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notgonnamessthisup · 8 months

Text

It will all work out in the end

Fandom: 5 secounds of summer

Warnings: Sh

Everyone knew about how Ashton used to self-harm. Looking back at it, the boys were ashamed that they hadn't realized it earlier. The signs had been there, clear as day. How Ashton refused to go swimming with them, how he wore hoodies in the middle of January when it was clear to everyone that he was overheating, or the way he insisted on stacking bracelets up his arm.

Calum knew something was wrong with his friend, but he couldn't figure it out. Maybe he hadn't wanted to either. They had only known each other for a few months, the band was new and even though they were close, they weren't that close. It felt weird for Calum to ask straight out, so he didn't. He simply shut his mouth and waited for an excuse to ask about it.

Ashton had certainly not wanted the boys to find out. He guarded his secret the best he could, with elaborate lies and smiles no one could have guessed were fake. As the oldest, although he was only 17, he felt that it was his job to protect the other boys. To be there for them, help them, especially the blond fifteen-year-old. He couldn't possibly burden them with his childish problems.

They found out accidentally, barging into Ashton's bedroom to wake him up for band practice. Ashton had been sleeping topless due to the hot Australian climate, panicking as the other boys stared at his exposed arms. It was Michael who forced Ashton to sit down and talk. So Ashton explained everything as vaguely as he could without the others asking more. Then Calum had laid down some ground rules, call if he got the urge, tell one of them if he cut. They had also devised a colour system so that Ashton wouldn't have to tell them what was wrong every time but simply could say a colour to let the others know what was up.

Green-okay Orange - sad/anxious Red- wants to/has self-harmed Black-Suicidal

Ashton had agreed with teary eyes, he didn't want to, but either he accepted the boy's help or they would tell his mom. They also took his blades. Ashton would find new ones, they all knew it, but making it a little bit harder for Ashton to cut himself up made the others feel at least a little bit better.

The whole time Luke was quiet. The younger boy didn't understand what drove Ashton to do such things, how the most perfect person in the world could hate himself so much he felt the need to split his own skin open. Luke just wanted to hold Ashton tight and never let go. In Luke's eyes, Ashton was an angel sent from above, God's gift to humanity. "I love you" Luke had whispered into the older boy's ear as they had hugged goodbye that evening.

Ashton had kept his promise to the group, calling whenever he got the urge to hurt himself. Most of the time he called Michael, telling a half-hearted joke to distract himself from the anxiety. Other times he would be crying so hard he could bearly speak, sobbing "sorry" over and over again. Sometimes he would Facetime Calum for hours, doing whatever until they eventually fell asleep with the call still on.

Luke never got a call. Sometimes he would get a text from Calum or Michael, telling him about a relapse, but Ashton never called the youngest boy. Luke thought that it was because he wasn't good enough, that Ashton didn't trust him enough to talk about such things. For Ashton it was the opposite, Luke was way too good, too innocent to be burdened with such horrible things.

After almost a year of going back and forth, Ashton managed to stop for real. He got better and happier and he even began wearing tank tops and t-shirts. When his name popped up on one of the lads' phone screens they didn't immediately think that something bad had happened. Ashton was happy. For real. After a while, he even got comfortable enough to talk about it. Not a lot, they still didn't know the reason why he had cut, he always got weird and quiet when they asked, but he could joke around about it. They didn't pretend that it never happened.

Once Luke even asked the question that had been nagging him for almost two years. They had been sharing a hotel room, Calum and Micheal next door. "I have a question" Luke had said cautiously. The tone of his voice indicated it had something to do with the other one's bad habit, but Ashton didn't mind. They were two years older, Luke could handle it. "Why did you never call me when you were sad? I could have helped you know" He had asked with a hurt face and Ashton's heart broke at the sight. So he sat down and explained that Luke had been so young and that he shouldn't have had to deal with such things at that age. It was the truth, just not the whole truth.

When Ashton was twenty-one he celebrated being three years clean. When Ashton was twenty-one he began wearing long sleeves in hot weather and stacking bracelets up his arm. The boys noticed, of course they noticed the odd behaviour again. Worried looks and hushed conversations made Ashton feel even worse, even guiltier. They knew and they knew that Ashton knew they knew. But they pretended not to, they hoped that Ashton would come to them, ask for help and the boys would gladly give it. But he never did.

"You know you can talk to me, I'm not a little kid anymore" Luke had said, cornering Ashton. "Clearly" Ashton had smiled, looking the singer up and down in his Star Wars pyjamas, making him blush. Luke had been so flustered that he didn't even realize Ashton snuck away until it was too late.

The three friends were sat in the back room, quietly discussing their concern for Ashton. "We need to talk to him" Michael was speaking with a hushed voice. "No, he has to come to us himself, he knows we are more than willing to help" Calum argued. "What if he doesn't come to us?" Luke said. "What if goes and does something really bad just because we didn't reach out?" He said a little bit quieter. "Maybe we are just overanalyzing this, maybe he just likes his hoodies" Micheal suggested half-heartedly. They all knew the truth: Ashton was hurting again. Their Ashton. "Yeah, he trusts us, he'd tell us if it got really bad" Calum tried to justify, putting a comforting hand on the youngest shoulder. "He didn't last time" Luke's words came out as a whisper. "I don't want to lose him, we were way too close last time" His eyes were filling with tears. "Hey, we'll talk to him tomorrow okay? We won't lose him, well make sure of that" Calum tried to comfort the singer, earning an approving nod.

"Im leaving now," Ashton announced as he walked into the tour bus couch area, frowning as he saw Luke's red eyes, an obvious sign he had been crying. They had a day off and whilst the others chose to spend it chilling on the bus, Ashton wanted to go home and see his family. "See you tomorrow," Michael said without a glance, focusing his attention on the video game he and Calum were playing. Luke on the other hand followed Ashton through the bus to the door.

"Bye," Luke offered a smile. "Bye dude, I love ya" Ashton pulled Luke into a big hug to comfort the younger man. Ashton rarely said stuff like that and in his tired mind alarm bells started to go off. "Don't say that man" Luke broke down, crying in the older man's arms. "You can't say that," He wailed again. The other two came running as they heard Luke's sobs. Concern filled them as they saw the taller boy crying into Ashton's shoulder, whispering "You can't say that" over and over again.

"Luke calm down" Ashton tried to comfort him, confused as to why he broke down out of seemingly nowhere. "No, cuz you can't fucking say that!" The youngest almost shouted. "Why not?" Ashton looked hurt. "Cuz you're acting like you're gonna kill yourself!" Luke cried out, making Ashton take a step back. "What the fuck". Everyone in the room seemed to be taken aback by that statement, emptily staring at each other in shock.

