously… I’m only forgiving you because you look like my crush,” you mutter, your cheeks warming.

If only Azul was this hungry for my attention…

Azutsum wriggles happily in your hands. It’s a challenge to stay angry at such a cute plush. A prisoner to his charms, you pet him affectionately. He seems to bask in your touch, turning over on his back so that you can give his belly the same amount of love.

“Maybe not a turtle. You’re more like a puppy.”

Smiling to yourself, you rub the tsum’s belly. He seems to appreciate the gesture, for he squeaks in excitement. If he wasn’t sentient, you’d probably mistake him for a pillow. He’s soft like one, squishy like a plush. You knead him every now and then, pressing your fingers into his abdomen. You’re sure there’s nothing but stuffing inside, but a morbidly curious part of you wonders if he has organs and blood. Unlikely. But it’s still fun to fantasize over the wildly impossible.

“Do you like that?” You watch gleefully as the tsum squeezes his eyes shut and squirms. His squeaks are loud. “Seems like it. After this, though, I need to get back to work.”

You’re so swept up in toying with the tsum that it shocks you out of your skin when he jumps out of your arms abruptly. You assume he’s gotten tired of the teasing, but then he’s launching himself at you to tackle you onto the sofa. The force knocks you down, and you gasp as the leather cushions cradle you in the aftermath of your fall.

“Hey! What was that for?” You lift your head up to look at him. A familiar weight settles on top of you. “You’re stronger than you look…”

You gaze at Azutsum and the laughter sticks in your throat. There’s a distinctly human cock curving up along the length of your stomach, grotesquely thick and leaking pre-cum, maddeningly disproportionate. Your eyes widen, and a shard of horror lodges itself in your heart.

“W-Wait… Hold on!” You scramble to get away, but the tsum shifts so that the head of his cock presses against your skirt. You yelp when he moves again to prod at your clothed pussy. “Don’t touch there—you can’t!”

He presses inwards, blocked only by your panties, and squeaks sadly. You claw at the sofa, desperate to escape. Azutsum isn’t listening. He continues to rut uselessly between your thighs. Much to your disbelief, the pressure of his cock straining to find its home inside your tight hole leaves you soaking through your panties. If you aren’t thinking about it—about the fact that this insane cock belongs to this little tsum—you almost trick yourself into picturing Azul leaning over you on the sofa. He’d grab your hips, yank you to meet him halfway, slot himself inside slowly… He’d praise you for taking him so well, whisper the sweetest of filth, kiss you dizzy!

That sugar-encrusted delusion shatters the moment his fleshy head catches on your panties. Somehow they’re pushed aside as he bullies his way closer to your cunt. Your eyes snap open just as he pushes inside.

“No, no, no! A-Azutsum, don’t do—ooh!”

Your pleas taper off into a low groan just as he slides in. It feels strange, a foreign fit. Is this really going to be your first time? With withering resolve, you reach for the tsum in hopes of tugging him away from your pussy. He draws back, searching for the right rhythm, and sinks further into wet walls. The breath is punched out of your lungs once he’s managed to fit half of his absurd length inside you.

Tears gather in your eyes. “Take it out… Please… It feels weird and—” he bucks forwards and you suck in a breath through your teeth— “h-hurts!”

Azutsum squeaks softly at you. Consolation? Maybe. Or perhaps it’s a parody of a sweet nothing. How is this possible? He shouldn’t be this big. He shouldn’t even have this anatomy to begin with! Where was he even hiding such a monstrous size?

Your arm falls over your face. Despite everything, the fit is snug. You’re not sure you can take another inch. Azutsum disagrees with this unvoiced sentiment, instead choosing to fuck in and out of you until you’re properly slick. It leaves you shuddering with a strange desire—whether that’s to get away or stay, you can’t determine.

Submitting to your fate—though your hips flinch with every thrust—you allow your mind to wander. You envision Azul and wish he was here in place of this devious tsum. Maybe then you’d be more receptive. Maybe then you wouldn’t be crying. Maybe then the drag of his cock along your walls would actually feel satisfying.

Azutsum’s squeaks join the obscene squelch of skin on skin. It’s noisy and gross. You smell yourself on the air—the unmistakable odor of salt and sin. He fucks like he’s running late, driving his cock as deep as it can possibly go. Your back arches up towards the invisible body that ought to be hovering over you right now. If it was Azul, you’d loop your arms around his neck and pull him down to taste him.

It’s not Azul. It will never be Azul.

All you can do is lie there and take it. At some point, the stretch is less of a pain and more of a unique fullness. It’s not unpleasant, weirdly. Rather, you find yourself grinding down to meet each of his sporadic thrusts, chasing a high that’s so conflicting.

What am I doing? This is so wrong! you think, writhing like a fish out of water. And yet you can’t stop.

“Azutsum, please—” You gasp sharply when he hits a particular spot deep within you, your eyes rolling back into your skull. That’s…not your cervix, is it? There’s no way… Surely he didn’t do that. But then the tip of his cock prods at it again, this time with more insistence, and you throw your head back and howl. “Wait, slow down! Hurts—that hurts!”

Tears trail down your cheeks. You wipe them away to no avail. They just keep pouring, made plentiful by the cock ramming against a place that’s never been reached before. You cry out again when he eases out partially and slams back in with forceful determination. His motions are sloppy now, a stuttering, jerky movement that fills you with more cock than you’ve ever taken in your life before. Your fingers and dildo can’t compare to this—nothing can.

In just a few more riotous strokes, the tsum burrows his cock all the way to the hilt and releases inside with a strangled squeak. Thick, warm cum floods your womb at once, so copious it leaves your stomach with a slight bloat. Dazed, just managing to collect yourself, you press down against your belly to feel the bulge of his cock.

“Please…” you whisper, panting, “pull out already…”

Azutsum starts to do that, only to thrust back in. His cock keeps all of his cum effectively plugged.

“No more… I can’t take anymore. Please…”

But he’s already moving, intent on going at it until his balls are drained and you’re properly filled. In the meantime, you shut your eyes and welcome the chimera of an absentee Azul.

You’re not sure how long it’s been or how many rounds you’ve gone, but by the end of it you’re stuffed. Azutsum finally eases out after so much time spent thrust up inside. Shivering, you peer over the deceptive dome that is your stomach. If anyone were to see you, they’d certainly think you were pregnant and not just packed full of cum. You don’t want to know where such a little tsum gets so much virility. Best not to question it, otherwise you’ll drive yourself mad trying to figure it out.

Azutsum climbs up onto your rounded belly, gazing down at you with newfound fondness in his blue eyes. You’re not sure where his cock’s retreated to now. At least it’s over. Defeated, you reach up and pat his head.

The door to the VIP room creaks open then. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, (Name). Some nuisances—ah, I mean customers—don’t know when to—” Azul chokes on the rest of his sentence, his wide-eyed gaze drawn to you splayed out on the leather sofa. Cum dribbles from your abused cunt, pooling below on the cushion.

You can’t bear to look at him, so you bury your face in your hands. “S-Sorry. I’m sorry! I’ll clean it. Just please… Please don’t look.” Shyly, you squeeze your legs shut in hopes of preserving what’s left of your dignity. You’ve never felt humiliation as hot and heavy as this before.

Azutsum squeaks a joyful greeting.

You can’t see him, but his face has exploded with a fiery embarrassment. He’s doing everything he can to avoid staring at you. No matter how hard he tries, his eyes are drawn to your stomach, to your pussy clenched around nothing and leaking cum, to the devilishly proud tsum perched on top… Most importantly, you miss the way his slacks tighten in the crotch and the way he swallows thickly.

Clearing his throat, his words awkward, Azul says, “P-Perhaps we ought to postpone today’s session…”

It’s for the best. He’s not sure he’d be able to explain his reaction if you were to catch it.

#meraki mumbles #n/sfw #tw: noncon #FOOD IS SERVED!!!!!! :D

[withloveajaxx]

are you forgetting something?

𓂅 genre: modern! childe, scaramouche, diluc, and xiao x gn! reader fluff

𓂅 warnings: none 

𓂅 summary: how they react when you forget to kiss them or say "i love you" back to them before you leave 

𓂅 notes: HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONEE. here's some smol hcs to kick off 2023 hehe. i've never really written for scaramouche before so forgive me if his characterization is a little off for this fic :"D i'm trying to slowly get back into writing for genshin so i'm going with a classic, fluffy crack prompt that i've always felt like writing ^^ hope you guys enjoy and have a wonderful day ahead!! 

CHILDE

he's dropping you off at your friend's house for your little night out and your rushing to belatedly make yourself a little more presentable 

childe can't help but chuckle when you turn to him asking, "what do you think? do i look alright?" 

"you look beautiful as always, love. now go get in there before your late."

he leans his cheek closer to you, expecting a goodbye peck when you open the door to get out. "take care and call me when you need to get picked up, alright?" when you hum in response he adds, "love you!" 

"yup! see you, ajax!" you reply, getting out and shutting the door. at this, childe is offended, jaw dropping at the lack of a reply and a kiss. 

he thinks this is completely unacceptable. mans literally honks his horn aggressively until you come back to the car, brows furrowed in wordless confusion. 

"excuse me?" he questions you, rolling down the window with a faux pout on his lips as he crosses his arms over his chest. "are you forgetting something?" 

cheeky bastard taps his cheek with raised brows in part question and part demand. "i said i love you too, you know?" 

you can't help but laugh at his absurd behaviour, leaning into the window to finally plant a kiss on his awaiting cheek. his charming smile finally makes its way back onto his features when you accompany your gesture with a, "love you too." 

"mhm. now get in there and have fun. i'll see you later, love.". he can't help the slight blush that dusts his freckle filled cheeks when you peck him one last time, just for good measure, before heading inside the house. god he was so whipped for you. 

SCARAMOUCHE

when you're rushing to leave your shared apartment for a class you were running late for one day, scara is suffering on the couch with his laptop on, research document open and empty. 

he eyes you as you're rushing to gather all your bags and other belongings, making sure you don't trip or hurt yourself in a rush from a distance. 

once you finally have all your things, you turn to see scara, who is already glaring at the blank document on his laptop. 

in usual fashion, he hears you greet him a goodbye with, "i'm heading out now. see you later, kuni." 

in an unusual fashion however, he doesn't hear the familiar and cheerful "i love you!" that escapes your lips once you open the door. 

he coughs loudly and repeatedly when you put even a single foot out the door and levels you with a look that screams "are you stupid?" 

"what?" you ask him obliviously, rechecking all your bags and documents before also asking, "am i forgetting something?"

"yeah. a really important thing," he comments with an unreadably, deadpan face. when a confused silence is all he gets in reply, he sighs, narrowing his eyes at you with a light blush blooming across his cheeks.

"don't make me say it.". it's only then that you realize what you forgot, smiling and laughing lightheartedly with amusement. 

"you're cute kuni." his cheeks flush brighter at the statement. "i love you and take care!". he returns your greeting with an exasparated sigh and a light nod before you go rushing out the door, unable to witness the smallest smile that creeps onto his lips.

DILUC

it's a daily routine for you guys to get ready for school/work together and greet each other with a goodbye kiss once you part ways. 

on a particular day when you had a really important presentation, the walk to your usual parting point was enveloped in a comfortable silence. 

diluc simply held your hand and let you practice your presentation, muttering unintelligible words and phrases under your breath. 

when you finally get to parting ways, diluc takes a moment to encourage you for your presentation. 

"good luck with your speech today, darling. i know you can do it. i'll see you when i get home alright?"

you nod absentmindedly, smiling before routinely pecking diluc's cheek. "mhm. have a good day, luc." 

when you start to walk away, he grabs your wrist gently and unexpectedly, turning you to face him once more. 