Ashton didn't even try lying about how he would never do that, they knew that he had tried to and it would only lead to conversations he tried to avoid. "You know I would say something if it got that bad, I promised I would," Ashton said, putting his hands on the youngest shoulders to help him calm down. "No, you wouldn't, You're cutting yourself but you still haven't told us!" Luke was hysteric. Michael and Calum exchanged a look, Luke slapped a hand over his mouth, realizing what he just said and Ashton bit his lip hard. "I don't do that anymore" Ashton mumbled.

"C'mon, do you think we're stupid? That we wouldn't notice? Don't play dumb with us Ash" Luke said, staring the older boy down. He was mad now and honestly, that was worse. "I-" Ashton began but was cut off by Luke. "You know we do care about you, you have to come to us when it gets bad, you promised" He cried. "I'm sorry" Ashton looked down at his feet. The room fell quiet, they all had known but heard Ashton confirm it was something else."C'mon, you're not going home tonight" Calum grabbed the drummer's arm and dragged him into the back room, sitting them both down on the sofas, the other two not far behind.

"Show us" Michael demanded as they sat down. Ashton hesitated and glanced at Luke. Luke had only seen his fresh cuts once before and had been horrified. The hesitation must have shown, because Calum grabbed Ashton's sleeve and yanked it up, making the cuts visible to all of them. There were fewer cuts than before, but each one was much deeper.

Luke felt like he was going to throw up, the thought of Ashton having done that to himself made him nauseous. "When did you do that?" Luke pointed at an especially deep wound that seemed to have just started healing. "Two days ago" Ashton confessed, hanging his head. He didn't want to see the others' disappointment or the looks of betrayal. "Hey, we're not mad at you" Calum grabbed Ashton's hands, smiling softly. "We just want to help, we want you to be happy" He continued, making Ashton look up at him. "We love you man, but this has gotta stop" Michael chimed in. "I know, it's just hard y'know?" Ashton explained. "We know it is, but it is worth it, isn't it?" Calum smiled. Ashton nodded, he knew that he was capable of being happy, he knew it was worth it.

"This time will be different though, whilst we're on the bus we'll have some different rules," Luke said firmly. "Yea, you'll still come to us and shit, but no locked doors and you'll tell us when you feel down, also we're reinstating the color system," Michael said, making the others nod in agreement. "And you'll be honest with us, no lying" Calum chimed in. Ashton nodded, it was reasonable. Besides, he didn't really lie to the boys. "And, um, we want your blades," Calum said once again, quieter. Ashton tensed, he knew it was coming, but he still didn't want to hand them over. "Fine" He agreed reluctantly, nothing good was gonna come out of fighting with the boys over this.

It was late at night, and light snores from Calum's bunk were the only thing that could be heard. Ashton couldn't sleep, he was thinking about the events of the day, how he had let down his best friends. More importantly, he really wanted to cut.

"You awake?" Ashton whispered into the darkness, to no one in particular. He didn't expect an answer, but it was worth a try. "I am" Luke whispered back. "Color?" he asked as Ashton didn't answer him. "Red" the older confessed. "Did you-?" "No". "You wanna come here?" Luke asked as he scooted over to make room in his bunk. Ashton nodded and crawled into Luke's bed, cuddling close. "I'm sorry" Ashton whispered. "Do you mind me asking you something?" Luke asked. The drummer shook his head. "Why didn't you say something? We would do anything for you, you know that". "I know, it's just... When it got bad again, it was embarrassing and you were all so proud of me and I didn't want to disappoint" Ashton confessed quietly.

"Why did it get bad again?" Luke could feel Ashton tensing up under him. "I don't wanna say" He whispered. "Okay, just know that whatever it is that makes you feel this way, we all love you" Luke comforted. He had overheard Calum saying that same thing three years ago, but the drummer seemed to relax a little bit more.

"I like a boy," Ashton said so quietly that Luke almost didn't hear. "I like a boy and he doesn't like me and it is killing me" He continued. Luke's heart almost skipped a beat. "Is that why...?" Luke didn't finish the sentence, Ashton nodding into his chest. "Oh Ash, it's gonna go away, it'll all work out in the end" Luke whispered, stroking the drummer's hair. Ashton didn't answer, they just lay there in silence, slowly falling asleep in each other's arms.

The following day was tense. All of them tried to act normal but it was hard. "Morning" Ashton walked into the small kitchen where two boys sat. Luke was still sleeping. "How are you feeling?" Michael asked in between bites. "Fine" The drummer mumbled as he began making himself some cereal. "Colour?" Calum asked. "Do we really have to do this?" Ashton sighed. "You don't have to tiptoe around me, you don't have to treat me differently now," He said. Calum scoffed. "We just found out our best friend is hurting himself on purpose again, of-fucking-course were gonna treat you differently" He snapped. Ashton looked taken aback by the words. "Sorry,".

"No don't be, it's just, we need you here, we don't want to lose you so if that means treating you a little bit differently then so be it" Calum explained with watery eyes. "You're not gonna lose me" Ashton smiled sadly, putting a hand on the bassist's shoulder. "We almost did last time" Michael mumbled. Ashton didn't have anything to say to that, they were right, they had a legitimate reason to be scared.

They all cheered as Michael poured them another shot. Calum had pulled out the bottle of cheap vodka as they played video games, insisting they had to have some fun on their last day off. So they were sitting in the backroom, blasting music and playing horrible drinking games. They were all pretty fucked up but Ashton welcomed the mind-numbing sensation with open arms. He looked over at Luke, who was sitting on the armrest of an armchair. His curls were distressed from tugging at them all night long, but they still managed to look good, and the light from the television behind him made him look like an angel. Luke smiled at Ashton as their eyes met, highlighting the singer's rosy cheeks.

"Guys this app has questions about us!" Calum shrieked with excitement over a new shitty drinking app. "I- I think imma..." Michael mumbled, stumbling out of the room towards the bathroom. "He's gonna throw up" Ashton sighed, getting up from his spot on the couch. "I'll handle it," Calum said, firmly pushing the drummer down again before leaving the other two alone in the room.

"Wanna see what the questions are?" Luke's eyes glimmered mischievously as he reached for Calum's phone, which was left unlocked. "Who in 5sos would you rather kiss?" Luke read aloud before Ashton could answer the previous question. He could feel his cheeks heating up, his heart beating faster. "You start" Ashton smiled, trying to play it cool. "Nuhu, I don't wanna start, you start" Luke laughed. "Im not gonna say first" The drummer argued back. "Me neither" Goddamit Luke could be stubborn. "Fine" Ashton crossed his arms. "Fine".

The room fell silent as the two boys stared stubbornly at each other. Ashton doesn't know why he did it, it was probably the alcohol talking, but before he could stop himself, he looked Luke straight in the eyes and said "I would kiss you". Luke blinked at the comment, blushing red. "I would kiss you too, you seem like a good kisser" He smiled. "I am" Ashton confirmed with a smirk.

Luke must have teleported to the couch because suddenly he was standing over the drummer with a shy smile. "What are you-?" Ashton was cut off by Luke's soft lips on his own. Luke was kissing him. Amazing, pretty, talented Luke was kissing him. Ashton's heart leaped, he never wanted this moment to end. He kissed back softly, scared of Luke playing some cruel trick on him. The singer grabbed Ashton's jaw, slightly tilting it backward , making his breath hitch. Luke took the opportunity to slip his tongue into the other man's mouth, making out with his friend. Ashton felt lightheaded, he wasn't even sure if it was happening or if it was a drunken fever dream.

Luke pulled away and sat down next to a very confused drummer. "You're right, you are a good kisser" Luke smiled. Ashton could feel his heart sink, of course, Luke didn't want to kiss him, he only wanted to test Ashton's statement. "Told you," Ashton said, trying not to show his disappointment. The room fell quiet once again. "Wanna take another one?" Ashton asked to get rid of the awkward silence. "Fuck yea" Luke answered, pouring both of them another shot. "Cheers," The older man smiled, downing the clear liquid.

The two boys stared into each other's eyes, none of them having anything to say. Luke's cheeks were still flushing red as he was eyeing the other man. In the haze of the alcohol, Luke couldn't resist the urge to just lean in a little bit. Suddenly, their lips crashed into each other, kissing each other eagerly. Ashton let his hand wander into Luke's blonde curls, forgetting all about technique and letting himself get swept up in the heat of the moment.

Steps coming from the bathroom made the two boys pull away from each other. Breathing heavily as they smiled at each other. "You know for how long I've wanted to do that?" Ashton slurred in Luke's ear, earning a small giggle. "Hey, Michaels passed out and im going to bed" Calum appeared at the door. Ashton nodded, realizing how drunk he was. He probably should go to bed before he made a bigger fool out of himself.

Ashton woke up the next morning with a killer headache and the urge to puke his guts out. The lights were still off, so some of the boys must still be sleeping he concluded. Ashton walked into the small kitchen, only to find Luke pacing back and forth, looking very distressed. Ashton's heart sank, why was Luke so upset? Was it because of last night? Was it because Ashton had kissed him and now Luke wanted out of the band?

"Hey, what's wrong?" Ashton stopped the younger boy, trying to sound as calm as possible. Luke looked up at him almost scared. "It's me" Luke whispered. "Im the reason". "What are you talking about?" Ashton asked confused. Luke sighed. "You remember last night?" He asked, gently grabbing Ashton's hands. The drummer nodded. "Im so sorry about that- I was drunk and if you want to pretend it didn't happen then im totally fine with that" Ashton rambled. "No no, it's not that, I don't want to forget about that" Luke smiled shyly, making Ashton's heart skip a beat.

"It's just, that you told me that you had wanted to kiss me for a very long time" Luke carefully put a hand on Ashton's arm, gently dragging his thumb over the bracelets Ashton used to hide his scars. Nonononono. "And two nights ago you told me that you cut because you like a boy" Luke continued. Shitshitshitshit. "I made you cut?" Luke's voice almost broke, he was trying hard not to cry. "No of course not" Ashton pulled the younger boy into a big hug. "Yes I did, you said so yourself" The singer cried quietly into Ashton's shoulder. "I meant that when im sad, having a crush on my best friend hasn't always helped me feel better" Ashton offered a smile. "But you have never made me hurt myself" He assured. "Are you sure?" Luke asked. Ashton nodded with a smile. "I've liked you since I was seventeen, and more times than not you've been the reason I didn't hurt myself" He explained. "Okay," Luke didn't seem convinced.

"I just don't want me being afraid to tell you that I like you to be the reason you go and do that" Luke gestured towards Ashton's wrist. Ashton's heart broke into millions of pieces, he felt horrible for making Luke think this was his fault. He could only nod, having nothing to say in his defence and Luke's mad face was terrifying. Luke wasn't mad at him though, he was mad at himself. He knew that he played some part in Ashton's self-harm, Ashton was a terrible liar and no matter how small a part he played, Luke would never be able to forgive himself. He had to make it up somehow.

"Hey, Ash?" Luke said, making the drummer look up. "I would really like to kiss you now" The singer blushed. "I would like that as well" Ashton smirked, gently pulling the younger boy in for a kiss. He could feel Luke smiling against his lips, making his stomach flutter. "Told you it would work out in the end" Luke whispered in the drummer's ear, kissing him again.

#my writing #writers #fanfic #fanfiction #5 seconds of summer #5sos #ashton irwin #luke hemmings #michael clifford #calum hood #lashton #self h@rm #sh cvt #tw drinking #drinking games #first kiss #friends to lovers #tw s3lf harm

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qnfarc · 2 years

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Hello legend it's so late rn so if you have notifs on this is my apology note but let me know how the bookstore went today!! Or if you ended up seeing anything you liked / bought 👀 I had a little look at my reading list (it's my 10 year old ipads iBooks app full of downloaded pdfs. I update it like every 8 months from my folder of screenshots of anyone praising any book ever) and I have a few extra little recs if you ever find yourself stuck for something. I say that like we both probably don't have 100s of recs already but ignore that fact.

The most promising to me looked like "the elephant in the brain" which talks about hidden motives in everyday life (according to the synopsis 💀). I do enjoy a good insight on the mind now I will say big enjoyer. I've got some Carl Jung books in this list as well but I feel like I need to get back in the habit of reading before I start biting off those pieces. It's gonna take every brain cell in my head to pull together on it and I just don't have that capacity rn bye. Another sexy read looks to be "permenant record" by Edward Snowden who basically worked for some national intelligence company and a few years back leaked some fucked up tracing shit they were doing on consumers. Gotta love being reminded about my internet footprint, god I hate the thought. Might be practically common knowledge in that book at this point, not sure but it sounded promising! On a fiction note I'm like 2/3s in (on/off for the last literal year) "the babysitter" by Phoebe Morgan. I quite like it, it's weird to read something in first person but you get used to it quick enough. It's about a girl who was babysitting (we're all shocked) who got murdered on the job (now we're actually shocked) and basically following the case, but following one suspect more than others. I can't say if it's actually going to be predictable or not because I haven't got there (and at this rate I might never make it) but it's an easy read and an enjoyable one!