"yes, luc?" you ask curiously, intertwining your fingers with his own gingerly. 

"you're forgetting something, love," he chuckles lightly, squeezing your intertwined hands gently. "i love you." 

a soft smile adorns both your features as you give diluc a lingering kiss before replying with your own "i love you", regrettingly parting ways afterwards. 

XIAO

both you and xiao are walking into the school's campus. after a mundane lunch, it was time for both of you to part ways and get to classes. 

he accompanies you to your class, walking with you hand in hand in the school's surprisingly free hallways.

the short stroll is accompanied by a comfortable silence, the lack of a crowd of students creating a peaceful atmosphere. 

it's only when you arrive at your lecture hall that xiao loosens his hold on your hand, gesturing for you to go inside. 

your friends are excitedly waving at you from the other side of the hall, thus you hurry to get to them.

"i'll see you later, okay?" you squeeze his hand reassuringly before looking at your friends with a glimmer of excitement. "bye, xiao!" 

the moment you let go of his hand without your usual goodbye kiss or at least an 'i love you', his hand subconsciously reaches out for yours once again. 

thankfully, you take notice of his action and turn to him once more with a quizzical look on your face. "is something wrong?" you ask him.

he wants to say something about you forgetting to give him a kiss but the thought of saying something so sappy makes his face heat up in embarrassment. you can tell he wants to say something by the unsure look in his eyes, but he holds himself back, shaking his head. "nothing. you should head to class." 

the blush gives him off entirely because you can read him like an open book. his heart skips multiple beats when you lean in and plant a brief kiss on his cheek with a wide smile. "there. love you, and see you later, okay?". his cheeks flare up even more as he replies, "mhm. love you too…"

© withloveajaxx 2023. please do not copy, plagarize, or translate in any way.

#iely's writing #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin headcanons #genshin impact headcanons #childe x reader #childe x y/n #childe x you #childe headcanons #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x y/n #scaramouche x you #scaramouche headcanons #diluc x reader #diluc x you #diluc x y/n #diluc headcanons #xiao x reader #xiao x you #xiao x y/n #xiao headcanons #01/01/2023

[in-another-april]

Hi!!! So I would love if you did number 6 and 7 from the prompt list. I would prefer if it was a bit of angst with hurt/comfort but obviously do what you want! Love ur writing babe!! 💗💗

summary/prompt + genre - 6 and 7 from 50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You” | angst with kinda happy ending, hurt/comfort

warnings - mentions of death, minor blood and injuries, bruises

wc - 401

notes - eee thank you sm!!! i hope you enjoy and that this is close to what you had in mind, lemme know if you want me to rewrite anything differently ♡

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Spencer is barely out of the building for two seconds before you’re tackling him in a hug, the feeling of him against you making it finally possible to breathe again. He lets out a noise of surprise as he stumbles back from the force of your collision, meeting your desperation with (comparatively) steady hands. He wraps his arms around you tightly, rocking you back and forth soothingly.

“Are you okay?” He asks softly, frowning in concern.

“Wh- Am I okay? Are you?” You gape, reluctantly pulling away to examine him for injury.

“I’m fine,” He insists gently, but you continue your inspection until he cups your face in his hands, bringing your gaze back to his. “Hey, I’m alright.” Your eyes are wide and watery as he looks into them, blinking back tears of his own. One of your hands reaches up to swipe your thumb below his eye, wiping the tear away as it falls.

You repeat his words to yourself in your head, nodding tentatively. He isn’t wrong: light bruising around his eye and a busted lip, but otherwise unscathed. Eyebrows furrowed with worry, you lean up to press a delicate, barely-there kiss to the reddish purple mark forming on his face. It still doesn’t feel real, though, and you take him back into your arms for a much gentler embrace than the first, shuddering out a relived sigh.

“I-I was so worried about you, I don’t know what I would do if…” The words tumble out before you can stop them and you shake your head, unable to finish the sentence and speak around the lump in your throat.

“Nothing’s gonna happen to me.” He swallows, hand resting on the back of your head. “I’ll always come back to you; I promise.” It’s not a fair promise, and you both know it, but you really can’t find it in yourself to think about that in the moment.

Instead, you give him a light squeeze to prove to yourself that he’s really there, that he’s safe, pressing your face into the crook of his neck and breathing him in.  The feeling of his pulse, strong, steady, and slowing in the adrenaline’s aftermath finally calms you down, and it’s then you realize how tired you are without the panic there keep you up. As if he read your mind, Spencer breaks the silence with a drowsy murmur.

“C’mon, let’s go home.”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer x reader #criminal minds x reader #reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x you #x reader #inbox-another-april

[ghouljams]

Hmm, if you ever feel like taking on a bigger smut prompt, I think it would be fun to see Ghost experimenting with the hooks he has in Love, and seeing how much he can drive her crazy with pleasure without even touching her, and/or blindsiding her by tugging and making her cum even sooner than she thought she could, AND/OR denying her in any number of ways (tapping, tugging, regular old brute strength). Hehe sorry ever since you posted your most recent smut blurb I’ve been thinking of all the ways Ghost can manipulate his darling during sex.

Don’t feel obligated to do this one! I just wanted to give some ideas in case you wanted to try writing more smut stuff

“Right. There,” Simon pulls a tether tight and your orgasm just… stops, or maybe it would be more accurate to say it just keeps going. He groans feeling you still flutter and clench around him, “Good fucking girl.” He punctuates his words with hard thrusts, your slick coating his length as he does his best to bruise you inside and out.

You squeak, vision starry, back arched, every muscle trembling just at the top of your arc. His thick cock burns as it stretches you, your walls clenching to try and keep him inside as he drags his fingers through your tethers. Each gold line keeping you taught on the crashing edge of orgasm with some wordless command you could never follow on your own. You have your pleasure, and now Simon is using you to get his.

You are so intoxicatingly warm and tight for him with your neck long and bared just for him to bite and mark. Your tethers cling to him like your cunt, desperate to be his toys. Each golden thread working to keep you exactly where he wants you. They know who they belong to. He adores you, you are the altar at which he finds divinity, the god that he worships, his love, his heart.

He presses deep into you, feeling you gasp and twitch as he leans over to nip at your lips. His sharp teeth scraping just enough for blood to bead against the plush pink of your lips, just enough for him to collect it on his tongue as he pulls your tethers tighter. You're always so sweet on his lips, so sweet when you whimper and beg for him.

Your toes curl against the sheets, trying to push onto him, or away from him, you really don’t know, can’t think past the slap of his hips and the wet sound of his cock pushing into you, hitting you just right every time.

Every movement from him sends sparks up your spine, makes the heat in the pit of your stomach continue to gush and drip from your poor cunt. This is better than any magic he could’ve hit you with, any other avenue of fucking you completely out of your mind. You cant think of anything but his cock and your own desperate clawing need. You need him to cum, you need to be filled with him, you think that’ll help.

You reach out and push your fingers against his chest, pressing against his sternum until it gives way to something warm and wet. You hook your fingers in it and pull. And oh he just purrs for you.

“Harder Love,” He tells you, you can almost feel his voice between your fingers.

“Simon, please.” He clicks his tongue.

“Ah ah, I said harder.” He pulls your tethers and you pull harder, feeling him shudder as his cum floods your cunt and he lets you crash over the edge into orgasm. And orgasm. And orgasm. Fuck how many is he going to put you through?

You pull at whatever your fingers are hooked on as your back arches and your stomach clenches tight. He bucks into you like you have a direct line to his cock. His fingers untangle from your tethers and wrap around your wrist, pulling it free from its hold, like he can't take it any more.

Simon pants, chest rising and falling heavily, hair stuck in the sweat on his brow. He looks at you like you're his world, you know the feeling. You put your fingers to your lips to suck them clean, and taste blood.

#they have a lot of fun playing with the tethers #also mild body horror #Simon's physical form is a little... loose when its under Love's hands #and she is very much ok with that #these two have some dangerous kinks i'll tell you what #fae!ghost #fae au #ghost x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #reader x ghost

[featherandferns]

am i allowed to put two prompts in one? If so then i’d absolutely LOVE a grumpy!reader x sunshine!jj for 11 and 18 (or you can choose just one), they’re not really together yet, but they know they like each other and have been getting there, and he’s the only person allowed to touch her or be affectionate with her because she’s let him in and trusts him. I was thinking maybe something at a kegger, cz then 18 could probably fit in there nicely, like she’s asking for a beer or something, I dont have a whole concept sorry 😭😭

11. Sorry, pumpkin. // Don't call me that.

18. Ask nicely. // No, thank you. // I tried.

idk who's POV this is from lol but I like it so screw it. I think I want to write more grumpy!reader...

Pumpkin - prompts 11 and 18.

When you first joined the Pogues, nobody really knew how to take you. Kiara had invited you along one day. You were new to the town, having moved during the summer, and she’d mostly seen you either lounging in your front yard or watching the world pass by out the window. You’d seen her sneak out with her friends more than enough times for her to know that you weren’t going to rat her out any time soon. So, when Kie extended an invite for you to come along to drink and surf at the break, you seemed…impartial. She assumed you wanted to, considering you came along, but you didn’t much smile. You didn’t much talk either. But you got involved: had a few drinks and surfed with the rest of them. Before parting ways, you got her number and a few days later, you texted her, asking when the next hangout was.

One person who seemed to click strangely well with you was JJ. JJ was guarded in his own unique way, but it didn’t make him particularly unapproachable. He’d be up for a laugh or a joke and approaching people didn’t faze him in the slightest You however were sealed watertight. Not even a crowbar could break through your tough exterior. You didn’t talk to people and from the mardy look practically solidified on your face, you didn’t want them to talk to you either.

JJ could make you smile though. You’d almost try to hide it, but he’d see it crack through. The smallest twinge of your lips upturning before you’d glance away. The lift of your cheeks and the loosening of your jaw. When it wasn’t shown on your lips, JJ knew you were smiling through your eyes.

Sarah found it impossible to talk to you. You’d be so disinterested in what she had to say. Or at least, that’s how it seemed.

“She’s like a closed book,” she’d sigh.

“Nah,” JJ shrugged. “You just gotta know how to read her.”

Everybody has their own way of showing affection. You liked the Pogues. Overtime, they understood this. It helped when they realised your acts of service was the way that you showed your love and gratitude. Bringing Sarah her favourite seltzers to the chateau after seeing in the group chat she’d had a bad day. Casually dropping a cool turtle hatching site to Kie in conversation so she could venture out herself and take a look. Bringing Pope the homework whenever he’d miss class and wordless slipping a copy of your notes inside. Tidying up the chateau for John B after everyone had fallen asleep. All this to say, you and JJ were the closet. He reciprocated your acts with his own, and in turn you’d open up, bit by bit.

“This keggar sucks ass,” you mutter. Your arms are crossed over your chest, overtly unapproachable to anybody who didn’t know you.

JJ is stood by your side. He shrugs and takes a swig from his can. “I’ve been to worse.”

“Really? I think I’ve been to funerals more lively than this,” you say.

JJ rolls his eyes mirthfully, smiling.

“Maybe you need to loosen up? Have a dance, huh?”

With that, JJ grabbed one of your hands and makes a move like he’s getting you to salsa with him. You don’t move, don’t even sway. But you don’t pull your hand free: let him waggle your arm around like a lump of rubber, boneless.

“Damn girl, I love your moves,” he whistles.

“Screw off, Maybank,” you grumble. But he sees the twinkle in your eyes: your smile.

Nevertheless, JJ doesn’t push his luck. He lets go of your hand and you instantly miss the warmth of his palm pressed against yours.