Bye I wish I had this knowledge in the morning for you this is so sad but I hope you picked up something good for yourself! I love the idea of getting a rec like this and going off and reading it's so sweet 😭😭😭 I wish I had more to offer you here and not just the vibes of books goodbye but hopefully something in these recs strikes your fancy. I know I said this earlier but literally flood with me with as many recs as you want, it might take genuine years but I'll read them no doubt 😼 I actually really need to cut down on my screentime these days (I hit 9 hours this week in one day 💀💀 and I don't want to know how, I'm blaming Spotify podcasts. I'm gonna find out it doesn't count time when the screens off and just genuinely scream) / expand my ever depreciating attention span once more, so reading sounds so sexy rn 😍 enjoy the upcoming weekend legend we got MCC day up and coming. I also hope the internship slaps so far, I'm so excited for you!! I'm wishing you the nicest coworkers, supervisor, manager, the chefs working the cafeteria, the whole team I hope they're lovely and make your time even more enjoyable!! I will catch up properly with you soon, I actually started responding to your ask from like two months ago today 😭 I'm really out here causing us the biggest time delay in conversations it's unbelievable, but I will chat to you soon legend!! Have a good day <33

Hello hello, no need to apologise, always happy to hear from you ^_^ I went very nicely, package was basically presents for my friends but I did end up finding and buying Almond! Walking around in bookstores is a trap for real tho, I had the urge to buy such a big stack of books and start reading immediately. Definitely took some photos of titles to look around online for them, buying from websites always will end up cheaper than in actual bookstore after all. Thanks to that gotta get reading vibe I got I finally got around to cleaning up somewhat and adding stuff to my reading list on storygraph account I made a long while ago and it ended up being 200+ positions and that's definitely not all of them even 😭 I'm such a book collector tbh I love having physical copies of books but I also always fear I'll end up not liking what I bought and waste money... Seeing photos of other people's bookshelves filled with manga or books always makes me want to spend so much money and have similar sized collection 😭 I'll add all your recs to my tbr and definitely read them at one point! I'm also big fun of psychology and mind insights! Similarly horror isn't really my thing but psychological thrillers? Yes 😍 I'm struggling with finishing Girl on the train for a year or two now... It's alright, just not a big fun of how much antagonising each other there is between female characters when chapters are from their povs like understandable but also tiring to read through in my experience. I also really like the idea of giving someone book, music or any other recs, it gives me quality time love language feel, wanting to include someone in something, it's very sweet! I definitely will end up giving you more recs especially cause it's summer so still more time to indulge yourself. Especially cause I often just get a little overwhelmed with how much different interesting media there is to consume, like books, anime & manga, tv shows, movies, games and so many sub genres to all of it, gives me "WOW creation!!!" feeling! I really need to cut down too, mostly yt but the moment I actually end up opening twt or tiktok it ends up such a big time consumer when I could get some nice reading in (I also end up reading fanfics from recs but still some actual books couldn't hurt 💀), definitely would appreciate longer attention span. I also spent longer than usual on genshin with new areas opened to explore for summer event, looks very nice and time really flies when you play 😔 There was MCC yesterday🧍🏻‍♀️...I completely forgot, literally remembered somewhere around midnight and checked twitter to see who won. Feeling conflicted cause on the one hand I always have my fingers crossed for George win but if he and his team ended up winning that one MCC when I forgot about it I would feel so annoyed 😐 Also heard there was some drama with noxcrew and dream and I try to be fair but when many players end up voicing displeasure over glitches in games or the way games are constructed than throwing it all as just biased complaining and hate is definitely not what I would expect from people who should care about feedback and enhancing the players and viewers experience, very immature move in my opinion especially with community that is so vast in people with a lot of knowledge about mechanics and creativity to resolve issues or propose ideas for modyfing games. And thank you, it pretty small team so everyone is understanding and nice, definitely enjoyable so far! After I read what was going on in your place, I'm so happy you had opportunity to get away from that quick, definitely more stressful environment than it should be! I also had opportunity to work remotely so I could go home for some time and finally have opportunity to go to hairdresser on Tuesday so maybe I'll fulfill my ideas of changing hair colour for a while, dark purple sounds kinda fun and cute 🤔 And no worries, take your time, it's always worth it to read your thoughts ^_^ Have a nice Sunday and week sunshine 💛

(also sorry if I answered twice, last answer didn't want to publish and I didn't save so I ended up having to type it out again, hopefully it'll work now)

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harajuku-cookie · 3 months

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I'm sorry, I just need to let out some steam before I either lose my dinner or burst into tears.

I have been going through a really rough period in my life. Honestly it's been like that for a while now and it feels like whenever I try to fix things they just fall apart all over again. Or even if something good happens, it's like the universe has to balance out by having something bad happen right afterwards and honestly it makes things very discouraging. I mean, I still push myself to do stuff, even if I don't have the motivation because of my mental health or the energy because of my physical health, but god is it hard. And there's no one to rely on for help, but myself to get out of the hole.

I'm still dealing with the aftermath of cutting out my dad from my life, again. I've already tried doing it several times these past 6 years, but my mom has been dragging him back in because he's my dad and he needs to step up and act like it with me, blah blah blah, even though I've never needed him and still don't. At least after the passing of my half-sister this past October and him not having any kind of reaction about it finally got it through her head to stop pushing him back in my life and now I finally might have some peace. Maybe the decades old wound can finally heal and I can go on with my life. I still have flashbacks from time to time, but hopefully with time they'll go away.

And then there's also me stressing out about my upcoming surgery next month. It's gonna create a major change in my life, physically, mentally, and emotionally, but I've been fighting for this procedure for years now because I cannot handle being in so much agonizing pain anymore. I've lost so many years of my life to it and missed out on so much and I just want my life back. I have talked it out with my doctors and have gotten a second opinion and everything and I've never been more sure of anything in my life. But then there's people out there who make comments that I'm making a mistake, asking if there's other options (I've exhausted EVERYTHING already), or pitying me for what'll happen and saying things like, "Oh if only you had the money to create a backup option." Yeah, real nice coming from someone much more well off than me financially. Not that I even want that backup option in the first place.

Then there's me trying to make sure I'll have everything in time for the surgery. Honestly the post-op has me more worried than the actual surgery itself. What if I accidentally tear open my incisions? What if the major stitch tears and I end up needing emergency surgery before my organs fall out (it's rare, but it can happen)? What if I get a major infection? What if something happens and my mom, who's planning on being my caretaker, can't help me? I've been under anesthesia, but not under the knife, so that's why I have so many worries. I do have a cousin who has had the same procedure, just different method, and while it's nice to talk to her about this and feel reassured, the trauma she faced from it has made my mom worry, which in turn starts making me worry. But honestly, the thing that scares me the most is what if the surgery doesn't get rid of the pain? What if I'm stuck with the pain until I'm an old woman? I mean, there have been cases, but most of the ones I've read people have been saying they feel much better and they have their life back, so I'm trying to focus on those more instead.

And while I'm healing, I have to hurry up and find a very well paying job because bills are gonna stack up and the place I'm living in is crap and falling apart and the landlord hasn't done anything to fix it, despite multiple complaints from all the tenants, and will most likely need to move out and rent is super expensive right now. I feel like I'm not gonna even have time to breathe.