“Sorry, pumpkin.”

“Don’t call me that,” you immediately bite. Then, you take his can and have a swig.

“You wanna leave?”

You swallow another mouthful and meet his gaze. “Do you?”

“I don’t mind.”

But you know he does. Can see the itch under his skin to join in with his friends. To have a shot at beer pong and shot gun a beer with John B. You shake your head and pass the can back to him.

“We’ll stay. Maybe I do need to lighten up.”

“Ah! I knew it, I knew it,” JJ chants.

“I said maybe,” you quickly remind. But he’s already grabbing at your hand and pulling you towards the ridiculous stack of coolers.

“You just need some booze to get ya loose,” JJ says.

He ducks into a squat and rummages through. You scan the crowd and see nothing but reckless youth. How do people do it? Become so carefree? They can’t be having as much fun as they look as though they are, surely.

“Whatcha after?” JJ asks with a groan, looking up at you.

“Get me a beer.”

“Ask nicely.”

“No,” you shortly reply. Clearing your throat, you meekly add, “thank you.”

“Well, I tried,” JJ sighs. You’re worried you might have offended him for a moment, but then he’s done riffling through and is pulling out a can of beer, holding it up to you. The condensation drips down the cylinder, over his fingers, bruised and cracked at the knuckles, pink from the cold. You take it before you cans tare at his hands much longer, like some pining creep.

“Thanks,” you quietly say, cracking it open.

JJ makes a point to move in ridiculously close to your mouth with his ear.

“What was that, pumpkin? Didn’t quite catch it?”

“I said thank you,” you gruffly repeat, and then you shove him away by the shoulder and have a drink.

One drink turns to two, three, four…Eight. As the night thrives on and the sky turns darker and darker, people come and go from the keggar: alone, in groups, in pairs. You mostly watch, happy to skulk in the background, but you don’t keep JJ from having a good time. Watching him happy, bouncy, at ease – it brings you happiness. In fact, it turns your night around.

Somewhere near three in the morning, JJ spots you sat on some driftwood. You’re crinkling the can in your hands, seeing how many dents you can make with the pressure of one finger. Someone who didn’t know you might think you’re sulking, but JJ knows that isn’t true. He bounds over, squiffy.

“Lost ya earlier.”

“Didn’t know you were looking for me,” you reply, looking up.

“You wanna leave?”

“Do you?”

The déjà vu from earlier passes over you like the summer breeze brushing against your legs. JJ shrugs.

“I will after a dance.”

“Nope.”

“Yep.”

“JJ, I can’t—”

“—Who cares? Neither can I,” he interrupts. He grabs your hands, unbothered as the empty can you were holding lands with a thud in the sand, and tugs you to your feet. “Come on, there’s hardly anyone here now.”

You sigh and glance around. And it’s true: everyone has either left or are too busy sucking the other’s face off to realise the world around them. With another sigh, you relent. You let JJ tug your hands up and onto one of each of his shoulders, and his find their place around your waist. Then the two of you sway like you’re at an elementary school dance. You rest your head on his chest, tired and relaxed.

“I’m sorry if I was a grump tonight,” you quietly say.

“You’re a grump every night.”

“Not funny,” you whisper.

“Wasn’t meant to be,” JJ returns. You feel his breath on your forehead and you know he’s closer to you than he was before. “You know you don’t have to worry about that kind of thing with me. I like you how you are.”

“Moody and bitchy and tempestuous?”

“I don’t know what the last word means but no, probably. Not moody or bitchy. Just…you.”

You look up at him with that. For some reason, there’s water in your lash line. You blame it on the late hour of the night (or morning, you suppose) and the bite of salt in the air from the sea. He holds your gaze, steady and honest.

“Just me?”

“Mhm,” JJ assures. The dip of his head is quick, as is the fleeting kiss pressed to your lips, but it wasn’t so fast that you can’t be sure that it didn’t happen. Because it did. “Just you, pumpkin.”

“Don’t ruin it, Maybank.”

“You love it really,” he says, flashing you a grin.

You bite back your smile but you know he can see it; it makes his cheeky grin only grow. With that, you hide your face on his warm chest, and with your nose nestled against the soft cotton of his t-shirt, saturated in his cologne, you let yourself smile.

#jj #jj maybank #jj x reader #jj maybank x reader #outer banks #outerbanks #jj preference #jj maybank preference #outerbanks preference #outer banks preference #outerbanks fic #outer banks fic #blurb #prompts

[seikilos-stele]

Izzy, Ed, and Saying “I’m Sorry”

I saw a post recently that said Ed’s apology (“sorry about your leg”) was fine actually, because that’s just how Ed and Izzy are, it’s just how they talk.

So I wanted to stress: that’s how Ed is. That’s not how Izzy is.

When Izzy apologizes, it’s: “I said some things I regret last night. I don’t think you’re a shell of a man or a twat.” And: “Ed, I’m sorry. I’ve been terrible to you. I fed your darkness. Blackbeard. For years I egged him on even though I knew you’d outgrown him.”

In S1 and S2 we see how izzy apologizes. He acknowledges his wrongdoing in specific “I” statements — “I did THIS, and I regret it,” “I did THIS, and it was a terrible thing to do.” When Ed apologizes it’s “Sorry about your leg.” Not “Sorry for what I did to your leg,” and no eye contact.

Some people think that Izzy’s response, “Fuck off,” is evidence that he doesn’t accept Ed’s apology, but I disagree — I do think Izzy accepted. I think it’s the most he’s ever gotten from Ed and he knows he’s not going to get anything better. Ed himself says he’s never apologized before, and only does it (not to Izzy but to the crew) when Stede makes him.

It’s worth analyzing how the two apologies are treated by the narrative as well. When Ed apologizes, all is forgiven; he gets his crew (“Ed, they love you”), he gets his lover and his happy ending. For Izzy, the narrative isn’t so kind. In one case, his apology is met with deceit from Ed — to prevent Izzy from further apologizing (by leaving the ship) Blackbeard lies to Izzy and says he plans to kill Stede, then maneuvers Izzy into doing it for him. Only to let Izzy be banished, because he never really wanted Stede dead in the first place. To recap, Izzy is mean to Ed in private; he gives a sincere, unprompted apology the next morning and tries to repent by leaving the ship; he is narratively punished with a humiliating duel and banishment.

In S2, Izzy apologizes to the crew by protecting them from the Kraken, and he IS narratively rewarded for this. His wordless apology results in love from the crew, acceptance, and support. It’s worth noting that we never see Ed make the same concerted effort to change his behavior. Stede tries to push Ed into it, but Ed resists — he rolls his eyes, he treats it as a joke, and he tries to convince his crew that they actually enjoyed being tortured. This is very different from Izzy, who quietly changes his ways without being forced or prompted.

In the finale, Izzy apologizes for feeding Ed’s darkness and absolves Ed for the way he mutilated Izzy in the S1 finale and first two episodes of S2. These mutilations are physical acts including multiple amputations and forced auto-cannibalism; Izzy still bears the scar from his suicide attempt following the final and most severe amputation. Izzy gives a high-quality apology for his mean words (“namby pamby in a silk gown pining for his boyfriend,” “I serve Blackbeard, not Edward. Edward better watch his step.”) Ed doesn’t apologize for choking Izzy, for cutting off his toes and feeding them to him, for shooting him or for goading him into suicide; he certainly doesn’t apologize for lying to him back in S1 about Stede. As we all know, while Izzy dies, Ed doesn’t apologize at all. Izzy gets only one apology from Ed in S2. It’s a low-quality apology vaguely referencing Izzy’s leg, without taking responsibility for it. Ed’s apology is the same distant statement of pity that we might hear from Lucius or Black Pete upon noticing that Izzy is disabled. “Sorry about your leg” — not as in “I’m sorry for what I did,” but as in, “Wow, it sucks that that happened to you. And it has nothing to do with me.”

It’s made worse by the fact that Ed can’t just apologize to Izzy. It’s Izzy who approaches Ed, awkwardly extending the olive branch. Ed rebukes Izzy for avoiding him and makes a judgmental comment about Izzy’s recent uptick in drinking, then seeks out Izzy’s reassurance/comfort (“It feels like a storm’s coming…”). Izzy refuses to give Ed the comfort he seeks, and it’s clear that this bothers Ed; it’s a departure from their usual dynamic.

Ed has to work up to an apology over the course of a brief conversation where the first thing he does is subtly reprimands Izzy for avoiding him. Ed’s priority is not to say he’s sorry; it’s to make sure Izzy knows Ed is upset about the silent treatment and then to seek comfort for Ed’s own emotional turmoil. Contrast this with both Izzy’s apologies: in S1, when Ed approaches him, Izzy squares his shoulders and apologizes right away. There’s no waffling about it; it’s clearly been weighing on his mind, and he needs to say he’s sorry before the conversation veers elsewhere. In S2, Izzy is literally dying; he asks Ed to stay with him, and then launches directly into his apology. There are no insults; there’s no cattiness; he doesn’t try to make Ed feel bad for being hurt.

Conclusion:

There’s a world of difference between Izzy’s apologies and Ed’s. The first difference is in the quality. The second difference is in how the narrative treats them. Ed’s low-quality apologies are rewarded. Izzy’s higher-quality apologies are punished with banishment and death.

#ofmd critical #ofmd #Izzy hands

[memoiresofaneternaldreamer]

Jeongin + 09:29 + Prompt #2 pls 🙏

Pairing: Yang Jeongin x F. reader

Themes: Smut | Fluff | Slice of Life | Established relationship | Explicit sexual acts | Slight (implied) consensual somnophilia | Slow morning sex | Unprotected intercourse (wrap it before you tap it kids!) | Slight fingering | Use of pet names (Baby, love, angel)

Word Count: 860

Playlist: ‘Mama Saturn’ - Tanerélle

Part of my ‘SKZ Smut Drabble’ challenge.

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

[09:29] The first sensation your mind registers when you awake from your peaceful slumber, is the feeling of warm lips leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses on the exposed skin of your shoulders. The second, more prominent sensation that registers is the feeling of long, slender fingers gently working themselves in and out your warm cunt. It was early. Not so early that it would warrant you getting angry at the one who had awoken you, but still too early for a Sunday morning. The sun had risen a couple of hours ago, the city you had found yourself in coming alive with it. Your lover included. You suppose it was natural for him now, his body too accustomed to hectic schedules and early hours. But you figured that the prospect of ‘time off’ - and the activities from last night - would have tired him out enough to sleep in. You should have known better.

“Good morning, angel.” He rasps, the grogginess in his voice a telltale sign of his exhaustion. You squint open your right eye, shielding yourself as much as possible from the light streaming in through the open curtains. Even though your sight is still blurry, you take a moment to bask in your lover’s features. From his tousled hair with bangs falling over his soft but tired eyes, to the apples of his cheeks slightly blushed from his arousal, to his open mouth. With plump lips, a shade darker than usual, kiss-bitten and wet, now stretched into a playful smirk. You know that smirk. It only means trouble. 

Your gaze travels lower on its’ own accord, your brain taking in his - and your - nakedness, and eventually landing on the hardness between his legs. “Hmmm. A good morning indeed.” You reply, the tone of your voice teasing as you nibble your lip. 

“I’m sorry for waking you, baby.” Jeongin apologises, his actions saying the exact opposite as his lips continue their searing path down your spine while his thumb joins in on the action between your legs, drawing slow circles over your clit. It is only when the first moan leaves your mouth that he continues. “But the light hit your skin just right, and I couldn’t help myself.” Jeongin enforces his statement by biting down on the supple flesh of your ass cheek. The yelp that leaves your lips is slightly embarrassing, and your arm reaches back to gently swat his shoulder. “I’m sorry baby.” He soothes, lapping his tongue over the now slightly reddened skin, his fingers plunging in deeper as a way of apologising. “Let me make it up to you. Please?” You are in no position to deny your lover anything he asks for, especially when he asks so sweetly, so you do just that.