And finally, just in general, I've been feeling so alone and like a failure. People I used to know are in relationships or getting married, buying homes, traveling, going out and living life. Heck, even my best friend is doing pretty well and while I'm happy for them and I know life's not a race, I can't help but feel like I'm so behind and that I'm not doing things right. I barely talk to people, being chronically ill doesn't help, and when I get the chance it gets overwhelming sometimes and then I'm ignored and pushed to the side or I just sound like an idiot with my speech problem. It makes me just not want to say anything at all.

I just needed to get all of this off my chest. Life is rough right now and I feel like I'm stuck in a hole with no way of getting out, but I still feel in my heart that things will get better. I don't know when or how, but hopefully this year will be the year. I'll let myself cry it out for now, but then I have to get up, dust myself off, and keep moving forward like I've always done.

#vent #might delete later

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cursedwriter · 3 years

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Dancing with your Ghost - Fushiguro Megumi

Jujutsu Kaisen Masterlist

Warnings: Deals with death, Megumi has various breakdowns, it’s just really sad over all... sorry for making you cry in advance!

Words: 4.9k

Author’s Note: Kind of inspired by this song: Dancing with your Ghost - Sasha Sloan // Also, when they dance, I kinda imagined them to dance to this: Technicolour Beat - Oh Wonder

“Is he still in there?” Yuji pointed at the door by the end of the hallway. Gojo was walking in his direction, his expression unreadable.

“No matter what I tell him, he won’t come out.” His voice sounded tired, almost worn out. The sight must’ve been hard for him to bear. Itadori gulped. He wasn’t sure if he could take it. “You should try talking to him. Maybe he will listen to you. We both know he would regret it if he missed the ceremony.” Gojo patted Yuji on the shoulder, hand lingering for a few additional seconds in silent comfort.

“I’ll try my best,” Itadori nodded, though, he sounded more hopeful than he was. This was going to be rough.

Soon after, Gojo disappeared behind the corner and out of sight. His shoulders were slouching and his head was hanging low as if he couldn’t walk upright. This was hard on everyone. But the person who had it the worst of all was…

“Fushiguro, can I come in?” Yuji knocked on the door three times. No answer. He tried again. This time more forceful. “Hey, Megumi! It’s me, Yuji! Do you mind if I come in?” Still no answer. Itadori sighed, but he pushed the door open anyways, peering into the dimly lit library of the Jujutsu Tech High school. Admittedly, he’s never been in here before. Yuji wasn’t really the non-fiction reader… or anything that wasn’t manga, really. But upon entering the room, he couldn’t help but gawk. The shelves were stacked to the max, piling up above his head in a seemingly endless supply of books. There were books everywhere. The amount of knowledge that was stored in here was immense. And all about curses and jujutsu? Incredible! Maybe he should’ve come here sooner. He bet that there had to be at least a dozen books about Sukuna here somewhere.

“It doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t make any sense.” Itadori was pulled out of his thoughts by the repetitive mantra that was coming from somewhere behind a shelf. He followed the sound that was mingled with quiet sobs and he had to force himself to keep walking. This was more terrifying than facing all the curses of this world together.

“Megumi?” He peered around the shelf, finding his friend sitting on the old wooden floor, frantically flipping through a book with yellowed pages that seemed to be falling apart at the seams. It must’ve been ancient.

“No sense, no sense, no sense,” he repeated over and over again as if that phrase was the only thing keeping him sane.

“Megumi?” Itadori tried again and finally Megumi’s head snapped up and he looked at Itadori like a deer caught in headlights… only way worse. His eyes were bloodshot with dark purple circles underneath them. A stark contrast to his sickly pale skin. Briefly, Yuji wondered if Megumi had slept at all since it happened. Tears were streaming down his face and it felt like they would never stop. An endless river of sorrow and despair. Yuji was sure he heard his own heart shatter in his chest as he looked at his best friend. He wished he could take some of the pain away. Even if it was just a little, but of course that was impossible. “The ceremony will start soon and-“

“That’s stupid!” Fushiguro cut him off harshly, his voice hoarse and quieter than usual. “Why would there be a freaking ceremony when she’s coming back?!”

“Megumi, she-“

“No! Stop it!” He yelled, throwing the book he was reading against the opposite wall. “Stop it! Shut up!” He pressed his palms against his temples as if he wanted to crush his own skull. “I’ll do it, you’ll see! All of you! You’ll see! I’ll bring her back! I’ll bring her back, okay?! I will – I will!” He repeated it over and over again and it was apparent that he wanted to proof himself right more than anything else. Maybe making him believe would help ease his pain? Should he encourage him? No. Despite wishing that he could provide some words of comfort right now, Itadori knew that false hope would be the cruelest thing he could offer. No matter how much it hurt, but Megumi couldn’t go on like this… searching for something that wasn’t real.

“Megumi, please. You’ll regret it if you don’t come,” Itadori tried again, picking up the book that Megumi had thrown away. He flipped through the first pages and he could already tell that the answers Megumi was searching for weren’t in this book. It was mostly about how sorcerers could reincarnate as curses if their dead bodies weren’t handled properly. If they died you had to make sure that the last hit was infused with cursed energy. Usually, that took care of things. However, if they died of natural causes, diseases or accidents there was a special ritual, a ceremony that made sure their bodies were put to rest accordingly. Kind of like a funeral, but then again, not quite. This was the ceremony Fushiguro refused to attend, even though it was highly valued among sorcerers. It was a way to pay your last respects, value their accomplishments and thank them for their sacrifice. He probably refused to go because that would make her death final and he would be forced to move on, no matter how hard it would be… and it was going to be very hard.

“SHE’S COMING BACK, DAMMIT!” Megumi yelled at him, reaching for another book that was stocked in a pile he’d built himself. The tower crumbled with the way he yanked it out, dozen books falling to the ground, scattering to their feet. It was eerily quiet for a second, Yuji didn’t dare to speak. The atmosphere so thick, he doubted even Maki’s demon blade could cut through it. And then, right when he wanted to say something, anything really to get rid of the suffocating silence in the room, Megumi started sobbing. Not like before. Impossibly, it was even worse. His whole body shook with the action, hands that were clinging onto the book were trembling and despite him hanging his head low, Yuji could see the frequent tears that were hitting the old worn out pages of the book, blurring the ink further, making it almost unreadable.

Hesitantly, he took a step forward, but he wasn’t quite sure what to do. Should he hug him? What could he even say? Should he call for someone? Gojo-sensei? Would he know what to do? Or Nobara? Or, wait! Y/N always knew what to do when it came to him… Oh, right…

Yuji slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. How could he forget?! It really didn’t feel real yet, huh? Itadori tried to swallow the big lump in his throat as he crouched down and gently took the book out of Fushiguro’s shaking hands. He looked so fragile, as if a single slap to the wrist could break his arm.

“I just don’t get it,” Megumi whispered. His voice sounded far away, as if he was underwater or as if Yuji had cotton in his ears, muffling his voice to a point where it was almost incomprehensible. “It’s just so unfair.”

Yuji placed the book on the ground beside him, skipping over the title “Resurrection and the balance of the world”, it read. He gulped again. Could it be possible?

“I know it is.” He laid a comforting hand on his shoulder and another muffled cry escaped Megumi’s mouth. Yuji had seen a lot over the course of just one year, but not once has he witnessed such utter despair. The sight pulled on his heart strings in ways he couldn’t even explain.

“She fought against the most heinous creatures every day and you’re telling me she died because some fucking asshole thought it was a good idea to drive while being absolutely shit faced?!” Some of his words were swallowed by his sobs, but Itadori understood him well enough. “I refuse to believe that! I refuse to accept that!”

Momentarily Itadori was thrown back to the moment they got the call, he remembered it all too vividly. The shock, the confusion and his scream…

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the nurse led them into the room. The air was chilly and it smelled like disinfectant. The stench so unbelievably strong, Megumi thought he might throw up. It burned in his eyes and nose and he distantly felt his cheeks getting wet. He couldn’t tell if it was because of the smell or of what was to come… at this point, it still felt like a sick joke, some twisted game or prank. Just not real, like a dream, a nightmare he would wake up from any second.

There was a single bed in the middle of the room, the body underneath covered by a white cloth. Gojo, Nobara and Yuji gathered around it, hands clutched together in front of them as if they were silently praying. Megumi hesitated. He stood in the doorframe, looking at the scene in front of him and nothing seemed to make sense anymore. Everyone was crying. Even Gojo seemed more tense than usual and he was sure he saw a stray tear slip from underneath his sunglasses.

The room was silent, except for the door falling shut behind him as the nurse left them to mourn in peace. This was a dream, right? A nightmare? How could it be anything else?

Megumi’s footsteps echoed off the walls as he hesitantly approached the bed covered in white sheets.

This is just a dream. This is a nightmare. You’re going to wake up any second now. Just wake up. Wake up! Wake up, dammit!

But he didn’t wake up. Not even as he reached for the white cloth. And he didn’t wake up as he slowly lifted it up. He didn’t wake up when everyone sucked in a sharp breath. And he didn’t wake up as Nobara’s knees buckled and she fell to the ground sobbing. He didn’t wake up as he laid his eyes on your peaceful but lifeless face.

Megumi didn’t wake up. But God did he wish he did.

He stood there for what felt like an eternity. Studying your features. How your hair was softly flowing on the pillow, how your lips were slightly parted as if you would wake up at any given moment and tell him something important. But he also noticed that your cheeks lacked their signature pinkish tint and your lips were more blue than their usual vibrant red.

His hand inched closer to your face, connecting to your cheeks and adoringly caressing it. It was cold underneath his touch. Your skin feeling more like wax than it felt alive.

No one said anything, the only sound was Nobara’s quiet sobs that she tried to stiffle to the best of her abilities. Everyone watched Megumi and no one knew what to do. Neither of them has ever felt so helpless. Even Gojo was rendered speechless at the heartbreaking sight in front of him.

And then, everything slowly started to sink in…

She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s really gone! You’re not waking up! Why aren’t you waking up?! Wake up!! No, no, no. This can’t happen. This can’t happen. This isn’t happening! Tell me this isn’t happening?!

Didn’t I just talk to her this morning? Didn’t we talk about going to the beach as soon as it got warmer? Didn’t we make dinner plans? Didn’t she boast about a new recipe she wanted to try? Didn’t this just happen? And you’re telling me that all of that is just… gone? Just like that? In a moments notice… poof?! Evaporated into thin air? You’re telling me that?

“Wake up, dammit! Wake up, dammit! WAKE UP!”

Everyone stared helplessly at Fushiguro. At first no one knew if he was talking to himself or you, but then he started desperately shaking your shoulders, repeating the words over and over again. “We wanted to go to the beach, remember? You told me you couldn’t wait! Come back, and I’ll drive us right now! Come back! Come back to me, please! Please!”

Gojo couldn’t bear the sight anymore. The way he shook your body as if that would change anything. With a few long strides he closed the distance between him and Megumi and pulled him away from the bed. He was thrashing at him, screaming in his face to let him go, but Gojo didn’t listen. He gladly took a hit or two if that meant Fushiguro could get at least some of his frustration out of his body. To Gojo, the room itself was a hard place to be in – for obvious reasons. The energy here made him feel uneasy and on edge. The amount of cursed energy gushing out of Megumi was immense and almost unbearable. He had to get his emotions in check or else…

Megumi continued to yell and thrash. “Let me go, you bastard! Let me go! I need to see her! I need to see her!”

“I understand that this is hard for you, but you need to calm down!” Gojo’s voice was stern. This was probably the first time ever that he actually put on the façade of a responsible adult. Nobara and Yuji watched the two with wide eyes, but didn’t interfere otherwise. “If you keep this up, you might end up cursing her! Do you want that?!”

“Let me go! Let me go!” Megumi wasn’t listening.

“Megumi, snap out of it!” Gojo’s palm connected to Megumi’s cheek, his flesh burning hot where it had connected. For a moment, the room was silent again. Only Megumi’s labored breaths broke through the thick tension.

“You bastard!” Megumi launched himself at Gojo with all his strength, but that was exactly what Gojo intended. It was better if he directed all his energy towards him than having it leak out of him uncontrollably. Otherwise he had the potential of manifesting a new special grade curse that neither one of them wanted to deal with, especially if you were to be reborn as said curse.

Megumi stopped his relentless attacks, knees buckling under his weight as a single agony filled screamed echoed off the walls…

Megumi slowly opened his eyes. His head was aching, blood soaring in his ears. What happened? He looked around himself. The room was dark, only illuminated by the moon light that peered through his partially closed blinds. He was laying in his bed, the room a mess just like he remembered. That was unlike him. Well, ever since that day he hasn’t been himself at all. Now, he more or less felt like an empty shell, existing but not alive.

He groaned, sitting up while he rubbed his temples, hoping to get the relentless throbbing to stop. Ah, that’s right. A few flashes of the previous events reminded him of what had happened. Megumi’s frustration and anger had gotten the best of him and he started throwing books, ripping them out of their shelves and even tearing some of them apart when he couldn’t find the answers he was looking for. Yuji had to call for Gojo and he in turn had knocked him unconscious.

Megumi huffed. Great. Now he was probably not permitted to go to the library again. He should really start thinking before lashing out like this. No, matter, though. If push comes to shove he’d find a way in and if it’s the last thing he did. He didn’t really care anymore anyways. What’s the worst that could happen? Expulsion? That was nothing.