The wordless nod you send his way is enough confirmation for Jeongin to keep going. “Arch your back for me.” He says, the tone of his voice soft but commanding. You comply, getting up on your knees but keeping your face and shoulders firmly planted on the mattress. Under normal circumstances, you would have made it more of a challenge for him to get you to listen, but the tiredness still lingering in your bones makes you more pliant than usual. 

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous, love.” Jeongin groans, the sight of your plump ass and glistening core nearly too much for him to handle. Your ears register the sound of his movements, and you feel his weight shift on the mattress until he is kneeling behind you. “Should I work you up some more with my fingers or can I fuck you?” He asks, retracting said fingers from inside you. The empty feeling is almost enough to make you whine, but you know something even better is coming, so you keep it in. “No need. I can take you.” You reply, as you feel the tip of his hard member brush between your folds, collecting your juices. 

“Oh, I know you can.” He replies, and plunges inside. 

Jeongin groans at the feeling of being sheathed in your warm, wet heat again, your body easily accommodating him thanks to your earlier tryst. He starts up a pace; slow but purposeful, in no rush to get you off quickly, but intend on taking you there.

It’s a soft kind of love-making. Every snap of his hips against the curve of your ass, every plunge of his cock hitting all the right spots, every soft caress of his hands over your skin, all bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Oh…Fuck.” You moan, when Jeongin presses his thumb back onto your clit, drawing soft but deliberate circles. “I’m close.” you mewl. “God, yes.” He groans, feeling your walls tighten with every swipe over your swollen nub. “You’re so tight, love. You want me to come?” He asks, the pressure in his balls increasing with every squeeze. “Oh Shit. Yes, baby. Please. Please come with me.” You croon, teetering so close to the edge you can almost taste your release. It only takes him a couple of thrusts before the both of you finally plunge over the edge, his cum painting your walls as you scream out.

A/N: First part of my 'SKZ Smut Drabble' challenge done! This turned out WAY longer than I had planned, but oh well. Also, this is definitely NOT proofread. Thank you so much for requesting anonie, hope you enjoy reading! 💟

#skz smut drabble #skz #skz smut #skz scenarios #skz fluff #skz fic #skz fanfic #skz x reader #skz imagines #skz drabbles #skz timestamps #skz hard thoughts #skz hard hours #jeongin smut #jeongin scenarios #jeongin fluff #jeongin fanfic #jeongin imagines #jeongin drabbles #jeongin timestamp #jeongin x reader #stray kids smut #stray kids scenarios #stray kids fluff #stray kids fanfic #stray kids drabbles #stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader #stray kids timestamps #kpop smut

[eoieopda]

Yoongi + “runaway bride” I’mma leave this one up to your interpretation bc I know I’ll love it either way and also wanna see what you come up with 👀

oooooooh!!! v excited by this prompt, lol. this is, um, going to hurt kind of a lot at the beginning, but stick with me!!!! also, i accidentally made this >3.3k words….. which i will proofread when i am no longer exhausted 🤪

the one with yoongi and the fucking hydrangeas

ft. POV shift, pining & correlating angst, reader who’s🎵 a runner she’s a track star 🎵, a #nonspon vans product placement, a very unfortunate namjoon (sorry, buddy,) childhood idiots in love

Yoongi sat in a seat chosen specifically for him not because he wanted to, but because he knew how much time you’d sacrificed in writing every place card by hand.

To be clear, he’d never wanted to attend this rehearsal dinner in the first place. Unfortunately, he knew the stakes. That wasn’t something he’d dare to say out loud — especially not to you. Not in that restaurant while you fluttered between tables and shined your warm light on every single guest, one by one. Not ever, because you’d slipped through Yoongi’s fingers the second Namjoon slid that ring on yours.

If, in twelve hours’ time, Yoongi could force his deflated body out of bed, he’d have to watch quietly while you got away for good.

There was nothing he could do about it, either, so he swallowed that grief with a mouthful of bibim nengmyun. He knew it wasn’t the food that tasted so bitter on his tongue; however, on the off-chance that it was, he followed suit with another ill-advised swig of makgeolli.

During the two subsequent hours he sat and stewed at that table, Yoongi had lost count of just how many glasses he’d had. His eyes never lingered on the bottle, sticking instead to you and the smile that didn’t seem to spread beyond the curve of your lips. Every now and then, you’d glance his way — and every time you did, there was a microscopic twinge at the corner of your mouth.

It felt like a signal, something cryptic, but he wasn’t in the proper headspace to begin making assumptions. For the first time ever, you’d hit Yoongi with a look he didn’t know what to do with, and that fact drove him insane. This was what he was afraid of, after all — that the invisible string between you would be re-routed to someone else, and the telepathic link you’d always shared would disappear with it.

Your friendship had started early because your respective mothers had grown up together, and found each other once again as adults with two kids each. Back then, both of your front teeth were missing and — if Yoongi made you laugh too hard at routine, weekend gatherings — banana milk would occasionally fly out through the gap. He was nine-years-old and had no concept of it, but now he knows that he loved you then.

He loved you when you were ten, and you kneed a classmate in the dick for bullying Yoongi on the basketball court. You were two years younger and half his size, but you were a force to be reckoned with.

He loved you when you were fourteen, and a wave of brand new hormones made you a little bit of a fucking nightmare to be around.

At seventeen, twenty-one, still.

Now.

There, while everyone around him clinked their chopsticks against their glasses and Namjoon accepted the crowd’s wordless demand that he kiss you.

Yoongi had done well enough with your previous relationships. None of them made him feel like this, though, and he’d spent two years unable to put his finger on why. Sandwiched at that carefully chosen table between his mother and older brother, it finally clicked: None of them ever threatened to last.

Yoongi had never been a particularly hopeful person, but buried deep in the back of his brain, there had always been a crumb of it. Part of him, however stupid, thought you’d end up together at a dinner like this. All of this was the last nail in the coffin, the alarm clock screaming that it was time to wake up.

Suddenly more nauseous than he’d ever been before, Yoongi scooted his chair back so abruptly that it scraped along the floorboards. Just as quickly, he got to his feet and made a beeline for the exit. Of all the heads that turned to watch him leave, yours was the only one he noticed in his peripheral vision. He could feel your eyes on his back — pictured how confused you must look — and it only made his stomach acid churn faster.

When he finally made it out to the patio behind the restaurant, Yoongi’s suspicions were confirmed: closed for the season. Fitting. He wasn’t in the mood to heed the signs, so he stepped carefully — one leg at a time — over the hip-high metal gate and gulped down sharp, late autumn air. As he did, he begged himself to get his shit together for you, if not for him.

He spent several minutes out there, maybe even hours, sitting on a bare, metal chair and glowering out at the trees at the edge of the property. He hated himself, he realized, for how easily he wasted time. Let it slip by unnoticed while he stood still.

The clock seemed to mock him, ticking faster from behind him as if time was going to outrun him again.

At least, that was his first guess.

Yoongi quickly learned that the clicks weren’t signaling the passing seconds; they were broadcasting the urgent beat of stilettos on brick. So, having figured that his mother had appeared outside to gun him down, Yoongi glanced over his shoulder and braced himself for the be-all, end-all of scoldings.

What he got instead was you and the undeserved concern that caused your eyebrows to furrow.

“Are you okay?” You asked quietly once you reached the gate. With your manicured hands on the cold metal, you shivered, but you didn’t seem to notice. “Did you eat too much of the gochujang? I definitely did, and now I’ll be up all night with heartburn.”

Yoongi felt as though he’d been punched in the chest. The memory caught him in a riptide, beat him bloody against the rocks because he could’ve sworn he was sixteen again, stacking old encyclopedias under the headboard of your bed. He’d read somewhere online that, while sitting upright in a chair can exacerbate reflux, sleeping at an angle could help.

He was dizzy when he blinked back at you and saw your lips moving. He had to focus hard to figure out what you were saying.

“You remember that?”

Yoongi struggled to even out his breathing; he had no hope at all of finding the plot he’d lost. “Huh?”

You grinned and it made up for all the stars that had been hidden by grey clouds overhead. “The encyclopedias,” you chuckled, “They worked, you know.”

Yoongi didn’t mean to say it. He knew it before, during, and after it slipped out of his mouth that it was the worst goddamn thing he’d ever done, but he couldn’t stop himself — couldn’t shove the bullet he’d shot back into the gun. With the way it exploded through his chest — I love you — he was surprised that his body was still intact. No viscera sprayed out from the exit wound, no stains appeared on your chic, white cocktail dress.

You opened your mouth but closed it soon after, so clearly stunned by his unsolicited admission that you couldn’t find the words. Yoongi had no expectations whatsoever when it came down to your reaction because he hadn’t meant to provoke one in the first place. Even still, the wounded look on your face was worse than anything he might’ve imagined.

The two of you stood in tense silence for so long that Yoongi’s soul had nearly ejected itself fully from his body.

“That’s not fair,” eventually came your shaky reply. You clenched your fist tight around the top of the gate to anchor yourself and stammered, “Yoongi, that is not — Why would you —”

As soon as he aimed to take a step in your direction, your shock gave way to a scowl that could’ve boiled him alive.

“Why would you dump that at my feet? Tonight, of all fucking nights, Yoongi — seriously?” You snapped, though it sounded like a sob. “What am I supposed to do with this now?”

Now?

He didn’t know how to respond. He was paralyzed, inside and out, and he deserved it. Who the fuck was he, forcing the burden of his feelings onto you?

Selfish. Stupid. Out of time, as usual.

The makeup you always took so much time on started to run alongside your tears. Yoongi had seen you cry before, though he’d always been the reason you stopped, rather than started. He hated every single one of those muddied, black tears because he knew you. He knew you would have worn waterproof mascara if you’d had any reason to anticipate crying on your special night.

“I’m getting married in the morning!”

Your reminder was a dagger flying out of your mouth, sticking him right between the ribs. It stung as images flooded his mind — of you and Namjoon, your guests, and your out-of-season, imported fucking hydrangeas. It hurt even worse to see how badly you shook as you glared at him.

“Yoongi — fuck!”

Before you walked away, your eyes locked on his for a fraction of a second. In that moment, Yoongi promised himself that it was the last time you’d ever have to see his face.

When you were little, you pictured your wedding day like a moment ripped straight out of Cinderella. In your head, you’d wake up to birds singing at your window and mice scurrying around your feet, eager to dress you in a gown of epic and magical proportions. It’d be perfect. For years, you’d been sure of it.

In reality, there was no waking up because there hadn’t been a single second of sleep to begin with. No beauty rest, no sweet dreams of marital bliss — just you, feeling as if you’d swallowed a car battery. It sat heavy in the pit of your stomach, let acid burn all the way up to your esophagus. And it’d been all too easy to toss and turn in your hotel bed, which laid perfectly level on top of a plush, floral rug.

You crawled out of bed without the assistance of altruistic rodents and shuffled your dead weight over to the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. For once, your imagination had been accurate. Your puffy eyes were red in the aftermath of all your tears. They ached above circles so deep and dark that they would’ve alarmed you if you hadn’t expected them.

Namjoon had seen you at what you both believed to be your worst. Neither of you could’ve ever predicted that the Corpse Bride would be the one staggering down the aisle towards him. He’d love you anyway, you knew it, no matter how you looked. But if he knew what you spent all night toiling over…

You shook your head and abruptly turned away from the mirror. There were several of your dearest friends bustling around the room next to yours, all of whom were waiting on you. Swallowing hard, you headed for the adjoining door and promised yourself that the only person you’d let down today would be you.