He peeled the covers back, his shirt sticking to his body uncomfortably. Maybe he should take a shower before he went back again.

Reluctantly, he got up and walked towards his bathroom, mindful not to trip on anything that was scattered on his floor.

Once he was there, he turned the shower faucet on, letting the water heat up while he stripped out of his clothes. His head was still killing him and his whole body ached. He shivered, even as he got into the shower and the hot water burned his skin. He was still cold. For some reason he didn’t seem to be able to get warm anymore, as if you took all of his warmth with you, when you left him.

“Ew, stop doing that,” you laughed wholeheartedly as Megumi shook his wet hair in your face after coming out of the shower. “Seriously, are you a dog?”

“No, but I love hearing you laugh.” Megumi wrapped his arms around you, pressing your back against his naked chest as you both watched your reflection in the mirror. “I really love you, Y/N. So much,” he whispered in your ear, not taking his eyes off the mirror. He could see the faint blush on your cheeks and he placed a soft kiss to the nape of your neck to emphasize his words.

“I love you, too.” The smile on your lips and the way your eyes sparkled with joy, filled his heart with warmth and light. He could bask in it for all eternity and he would never get tired of it.

Megumi turned the water off, still shivering. It was to no use. His skin was burning red, though, and the whole room was filled with steam and yet, he had goosebumps all over his body. His teeth started clattering as he dried himself and he put on new clothes.

The clock on his bedside table told him that it was three in the morning. He felt like he forgot about something… something important. What was it again?

And then his eyes widened in shock. No, no, no.

“Hey, look!” Megumi felt your slender fingers wrap around his wrist, your warmth immediately warming his cold skin. You tugged him gently and he followed you. It didn’t take long for you to reach your desired destination and you stopped, eyes shining with awe in them as you watched over the city, lights sparkling and illuminating the darkness. Megumi couldn’t deny that the view was breathtaking, but he couldn’t keep his eyes from constantly looking at you instead. The way your face lit up, the way the lights danced on your face and how your cheeks were always tinted in their usual pinkish color, made him fall for you all over again. His heart hammered in his chest and his pulse picked up. Butterflies assaulting his stomach in the best way imaginable and he felt like he was floating above ground. Never has he felt so happy. “There! It’s starting!” You beamed at him as the first flash of light painted the night sky in a bright blue color, then it changed to red and then green. The sound of other fireworks being set off rang through the otherwise silent night. Here, on top of the mountain away from anyone, it was the most peaceful place he could imagine. But he wasn’t sure if it was only because of the view and the fact that no one was around or if it was because you were here. Whatever it was, he didn’t dream to fight it. The feeling so foreign yet so welcomed.

Suddenly your hand appeared in his line of vision and he didn’t hesitate to take it. What he didn’t expect was you starting to spin around. It took him a moment to catch up. “C’mon, Megumi, what are you doing? Don’t just stand there so stiffly! Dance with me!” You urged him on and Megumi felt his cheeks heating up in embarrassment. He could only hope that you couldn’t see it.

“There’s no music, though,” he said, trying to find an excuse to not make a complete fool out of himself. You see, Megumi wasn’t a dancer. Give him a choreographed fighting formation and he could do that no problem, but moving his feet to the rhythm of a song? Nope. That was sure to end in him tripping over his own feet and in the worst case break his leg or arm.

You rolled your eyes at him, but instead of saying anything, you reached into your back pocket to get a hold of your phone. It didn’t take long and the sound of the fireworks was mixed with the soft tune of a song that he didn’t know. “Better?”

Well, not really… Megumi scratched the back of his head, unsure. Better to come clean, I guess. “You see… I can’t really dance… like at all,” Megumi stammered.

“So what? I can’t dance either,” you laughed, spinning around and jumping up and down like it was the most normal thing to do. The smile on your face never faltered and you did another spin, throwing your hands up in the air, moving them around awkwardly. Megumi couldn’t help but laugh at your awkward movements. You looked so silly, it was hilarious. “See? Now it’s only fair that you make a fool out of yourself, too. You can’t leave me hanging like this!”

What the hell, right? Megumi started moving his feet, still super stiffly and anything but graceful, but he did it. He looked at you, following your movements and it didn’t take him long to get the hang of it… well, somewhat at least. He still looked really awkward and helpless, so you reached both your hands out for him again and he grabbed them without hesitation, just like before. You started spinning both of you in circles, giggling at the way his face lit up slightly. He joined your laughter, looking at you with the most adoring smile in the world. It felt… so easy. Everything with you felt so easy.

So now it was just the both of you, spinning around in fast circles, laughing at the night sky filled with stars while in the distance the sound of fireworks slowly died down. The music playing softly in the background, but you didn’t even care that the rhythm of the song didn’t match with your movements at all. Nothing mattered in that moment. Just the two of you. Together. Forever.

“Ah, I was wondering when you’d show up.” Gojo scratched the back of his neck, smiling apologetically. “Maybe I was a bit too rough, when I knocked you out. Sorry about that.”

Megumi stared at him sitting in the front row of lined up chairs. The room was only dimly lit by the candles at the other end. The soft light they cast illuminated a picture of you in a black frame. It was the same one he had saved as his phone background. Megumi gulped, feet moving on their own as he approached Gojo, though, he felt his knees wobble unsteadily. The air became thicker and thicker with every other step he took. It felt excruciatingly hard to breathe. It was suffocating.

Megumi sat down on a chair next to Gojo, forcing himself to tear his eyes off the framed picture in front of him. If he didn’t he was afraid he might break down again. So he shifted his attention to the man in the chair next to him. He was already looking at him, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, as usual. There was a slight frown in his features, though, and his mouth was pressed into a thin line, a stark contrast to his normally giddy self. So Gojo could be serious, huh? Who would’ve thought? Bet you would’ve loved to see him like that…

“Megumi,” Gojo broke the silence first, his tone soft, but there was a certain sternness behind it that Megumi didn’t know he had until now. It left no room for interpretation. This was going to be a serious talk and Fushiguro didn’t know if he was ready for that yet. “I know that losing someone you care about is not easy and I’m not trying to pretend that I know exactly what you’re going through right now, but I’m telling you as your sensei and as a friend… you have to move on. And that means you have to stop looking for ways to bring her back.”

Megumi opened his mouth to tell him off, but Gojo just held a finger up to show him he wasn’t done yet. The crease between Megumi’s brows deepened, but he kept his mouth shut regardless. “The world works under a few distinct principles. Rules that cannot be broken, if you will. Like we know that after the sun sets, dawn will come. With darkness, there is light and no matter how harsh a winter might be, spring will always come next. And the pinnacle of those rules will always be that with life there comes death. We don’t get to choose when this’ll be or how it’ll happen, but from the moment we’re born we know without a doubt that we’ll have to leave this place at some point. Death is certain. It’s but one part of life and disrupting that cycle, breaking one of the unbreakable rules, would cause the whole system to fall apart. It would level the ground for mayhem and destruction, nothing would make sense anymore. The world would crumble. As sorcerers you know that we protect the ones who cannot protect themselves, but we also maintain balance and Megumi… while I do understand your desire to see her again, I have to warn you… even if there is a chance, I won’t let you do it at the expense of everyone else’s life.”