You lost all track of time when a blur of hands went to work on you. If you’d closed your eyes while you dissociated, you could’ve pretended that your assistants were those woodland creatures you used to dream about. But you couldn’t close your eyes, couldn’t sleep through this part, couldn’t let your mind wander all the way back to that patio.

It’d been terrifying, staring your own heart in the face like that. More than anything, it was confusing because it didn’t look like you expected it would — not like an organ at all, but a person. You’d gotten so good at ignoring it that you couldn’t reasonably expect yourself to recognize it. It knew you, though, and loved you. Apparently, it always had.

As you sat in that hotel room, far away from the patio, you pictured every other moment you wished Yoongi had said what he did. The thousand times you’d thought for sure he felt the same, and all the ways you distracted yourself when you resigned to believing he didn’t. Every person you dated until you finally managed to move on —

“— please, love?”

You blinked rapidly to force your eyes to focus. In front of you, your mother stood with a knowing smile on her face and a sokchima in her hands. You didn’t need to ask her to repeat herself; you took the hint and rose slowly to your feet.

“I was nervous on my wedding day,” she hummed as she pulled the undergarment gently over your head. “Hungover, too, but your grandmother does not need to know that. Frankly, I’m surprised she couldn’t tell with how bloated I was when she helped me get ready…”

The bright scarlet chima followed without so much as a word from you. Your heart slammed helplessly against your rib cage when your mother proceeded to tug the sleeves of your jeogori up your arms. This moment should be special, you thought bitterly. All you wanted to do was cry; to apologize to your mother for your total inability to care while your wedding happened around you, not for you.

Soon enough, you were dressed. Your friends and older sister gushed about how beautiful you looked — the perfect bride — like you weren’t caught in the web of an anxiety attack. Like it wasn’t all wrong, and you weren’t dangling on the precipice of your life’s greatest mistake. Like you hadn’t spent so much of your hard-earned money on invitations and greenhouse-grown, special-ordered fucking hydrangeas.

Like you could catch a fucking breath under all the layers of your hanbok.

Sensing that a moment alone was necessary, your mother kissed your cheek and ushered the others out the door ahead of her. Before seeing herself out, too, she stalled in the threshold, turned back around to look at you, and exhaled through a pause.

“I left your shoes by the dresser,” she chirped.

The gentleness of her tone was reassuring, but there was a faint gleam in her eyes that caught your attention. Before you could ask after it, she nodded firmly once and let the door click shut behind her.

Alone again, your instinct was to do the same thing you’d spent ten consecutive hours doing — burying yourself under pillows and crying until you ran out of tears. But you had run out, which was precisely was the problem. You had no options left, nothing left to do but lean in.

At least, that was your first guess.

Your list of choices expanded by one when you saw the well-worn pair of slip-on Vans your mother had set out for you.

Yoongi sat on the edge of his bed with his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands.

Only two meters away, a garment bag hung from the hook on the back of his bedroom door. That bag — and the crisp, black suit it concealed — lingered there for weeks in the shadows, untouched since the day he bought it. Even though it hadn’t left its hanger, he felt it smothering him throughout the night. It choked him while one thought ran circles in his sleep-deprived brain:

The reason he bought it was the same reason he’d never be able to wear it.

Sick of the way he’d trapped himself with his thoughts, Yoongi pushed himself to his feet and crossed over to the door. With the way he flung it open, knob slamming against the wall, he’d likely never recover his security deposit. It felt good, though, taking his grief out on that godforsaken suit.

On his way to his front door, Yoongi stopped short. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a cabinet he hadn’t opened in weeks. As he stared at it, the devil and angel on his shoulders warred over the action he wanted so desperately to take.

Sure, he’d recently — finally — quit at your insistence, but what did that matter now?

He gritted his teeth and shook his conscience off his shoulders with a shrug. Within seconds, Yoongi was on the other side of his kitchen, grabbing an unopened pack of cigarettes and the lighter that lay in wait next to it. He closed his hand tight around it so he couldn’t see the Hello Kitty stickers you’d placed all over the plastic; your attempt to dissuade him from using it in public.

Joke’s on you, he thought as he placed a cigarette between his lips, your plan backfired. Leaving your mark on it the way you had was the only thing that’d kept him from throwing it away — and the only reason he still had a lighter to use at all.

Yoongi opened his front door with one hand as he tried to ignite the lighter with the other. No matter how many time he flicked the pad of his thumb over those little metal ridges, nothing sparked. Defeated yet again, he slumped down onto the porch swing, closed his eyes, and willed himself not to break down over something so stupid.

He had no way of knowing how much time passed as he sat like that. He had no way to tell who those urgent footfalls belonged to, either. That is, not until panted breaths hit his ears and prompted him to open his eyes.

Admittedly, Yoongi had pictured you in your bridal hanbok more than once throughout the years. Half the time, it hadn’t even been purposeful. From first to third grade, you’d rambled to him about your dream wedding on your daily walks home from school. You spoke about it so often, in fact, that even he started thinking about what embroidery a mouse might add to the hem of your chima.

As the pair of you got older, you brought it up less, so Yoongi didn’t think about it often. The image crept up on him, though, once in a while. Every time you brought him as a plus one to your friends’ weddings because you didn’t want to dance alone; and he nearly told you that he’d always want to be your partner.

Or that time you cried through your worst ever heartbreak on his couch, lamented that you’d die an old maid, and never get to wear one.

Even as recently as last night, when he drank half a fifth of whiskey and grieved over the fact that he’d never get to see you wear one.

He couldn’t make heads or tails of the real thing, not with the way you’d doubled over to catch your breath; and bunched the ends up in your fists, presumably to prevent yourself from tripping as you — ran here?

“What did I tell you about the cigarettes?” You puffed, still with your hands on your knees and your face angled at the sidewalk.

Somehow, despite running five kilometers to Yoongi’s doorstep, you hadn’t displaced a single hair from your artfully crafted up-do. Your makeup hadn’t budged, either, which meant that the only sign of your expended effort was the tint of pink on your cheeks and the tip of your nose.

You’d outrun his train of thought in your scuffed, old Vans. Yoongi had to buffer for a moment in order to catch up, but the involuntary smile fighting its way over his mouth didn’t bother to wait. Eventually, he recited your long-suffering appeal, smirking all the while, “They’ll fuck me up, and I’ll have to be wheeled out onto the basketball court in an iron lung.”

“Exactly.”

With one last, deep breath, you returned to your upright position. The second you did, Yoongi was the one choking up.

Rapid blinking did nothing to stop the tears pricking at the inner corners of his eyes. He swallowed the lump in his throat to the best of his ability, but he couldn’t shake the inexplicable flutter in his chest at the sight of you. You’d always been perfect, but this was —

“Oh, my god,” he croaked, thoroughly melted from the inside out.

Yoongi stood before his brain could signal his legs to do so; or remind his hands not to drop the phone, lighter, and cigarettes he’d been holding. His eyes, on the other hand, knew exactly what to do. He drank in your appearance like he’d spent the last twenty-two years wandering, dehydrated in the desert — and in a way, he had.

You blinked back at him with swimming eyes as if you’d found sanctuary, too. Suddenly aware of what you were gripping, you opened your fists and let the fabric flutter down to the ground. While smoothing out wrinkles that didn’t exist, you asked softly, “Not bad for a bunch of mice, right?”

“Look just like a dream,” he replied just as gently.

Yoongi’s hands, which were thankfully now free, reached out and grabbed yours. You followed his lead as he spun you, twirled under his raised arm until you ended up with your face mere centimeters from his.

“Yoongi,” you breathed. Your eyes danced from his, to his lips, and back again. “If you wait another twenty-two years to tell me how you feel, please pick a time and place that is mutually convenient. I swear to God, I’ll —”

It came out much more easily the second time than the first; and when it did, it felt more like a beginning than a bomb:

“I love you.”

#re: the one with yoongi and the fucking hydrangeas #jade’s requests #jade’s drabbles #2k drabblepalooza #myg #min yoongi #yoongi #bts #bts drabble #yoongi drabble #bts imagine #bts scenarios #yoongi imagine #yoongi scenarios #min yoongi x reader #yoongi x reader #yoongi fluff #yoongi angst #trashlibrary

[obriengf]

Jubilee || Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Summary: You find moments of clarity throughout your boyfriend's birthday. Words: 1.9k Warnings: totally added tay swift references - not really a warning (: Notes: despite the photo used in the banner, the reader is non-gender specific, non-race specific, etc.

April 8th, 1995 - Happy Birthday Stiles Stilinski ・❥・

You weren't sure what it was, exactly - maybe it was simply just how his eyes would widen with excitement, a childhood gleam that twinkled so exuberantly as he smiled. Or, it could be how his body jumped with so much positive energy, the balls of his feet built with springs as he bounded around with pure enthusiasm. Perhaps, it was really the way in which he couldn't stop talking, in absolute Stiles fashion, his mind and mouth running with stories and ideas and honest happiness. Selfishly, you would like to say that it was when he encased his body around yours and provided loving kisses with every 'thank you' during his never-ending expression of gratitude. Whatever it was, it made this time of year your favourite of them all. Nothing could beat celebrating your boyfriend's birthday.

His twenty-ninth year started with a tender peck - lips pressed to his cheek as they covered a freckled canvas, his skin warm as it remained settled under the morning sun that filtered through the blinds. It twitched from such a delicate sentiment and was followed by lashes dancing as the boy began to wake. He was so beautiful, and it prompted your heart to clutch in absolute awe.

His arm was heavy as it remained slung over your waist, despite pulling you closer to his chest in oblivious movements from his still-slumbered state. He hummed lightly against the shell of your ear, a sound of acknowledgement, wordless contentedness to the complacency you helped him feel. It made you kiss him again on the upturn of his nose and he groaned as it scrunched.

"Hi." You whispered so quietly, his caramel toned eyes fluttering once again as they tried to adjust to the morning light. Stiles smiled at you, completely loving with just a simple glance. A hum pushed past your lips, "Good Morning, handsome."

"It is now." He replied, so smooth, so swift. The truth embedded in such little words and encapsulated with sleepy raspiness.

Noses brushed as you giggled under your breath, your thumb rubbing gently under his eye, "And Happy Birthday."

He leaned into your touch as if it were moulded to fit his face, love exuberating from his features with ease, "Thank you, baby."

It was amusing to watch as Stiles shovelled his face with pancakes - the breakfast dish easily branded as his favourite, and seen quite evidently as he moaned loudly in satisfaction. The plate was stacked high and you knew that the sugar rush could potentially be catastrophic, but it was his day, and he deserved everything he desired.

An incredulous look was etched deeply into the furrowed brows and confused lift of Noah Stilinski's lips as he watched his son across the table. The coffee mug in his hand was teetering on the edge of lukewarm by now, but he couldn't tear his focus away. You'd think that after twenty-nine years, the man would be somewhat immune to the quirkiness of his son. Noah's eyes glanced briefly around your small kitchen space - an area where you and Stiles spent much of your time since you moved in together. He had always admired the varied elements representing you both and how easy it was for your lives to merge. It was as if soulmates were united, and this is how your beings were destined to be intertwined.

"You spoil him." Noah's deep voice broke through the silent chuckle you expelled toward your boyfriend, eyes managing to break free as they looked to the man beside you. Appreciation filled the small smile he shone your way and you couldn't help but release an elated exhale, your head nodding in agreement.

"I know." Your reply was simple but was spoken with the utmost adoration for Stiles, observing as a childish spark embodied him with joyousness; a light that took a while to finally settle within his heart after years of trepidation and great wars. A sigh pushed past your lips, "But he deserves it, all of it, after everything he's been through."

And you would give him the world on a silver platter if you could, but you knew that all Stiles truly wanted was to be content. He craved silly grown-up routines and times when he could relax without the threat of worry. He wanted to relive mundane moments from his teenage years that were short-lived due to monsters that lurked in the shadows. He yearned for endearment and safety and just simply knowing that you would be there every morning and night, curled up in his arms, loving him unconditionally. Stiles never asked for a lot, so days like today were ones you strived to make special. Because he deserved special, every last speck of it.

Noah snickered to himself, pride filling his chest as he looked between yourself and Stiles. "He deserves you most, ya know." His words struck a chord - one with melodic tunes, strummed hard enough to get your heart beating fast as a red blush pinched at your nose and cheeks. You reached across and placed a hand over his, your eyes bright as you looked at the older Stilinski.

"Thank you." That was all you ever wanted.

Stiles could work a room, especially when the buzz was centered around him. He had bounced across your living room several times by now, excitement filling his veins as he couldn't stop talking to the friends and family who came to see him for his birthday. You were standing off to the side, half listening as Scott was making conversation about his week at the Clinic - your focus was mostly on Stiles, admiring the way he was utilising his over-energetic nature and definite possible sugar hype from his breakfast. He had never looked happier as words flowed from him, a bottle of beer clutched between the fingers of his right hand as his left arm hung jovially over Liam's shoulders in deep narration.

"You're not listening, are you?" Scott spoke up, amused as his arms crossed over his chest and he leaned back casually against the wall.

"Sorry, Scotty." You offered a smile, apologetic tones seeping through and your friend couldn't help but shake his head as he returned your smile amiably. You took a sip of your own drink, making sure to turn your body slightly, attempting to provide full attention even though your mind still wandered whenever you heard your boyfriend's laugh. "I was, I just got a little distracted --"

" -- It's all good." He intercepted your explanation, a look of knowing putting you at ease. He knew well the effect that you and Stiles had on each other, for the most part, and how you were both connected so seamlessly by an invisible string that without fail drew you back to one another. It only made sense that a part of your focus would always be on him. "But kudos on the party. You definitely decked the place out, and Stiles seems to definitely be enjoying himself."

You hummed, eyes picking up the array of decorations that you so carefully placed only a couple of hours ago. "You know more than anyone that I'd do anything to just see him happy. After all, today is Stiles Day and honestly..." You trailed off, features already beginning to scrunch up as joviality shaped your words, "I think I like it more than Christmas."

You laughed, and Scott joined you. He agreed wholeheartedly as his hand splayed over his chest, head nodding and lopsided smile growing by the second.

It wasn't too long after when the crowd gathered around your dining table with Stiles perching at the head as he sat tall. The lights were turned off and the room became swallowed by darkness - building anticipation, creating an atmosphere of smiles and eagerness for the theatrics to follow. It was the sound of hissing that made ears perk and eyes swiftly track the source as it entered from the kitchen. You had gentle hands as his cake remained in your hold; silhouettes sitting against the walls from shoots of sparking fire that sat atop his cake. His gaze grew large, and the normal caramel tone of his eyes shifted to a glowing golden hue from the reflecting sparklers.

You placed the cake in front of Stiles before planting a tender kiss against the apple of his grinning cheek, your nose nuzzling into his favourite spot under his ear, "Happy Birthday, my handsome man."

The crowd began to sing, mismatched harmonies growing louder in the small space of your apartment. It was hasty as Stiles' large hands gripped at your waist, your body falling toward his own before he sat you in his lap. Legs dangled over his knees and it made you giggle against the curve of his shoulder. Stiles pecked your template before replicating your nuzzle, his nose dragging against your hairline, "I love you."

You watched as the sparklers danced patterns across his affectionate expression, completely mesmerised by him and the fortune you felt, before you smiled up at him, "I love you too. Now blow out those candles!"

It wasn't much different from your usual Monday night; the television played some reruns of comedies from the 90's, every light in the room was turned off except the dingy floor lamp beside the couch, and the coffee table was graced by Chinese takeout containers and leftover plates of birthday cake. Stiles slumped back against the soft cushions with his feet perched upon the table, socks cladding his feet as they moved in tune with the opening credits of an old sitcom. He was in complete comfort, only made better by your frame as it was situated under his arm with your head pressed to his chest and hands curled in the material of his t-shirt. His touch was absentmindedly dragging up and down your side with dancing fingers, the sentiment just barely felt as the movements remained delicate and featherlike.

"Today was amazing." He said so nonchalantly, voice hardly competing with the television as the sound remained low.

You burrowed yourself closer to him, tiredness beginning to takeover, "I'm glad."

Stiles grinned lazily, his lips puckered before pressing kisses down the expanse of your cheek as his nose trailed after them, "But this?Right now... full of cake and chow mein, us cuddling and watching Friends reruns... this is my favourite part. Without a doubt."

"But we do this practically every night." You mused, voice laced with humor and confusion before gently pulling away from him. Your brow was raised, but the puzzled expression across your features was captured with a smile.

"Yeah, we do, but... just knowing how much effort you put into making today the best birthday, it just makes it all mean so much more."

Your heart pattered, a rush of endearment and affection. It was loud and fast in your chest, but one would never have guessed from the quiet squeak of your voice that followed, "I only ever want the best for you."

"And all I ever want is you. Period."

The light from the television casted a blue glow as you leant forward, your arms encasing themselves around Stiles' neck as thighs straddled his own. The programme was long forgotten, and his face settled against your shoulder. You could feel him breathe you in as his own arms wrapped around to your back, his large splayed hands pushing your body further against him.

You kissed the crown of his head, fingers gentle as they tangled themselves in the loose locks of his hair, "Happy Birthday, Stiles."

#dylan o'brien #dylan o'brien x reader #stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski x reader #teen wolf #teen wolf x reader #stiles stilinski fic #stiles stilinski imagine #stiles stilinski x you #teen wolf x you

[outerbankies]

so I'll watch your life in pictures like I used to watch you sleep, and I'll watch you forget me like I used to feel you breathe..." for the prompts

new light: last kiss

new light masterlist a/n: thank you for sending this in!! the 2k prompt celly slooowly trucks along. this takes place in part 9 of the og series!

When Rafe told Topper that Ward had called him home, he should’ve expected this exact scenario.

And yet, it’s still somehow a surprise when Topper and Kelce pull up to Tannyhill on Friday evening, mere hours since Rafe even pulled in himself. It was an exhausting drive home, and an even more exhausting talking-to from his father afterward. Add onto that that he hadn’t been sleeping much at all in the past week, and Rafe felt like half-dead climbing into Topper’s Jeep.

“Lodge?” Topper had asked. 

Rafe had shrugged, looking away with intention before he could see the look his friends exchanged between themselves. But the view out the window was no better when Topper drove right by your house. 

You were everywhere here.

Rafe knew coming home would be taxing. But it was like he could feel you in the stubborn humidity still hanging around in October almost as clearly as he had felt you in California only a week ago. In June, you’d insisted on leaving a window open to sleep because you missed the sound of cicadas in the summer, and Rafe would wake up sweating buckets to find you sleeping peacefully to his side, bodies pressed so closely together he could feel your chest moving when you breathed.

And it was he could hear your laughter in the sound of the ocean waves crashing on his drive right by the water, all the way out to Figure 8. The salt in the air, the chaotic noises of the marina. 

After a few drinks, Rafe figures he’ll probably be able to see your outline walking through town.

Topper’s whistle is shrill in his ear, and Rafe really needs to do a better job pretending he’s alright if he’s going to make it through this weekend without spilling anything. 

“Dude. What’s with you?” Rafe is asked. Even Kelce, never not known to fill an awkward silence, is looking at him silently from across the table. 

“Nothing,” Rafe decides sipping down the rest of his IPA until its foam. Wordless eye contact with Charlie at the bar, and another one’s coming.

“Old man give it to you pretty good today?” Kelce asks.

“Kinda,” Rafe answers. He can’t really remember at this point. It was a lot of the same; a lot about you. His distraction, his hindrance. His everything.

“Alright then. So… shots?” Topper asks hesitantly. Rafe shrugs, his go-to for the night he supposes, and Kelce nods emphatically; Topper’s taking that as good enough, venturing to the bar. Rafe watches him try and fail to cut through a pack of tourists with no luck. Tourists, at Rafe’s dingy bar on The Cut, this late in the season.

“Rafe.” Kelce says, and it sounds like it might have been the third or fourth try.

“Sorry, dude,” Rafe replies. “You know, I think I’m going home after this round. I’m exhausted—been driving all fuckin’ day.”

“No, no worries,” Kelce says. “I was just asking if you saw McCall’s story the other night.”

Rafe sees Kelce’s phone in his hand and averts his eyes as quickly as he can, squandering the urge to start choking on his spit by loudly clearing his throat. He trains his focus on his empty pint instead, dragging the glass and its condensation back and forth across the table, wondering when his new one—or better yet, that round of shots—will materialize. “No. I haven’t. You follow McCall?”

“Yeah, she’s hot. And shit was so funny, dude. Y/n/n was hammered last night,” Kelce laughs.

Rafe should’ve know that’s where this was heading—why else would Kelce bring that up. But he’s 15 again. Then 19, 20 and 21, too. All those ages in between. He’s every age he ever was before he finally got you to fall in love with him, dreading the moment Kelce inevitably brought up your name. 

Things were a little different this time. Rafe’s not an embarrassed and lovesick teenager willing his blush to creep back down his neck. He supposes he’s more of a man now, jaded and stuck walking around his hometown like an open wound, while you’re out with your friends. But he guesses he is, too. 

He should be happy, shouldn’t he? That you seem to be having fun? He’d ended it. You’d agreed. Even though he could tell you didn’t want to, you had. In way, you’d let him go, too. You’d made a choice just like he had, and maybe it wasn’t getting you down as much as it was him. He’d broken your heart, and you’d deleted your photos together and went out drinking with your friends. 

God, where are those shots?

“I didn’t even know Y/n still drank like that,” Kelce continues. “Not without you around anyway. I’m talking senior ditch day levels of shitfaced, if you remember that.” 

You blacked out on Kildare’s senior ditch day, Rafe remembers it well. Because he’d been the designated driver for Matteo’s party, which meant he was the one who had to then decide which friend was sober enough to watch the rest of your friends while he got you out of there, safely out of that house and into your own, all without losing it on whatever guy from the lacrosse team had got you that way and whatever friend of Rafe’s hadn’t been watching it closely enough. Rafe had been the one to hand you off to your younger brother, praying to god Dylan wouldn’t tell and make Rafe complicit in your parents’ future disdain. And he’d been the one to receive an embarrassed text from you the next day. And he’d been the one who didn’t care, just glad you were okay. That Rafe could never fathom sharing a first kiss with you, but the last one would make a lot more sense to him.

“Yeah, well. Not really my problem anymore,” he snaps, before he can decide to do otherwise, residual anger from that day toppling over the mess of emotions he already was.

Kelce rolls his eyes. “Please. You were making her your problem before she ever even was. And I’ll drink to that, actually—I wonder where those shots—”

“I broke up with her.”

Kelce cracks a grin, letting out a surprised laugh. A few seconds go by, and the grin falls. “I know you’re not joking about that, Rafe.”

A sad country songs takes over on the speakers, and Rafe hides his face in his hands, unable to bear the look on Kelce’s face when it finally dawns on him. It was hard enough around the only others who knew, and Rafe would honestly prefer his roommates in Georgia were still as oblivious as Kelce had been a few seconds ago, and as Topper still is at the bar right now. He’d tried to keep it that way, for a while at least, but it didn’t take long after Graham picked him up from the airport for his best friend to figure it out. 

Graham must have passed it on to Sawyer and Cody soon after, because he didn’t get a second of normalcy before the kid gloves came out. Those guys didn’t even know you, hadn’t even seen Rafe around you save for grainy FaceTimes over the summer, the ones Rafe had cut off in favor of giving you his undivided attention. He can’t believe he was even nervous at the idea of you meeting them at this point—he’d give anything to stress over something so idiotic now.

But Kelce knew you, better than he knew Rafe or maybe just the same. And Rafe didn’t know what to make of Kelce having no idea of what had happened, indication you’d told him as much as Rafe had. When his friends showed up at Tannyhill today, he’d half expected the death glare he’s getting right now when Rafe picks his head up again.

“Say it again.”

“Kelce,” Rafe groans, pained.

“Say it again,” he presses. “Say it one more time, Rafe, and I’ll know you’re serious.”

“I broke up with her,” he says. “We broke up.”

“You broke up with her?” Kelce repeats. “Or you broke up?”

“Whoa.” 

Topper’s reappeared, a flight of shots in his hands that Rafe is shocked actually make it onto the table and don’t smash all over the sticky ground. 

“Whoa,” Topper repeats dumbly. “What? Who broke up with who?”

“I don’t know, Top,” Kelce says, scooting his stool back, the feet scraping loudly on the same sticky floor. “‘Cause I’m having trouble understanding, too.”

“Can you not be so fucking dramatic?” Rafe sneers, picking the shot glass closest to him and downing it without a thought. He downs the second closest, too, just for good measure. 

“I’m gonna call her right now,” Kelce warns, his phone already in his hand. “You have one more chance to tell me this is the dumbest fucking joke you’ve ever told.”

“Guys,” Topper says hesitantly. He glances between Rafe and the only remaining shot, worried.

Rafe looks to Kelce, and having no doubt he’s serious, gives the only reply that comes to mind. “Will y’make sure she’s alright?”

“God fucking dammit, Cameron,” Kelce sighs, beelining for the front door, somewhere Rafe is glad he won’t have to hear whatever comes out of his mouth next. 

Topper sits down, looking bewildered, picking up that third shot. He offers it to Rafe, who waves him off, before taking it. “I’m sorry. What?”

Rafe hasn’t cried, Rafe doesn’t cry, but if his best friend makes him say it one more time then he might have to put stock into the tightening in his throat or the pressure behind his eyes he’d been feeling since he left California. 

He’d been sleeping in your bed a week ago, waking up hours before you because his body was still ahead, content to let you sleep as long as possible while he took in everything he felt being close to you again, how your face and hair and nails had subtly changed since he last got to see you in August. How you had pictures of him by your bed, stuck on your mirror in your bathroom, hanging in the hallway and even under magnets on the fridge downstairs. How your blinds were in need of fixing, your sheets smelled just like they did back in Kildare, how the stack of books on your bedside table—one of their pages split down the middle by a polaroid he knew was of him and Wilbur—was so close to falling off Rafe barely dared to set his phone and wallet down but did anyway. 

Because they fit, just like he somehow fit in your bed and in your heart and in your life, so grateful in these moments he got to love you without thinking twice about it, wondering how he ever got along without them. And you’d wake up with fake annoyances that he hadn’t woken you up with him, kissing him sleepily before going downstairs to start a pot of coffee. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, Top,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Well—tell me what happened, to start,” Topper says. “Or—are you ready for that?”

When Charlie finally, finally, brings over another beer, Rafe figures he might was well try. “I felt like I wasn’t doing anything right. She’s crying all the time, I’m fucking up and pissing her off left and right. Her friends… fuck, I don’t even know if they liked me. I’m sure they don’t now.” 

“But that’s not why…”

“I know you’re trying to understand, but—”

“And I can’t, dude. What? You broke up with Y/n/n?”

“Yes, dude, fuck! Alright? I broke up with her. I fucked it up. I don’t know why everyone’s so fucking surprised—I was bound to screw it up at some point, wasn’t I? I’m a mess, I lied to her, I was never gonna be good enough for all of it or her.”

“You lied?” Topper asks. 

“I lied to my dad,” Rafe corrects, frustrated. “Why  do you think I’m here? This is my life. This. My job, my dad, this shitty bar on this shitty island. And she’s…”

So good, too good. Way too good for Rafe.

Topper must agree to an extent, and Rafe doesn’t know why that makes him feel better, that his friend lets the silence drag for so long. Maybe it gives Rafe time to convince himself he hadn’t fucked up, that he’d made the right move in letting you go. He doesn’t know how he ever convinced himself this wasn’t the only way this could end.

Topper finally nods his head in recognition. “That’s heavy. No chance you’ll work it out?”

He barely thought at all this week, going through the motions like a zombie, ignoring his roommates when they changed their tack and decided Rafe needed to get over it by going out or calling up an old favorite. The nausea that kind of thinking gave Rafe left him with no other choice but to start locking his door and stop answering their texts until they’d worried he died.

Kelce approaches the table again, and Rafe looks for any sign he can that will indicate how it went, but he only addresses Topper.

“I can’t get a signal outside—fuck The Cut—I’m gonna try the bathroom. And you,” Kelce says, pointing at Rafe. “You better find your own way home until I can figure out if I need to punch you in the face or not.”

“Stop, Kelce, what the fuck, man?” Topper says, watching him go. But he stands to follow him before turning back to Rafe. “I’m gonna go cool him off, alright? Don’t go anywhere, you’re shitfaced. We can work this out.”

Rafe watches them walk away, wondering briefly if he’s gonna lose either of them over this. He might deserve it, he decides as he ignores Topper’s only instructions, tossing a few bills at the end of the bar along with all three shot glasses stacked neatly inside the empty pint he’s holding. Charlie nods at him as he does.

Rafe pushes the door open, deciding he could use the walk.

#rafe cameron #new light hcs #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks

[torukmaktoskxawng]

60 with Lo'ak x reader? I put in 1-101 on a generator and this came up three times so i think it's a sign PFFT

it just feels right for lo'ak to have this with someone, kind of like Ronal and Tonowari speaking with their eyes basically!! reader can be omaticaya or metkayina , whatever you deem fitting :)

#60: In Sync/Wordless Conversations

Pairing: Lo'ak x Fem!Metkayina!Reader

Warnings: Language, fluff, time skips

Na'vi Words: olo'eyktan - clan leader, tanhì - bioluminescent freckle, marui - home, sem'pul - father, maite - daughter, nivi - hammock, skxawng- moron, nantangtsyìp - dog (Earth animal)

A/N: Oh, hell yeah I love this sort of prompt. Wordless Conversations is definitely my love language. Do I love it because I'm terrible at vocally expressing my feelings and crave for someone to know me inside and out without prodding me for words? Shut up and lemme cope.

He had always struggled with saying what he meant, and he always said things he didn't mean. In his youth, he was Jakesully's troubled son, someone who wasn't Neteyam, the firstborn golden child. Being second in everything, Lo'ak couldn't live up to so many expectations being Toruk Makto's son, and so his communication skills were shit, to say the least.

Lo'ak knew Y/n would one day be his mate simply because no one understood him like she did, and she understood him without even asking.

From day one, when he first saw her emerge from the waters of Awa'atlu, their eyes met, blue on yellow, he knew he was done for. Those eyes stared into his very soul and read him from the inside out. He wasn't sure if it was even possible to keep a secret from her. During their very first interaction together, when Tsireya had properly introduced the pair, Lo'ak couldn't hold back what he was thinking, no matter how hard he tried to keep it to himself. One look from Y/n, and he was spilling his newly found secret, "Beautiful."

Day one and Y/n could See Lo'ak in ways that no one, not even his family, could see.

~~~

It was safe to say that Lo'ak could See Y/n, too. After he had called her beautiful, their interactions were cute, shy, and flirtacious. Y/n would help Tsireya, Rotxo, and Ao'nung teach the Sully children their ways in between her chores. Nearly every time she walked up to their little group, Lo'ak is the first to spot her, and every time he grins and calls out, "She's back!"

"I am. And how are you, Lo'ak?" She rolled her eyes, despite smiling.

"Same as yesterday. You didn't stay away long," his grin was attractive, fangs sparkling in the sun, and looked as though he knew the secrets of the universe, "You just can't get enough of me, can you?"

"Please make him shut up," Ao'nung snarled under his breath, addressing it to only Neteyam who stood beside him.

~~~

Even before learning the sign language, Lo'ak was able to See Y/n. While Tsireya is using hand gestures to speak to the Sully kids in the water, Y/n spoke to Lo'ak with her eyes. They swam close together, weaving through the coral reefs as they explored the sea life around them.

Lo'ak had reached out to touch a particular fish that glowed green, but one glance in Y/n's direction beore he had done so made him pause.

She didn't move her hands or even shake her head to tell him 'no'. Her eyes, staring through Lo'ak's soul, said what he needed to know. 'Stings.'

He moves away from the fish, swimming closer to her instead, eyes bright and eyebrows raised in her direction. He was smiling with his eyes, and even through his eyes, he was grinning. 'Worried for me?'

She rolled her eyes in response, and his own crinkled as his way of laughing. He didn't miss the way her ears darkened a shade of teal.

~~~

Payakan was his Spirit Brother and Lo'ak would defend him, even against a mighty olo'eyktan like Tonowari. However, even Y/n knew when enough was enough, fearing her clan leader more than Lo'ak did in that moment of stupidity. From over Tonowari's shoulder, Lo'ak caught Y/n's gaze, and with one look, her ears pinned back to emphasize the warning, Lo'ak closed his mouth.

~~~

Quaritch had grabbed Y/n by the throat and all Lo'ak could see was red. He lashed out, hissing and baring his teeth, struggling against the orange cuffs. He was so preoccupied with insulting the Recom with every bit of foul language known to Na'vi that he nearly missed Y/n's eyes flicking in his direction, her second pair of lids wiping away the salt water that was her tears. Lo'ak noticed, anger slowly calming as he stared back at her. It was obvious she was afraid, and much like how you would try to appear smaller when calming a scared cat, Lo'ak did just that. He stopped struggling against his restraints, closing his mouth to hide the fangs away. Ears resting in a more natural position, Lo'ak made sure to keep Y/n's beautiful eyes on him. His gaze softened once she slowly began to calm herself, eyes blinking slowly as she caught her breath. Lo'ak smiled at her and nodded with encouragement. 'Do not be afraid.'

After they escaped, Lo'ak gathered her in his arms. Gently cupping both sides of her face in his hands, he stared her down with one glance, 'Okay?'

She nods, sinking into his embrace and hiding her face away in his chest.

~~~

With one tilt of her head, his tail swayed in response, betraying his thoughts as he watched the way her smile twinkled and their eyes met again. The tilt of her head was pointed in the direction of the jungle behind the village, and after the communal meal, Lo'ak found himself following Y/n there, without a verbal invitation needed.

She was leaning against a tree, facing him when he broke through the heavy foliage. Expectedly, he waltzed over to her, eyes never leaving hers as she tilts her chin up to follow his height. They stood so close now, sharing the same air as the sky darkened and the fauna around them began to glow, igniting both Omatikaya and Metkayina tanhì like constellations. Lo'ak knew what she wanted without ever saying a word. Leaning in, he did what she had asked and kissed her.

~~~

It wasn't their first fight, but for Lo'ak, everything with Y/n felt like the first time. They had been mated for three years up until this point, three years of gaining more tribal tattoos, being one of the Metkayina, and lying in a hammock that was meant for two with the most beautiful woman in the world.

He couldn't remember what the fight was about, but between his pride and Y/n's stubbornness, it was safe to say that both of them could have easily been the cause of it. After the argument, Lo'ak left to cool his thoughts. He had already said some things he didn't mean (as always, it was still a bad habit) and struggled to say the things he wanted to say. He couldn't bare to stay any longer knowing he could do something he would sincerely regret. After a few hours to relax and recollect his thoughts, he returned. Y/n was still in their marui and didn't bother looking up when he entered. She keeps her head facing away from him and purposely pinned her ears back. 'No, I don't want to talk to you.'

He understands clearly. Trying his best not to touch her, he pulled a strand of her hair behind her ear and left to go hunting with Ao'nung, Rotxo, and Neteyam. He had stayed in his parents' marui that night.

After he returned the next morning, Y/n was still there, though her posture had definitely relaxed and her mood had shifted. She stood up and moved out of her husband's way so that he could get what he needed to be ready for the day. When he turned to leave again, she cleared her throat. Right, how could he have forgotten? Lo'ak turned on his heels and fit himself in front of his wife, planting a parting kiss on her lips and reveling the smile she bore as he left.

~~~

Almost every night it was like this, their little girl begging to stay up late because all her older cousins get to.

"Sem'pul, can I please stay up with you?"

Her eyes were even bigger than Tuk's when she was that age. Lo'ak was ready to give in until he saw the way Y/n looked at him behind their daughter's back, "Of co-- Actually, maite. I just remembered how I'm not feeling well and should probably get some sleep."

"Oh, no! You have to rest, Dad! I can tuck you in."

"That would make me feel so much better, baby. Thank you."

Y/n smiled with her eyes, nodding with approval as she moves to join the two in their family-size nivi. Lo'ak was nearly smothered with the little girl nestled in his chest and the woman pressed comfortably at his side, but he wouldn't want it any other way.

~~~

Ao'nung's son? With Lo'ak's daughter? Hell fucking no! What is that skxawng thinking?!

Lo'ak makes one step toward the son of the olo'eyktan only for Y/n to step in front of her mate, keeping his line of sight strictly on her. She stares up at him with half-lidded eyes and a sweet -if not amused- smile. Both smile and eyes now had soft wrinkles in the corners, and her hair wasn't as dark as it used to be. But, like before, time with Y/n was always like the first time, and nothing had changed except for their age and the fact that Ao'nung's son wished to court Lo'ak's daughter!

The thought brings anger back into Lo'ak's eyes that Y/n quickly stamped down with a glare of her own, her amusement forgotten in replace of forcing her husband to sit down with just one look. Kiri had watched the scene with amusement, muttering "Walk him like a nantangtsyìp, Y/n," loud enough for Lo'ak to hear it and snap his teeth at her.

At least Ao'nung was just as displeased as Lo'ak was when he found out about it. Finally, they agreed on something. However, everyone knew that Lo'ak was wrapped around his baby's fingers, and eventually, he welcomed the chief's son into their family after his daughter exclaimed, "I want what you and Mom have!"

He couldn't argue with that.

#loak #loak sully #lo'ak sully #lo'ak #loak fanfiction #loak fic #loak imagine #loak x reader #loak x y/n #loak x you #lo'ak imagine #lo'ak x reader #lo'ak fic #lo'ak x you #avatar imagine #atwow imagine

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Ooh how abut number '11. toothpaste kisses' for soft prompts! Love your writing

Send me soft prompts! Ao3 collection post here!

Eddie is going to make everyone late.

Look: he really thinks most of it isn't his fault. He'd covered for somebody on B shift Tuesday, so he'd only had 24 hours off and he'd had to sleep through a good chunk of it, so laundry went a little by the wayside, leading to him tossing a frantic load into the washer at 5 am when he realized he had no clean work clothes. And, again, he’d covered that Tuesday shift after a 12 hour on Monday, so it’s reasonable that he forgot how dire the toothpaste situation was. The look Chris had given him when he said they needed to run to the store right now at bright and early 6 am would have withered a lesser soul, so at 6:04 Eddie, still in sweatpants and wearing ratty old slides is running down the block solo to grab whatever they have at the nearest corner store. He winces as he grabs the baking soda kind (Chris hates it) and books it back to the house, trying to breathe through the waves of oh god I’m a terrible father who left my kid alone and forgot about dental hygiene.

The house is considerably more crowded when he gets back to it. First, Chimney is lugging a dresser up the front stairs.

“What- hey- what-“ Eddie grabs the bottom of the thing, hastily shoving the toothpaste in his pocket. “What’s this?”

Chim tilts his head at him. “We were getting rid of it and you said you could use a new dresser, remember? I texted you I was coming to drop it off.”

Eddie’s phone is probably dinging away uselessly on his bedside table. “Right, yeah, sorry. There was a toothpaste emergency. Uh, thank you, we can just-“

Before he can come up with some way to finish that sentence, Carla opens the door. He hadn’t even seen her car, shit, he hopes there’s no calls right away when they get to work because he’s clearly not slept enough and should lay down again as soon as possible.

“Oh!” She says, surprised and cheerful. “Why don’t you bring that into the living room. I put your clothes in the dryer, Eddie, I figured if you were running the wash this early it was an emergency.”

Well thank god somebody has a plan and knows whats happening. He and Chim set the dresser next to a wall someplace as out of the way as they can get, and then Eddie points at Carla. “Thank you,” he says, trying to put as much sincerity into the words as possible, before pivoting to head down the hall to find Chris. Its not a long journey, the kid standing right around the corner. Eddie hands him the toothpaste. “There you go.”

Chris scrunches his nose. “Baking soda kind. Gross. And I don’t need it, Dad, Buck brought the good stuff.”

“Buck?”

“Hey.”

Eddie pivots again to look in the kitchen, where the man himself is leaning against the counter drinking a cup of coffee out of his current favorite mug, the one with the squiggly little drawing of a frog and a chicken dancing together. “Hi.” Eddie supposes he isn’t exactly surprised he’s here, Buck is a feature of their household as much as the mug he’s holding is, but he is a little concerned about the amount of people popping out of the woodwork without him noticing. “Anybody else here? Why’d you bring toothpaste?”

Buck grins. “I think you’ve seen everybody now. And you were running out when I was here last, you’ve been busy, figured it might be helpful.”

Eddie nods, a little… wordless, maybe, a little bowled over. “I’m gonna…” he gestures towards the bathroom and limply leaves the conversation. By the time he’s brushed his teeth (it is the good stuff, the pricier name brand arctic fresh, Eddie usually goes for generic spearmint) Chris and Carla are ready to head out the door. Eddie is glancing at the clock and nervously calculating exactly how wet the clothes he’s about to put on are going to be as he says goodbye, leaning to kiss Carla, Chris, and Chim’s cheeks. “Ok, thank you, have a great day at school, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It takes a few seconds of staring at Chimney’s trying not to laugh face, and listening to Chris’s not-trying-not-to-laugh-at-all guffaws before his brain catches up to his actions. “Oh my god.”

Chimney grins and Eddie shakes his head futilely against the oncoming barrage. "I always knew I was your favorite." He smacks a hand to his cheek and swoons, and Eddie rolls his eyes. "Everyone said it was Buck, but I knew the Han-Diaz love connection was just waiting to happen."

Buck is laughing somewhere behind him, and Eddie wants to see what look is on his face, but instead he rolls his eyes again, harder, and says "I'm going to check on the laundry," and shoos his son out the door before fleeing to the dryer.

Of course it's all still fucking damp. They're already pushing it on time though (maybe if all three of them are late they can unionize against Bobby?) so he shucks his sweats and shimmies his way into the unpleasant cool of his pants. When he emerges from his shirt, wincing, he finds Buck in the hallway with him.

“Chimney says we’re running late and if you don’t hurry up he’s leaving you for dead, no matter your new found love.”

“I know, I know, I just need to find my shoes-“

“I put ‘em by the door,” Buck smiles, and then the smile becomes a grin. “Hey, Eddie.”

“Yeah?” Eddie says with the right amount of apprehension for the situation.

“No goodbye kiss for me?” He tilts his head, grin thoroughly classifiable as shit-eating.

“We’re going to the same place, Buck. I’m probably gonna ride in your car.” He’s absolutely going to ride in his car, they both know it.

“Ah, so is Chimney, he got one.”

And Eddie could defend himself with the reasonable explanation that he just happened to be standing in a row next to the people he’d meant to press his affection onto, or the less reasonable explanation that he only gives goodbye kisses to people whose names start with a C, but instead he says “You want a kiss, Buck?”

And he’s moving before he loses nerve, and Buck is also moving, laughing at him, so again Eddie feels like it’s not entirely his fault when his kiss lands sort of on his cheek but mostly- it’s mostly on his mouth, which is soft and exhaling a little surprised sound against Eddie. They both pull back but maybe not as far as they probably should, if they weren’t them, if Eddie hadn’t spent the last few weeks or maybe years wondering how he could ask Buck to live on the shelf with all the mugs he’s cycled through as favorites. Then Buck darts his head forward, pecking another little kiss to his mouth, and Eddie chases him for a third, and Buck’s hand tangles in his shirt and he says “Oh” into Eddie’s mouth because the fabric is wet under his touch.

“Buckley, Diaz, I’m getting in my car, and I’m not going to defend you to Cap!”

Even at Chimney’s words they don’t entirely jump apart, just slide back a little, stand more firmly facing each other as the front door distantly opens and shuts.

“We’re gonna be late,” Buck says, an awed little smile pulling at his face.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, a little breathless. Maybe he can blame that on the cold clothes. “We should probably get going.”

Buck nods, and barely finishes the motion before Eddie puts his hands on his face and pulls him in for another minty kiss, firm, a promise. Buck is grinning when he backs off and Eddie is sure his face is a mirror image as he ducks around him to go find his shoes.

They’re late. But as Buck settles next to him on the couch, all pressed along his side despite the still damp clothes, Eddie thinks it was worth the wait.

#buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #911 fox #my writing #911 abc

[yllirya]

of Wriothesley's wordless love

Before they are together and even after, there are many things that Wriothesley does - and he only thinks that Neuvillette doesn't notice. The Judge appreciates the signs of his affection deeply.

When they hug or pull the other into a passing embrace, often, Wriothesley is not letting go in time.

There's one moment when he's still holding him - and how could Neuvillette not notice? Even if he extends his embrace, Wriothesley lets him go just that one moment later.

The Duke has dry but good humour that is saved for selected ears. Neuvillette takes a notion of how Wriothesley looks his way - secretively - every time he says something funny. As if his reaction would matter the most, even if someone else is present too.

It's not apparent at first, but Wriothesley leaves many open questions that can prompt Neuvillette to say something small about himself. He never has to. But the option is offered and if he shares even a small detail, Wriothesley always listens and reacts.

Neuvillette learns of small things Wriothesley does - mundane and easy yet it affects him in a positive way. It's the small motions and actions of care the Duke commits as if they'd be the most natural things to do. For him, maybe, these are.

It wasn't said between them how Neuvillette likes gentle fingers brushing through his hair and petting the back of his head at one specific spot. But Wriothesley knows where and how to touch him - let it be kind affection or something more.

When they are together at night, in the other's embrace, and the Duke does something Neuvillette likes but has never told him, he whispers, "I love you too."

It takes one moment for Wriothesley before he smiles and kisses him with the same affection that is in his actions.

#genshin impact #wriothesley #neuvillette #wriolette #drabble from twitter but why not share here as well #fluff #i'm not over how disgustingly healthy they are #i'm up for writing small ficlets and/or sharing hcs - send me an ask if you're interested!