Silence fell between them again. Megumi had a hard time believing that these words really just came out of Gojo’s mouth. Deep down, he knew he was right. He knew it was a futile plan to bring you back. It was selfish and irresponsible, but he was so… desperate. So desperate to hear your voice again, so desperate to listen to you laugh or complain, so desperate to feel your delicate and warm touch on his cold skin. He was so desperate for these things; he couldn’t think straight. His mind felt foreign to him without you there. He didn’t know who he was, who he would be without you by his side. He didn’t know if he wanted to be in this world anymore with his source of warmth and comfort gone. They said, time healed all wounds but as of now that seemed impossible. Just a thing people told themselves to keep moving forward. A lie that was supposed to protect oneself from the cruel and harsh truth that the world didn’t stop spinning, that time passed by and that dawn always came… no matter what. The world moved forward regardless if you were here or not and it felt like a cruel joke to him. Nothing seemed the same. He didn’t recognize anything, looking at the world with different eyes. How could there be a world without you in it? Why was everyone moving forward while he was left behind? And how could they? How could they move on? Why didn’t the world stop spinning? It should. Because nothing felt right. Nothing was the same. And yet… that only held true for him.

Megumi wiped away his silent tears with the sleeve of his shirt. “But I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” he croaked out. It was the first thing that came to his mind. He replayed the morning with you over and over again and he couldn’t remember if he said goodbye to you when you left that fateful day. Did he? Did he not? In any case, he would’ve never thought how final of a farewell it would’ve been in the end. “I don’t even remember the last thing I said to her,” he sobbed.

He felt beyond guilty for not being able to recall it clearly. Did he say ‘I love you’? Did you say it back? He wanted to believe he did, but he just wasn’t sure and it drove him insane.

“She knew that you loved her very much, Megumi. I’m sure she knew until the very end.” Gojo patted his shoulder a few times, before he got up. “Take all the time you need.” He left the room, closing the door behind him, but not before he turned around one last time, looking at Megumi with worried eyes. “But remember, Megumi… You have to move on eventually, no matter how hard it is. For her sake and your own… Just know that you have people in your life that you can rely on any time, okay?”

Megumi nodded and Gojo let the door fall shut behind him. The silence that ensued was almost deafening. Finally, Megumi let his tears fall freely, sobbing like a child and sucking in air after shallow breaths.

Everything hurt with you gone. How could he ever move on? How could he ever love again? Megumi was scared he might break in half. How much pain could someone even bear? Though, deep down he knew that he didn’t have a choice… He had to try. And he would try his hardest to keep moving forward, holding on to that tiny glimpse of hope that one day he’d see you again. And when he did, he swore to himself to never stop telling you how much he loved you. Always and forever.

622 notes · View notes

chuckbass-love · 3 years

Note

20,39,42 with Andy Barber?

Hey, lovely anon. First of all i hope you’re doing well and second of all, i thoroughly enjoyed writing this and i hope y’all have a lot of fun reading it. It’s been a hot minute since i last wrote for Andy.

Disclaimer: My work is not to be posted anywhere else other than MY Tumblr, Wattpad and Ao3 without my permission. However, reblogs are welcome.

Pairing: Andy Barber x Fem!Reader

Prompts Used:

20) “You’d better be quiet or everyone’s going to know what a naughty little slut you are”

39) “I’m so sick of your voice. Why don’t you come over here and put your mouth to better use?”

42) “I guess i’ll just get off all by myself”

Warnings: Smut. Sexual intercourse, vaginal sex, spanking, daddy kink, love making (kinda), arguing, swearing, angst and a sprinkle of fluff for good measure. That’s right, used all 3. 18+ you know the drill.

Word Count: 6,796

GIF NOT MINE!!! Credit to @cassercole go check them out💕

Do You Feel What I Feel?

After a long and interesting weekend, you’re a lot less eager to get back behind your desk to work for Andy Barber than you usually are. One reason in particular being that you’ve been dating other people behind his back. See the thing with you and Andy is that you’ve known him for 2 whole years, worked for him for 1 year and been fucking him since the evening of your very first day. He got you the job to work with him after you got laid off.

You met him after he showed up for one of your seminars at college and he gave a presentation on what it’s like to be a lawyer and you just clicked. But it was strictly platonic...until you showed up on that first day dressed in a knee length skirt, a semi sheer polka dot blouse with stockings and heels. He was shocked to say the least. You looked entirely different and he’d never seen you this way before. It turned him on and he let you know it.

As you were packing your things away and bidding him goodbye for the day, he called you back into his office and instructed you to lock the door behind you before he began to inform you of the effect you had on him. Starting slowly by telling you how he was taken aback by your ability to think on your feet, use your initiative and then just like that, it all came out and he couldn’t control his hunger much longer.

He kissed you so hard that night that the breath was knocked from your lungs but you loved it, you yearned for more of that feeling and he fucked you so good that you made it a regular thing, without even realising it was becoming one until it was too late. You’d just show up at each others places without a warning and before you knew it, he was fucking you into the mattress and making you cum with a cry of his name.

Now back to the present... you like Andy, in fact if you’re being truthful with yourself, you’ve fallen so madly in love with him that you know it’s time to quit him. He’s like a drug, an addiction and you need to stop going back for more. Hence why you decided that enough was enough.

You met a guy online, his name is Ashley and he was more than keen to take you out so you happily obliged and sure you had a nice time but there’s just one issue lying in your way. Andy is unsuspecting of your little date and it’s been eating away at you since said date walked you back to your apartment. You know that you need to tell him but you fear that it’ll cost you your job, he did hire you to help you out after all.

Before you can wallow more in your choice to keep things from him, he calls you into his office and you haven’t even gotten any work done yet, you only sat down 5 minutes ago.

What could he possibly want so early on?

“Yes, Mr Barber?” you ask flirtatiously, making him glare up at you before gesturing for you to take a seat opposite him. Which you do.

“So today i’m gonna need you to file this paper work into the data base for me” he starts, lifting up a pile taller than the length of your forearm and now you’re annoyed for real this time. He knows full well that you’re still finishing off the stack from Friday and yet here he is presenting more work for you to do “get it done by the end of the day” he finishes, flashing you another stone cold glare as he looks back down at the paper on his desk, not even bothering to acknowledge your presence for a second longer.

Until you speak up “Andy, you know i’m still finishing off Frid....”

“That’s Mr Barber to you and you can leave now” his rude and snappy interruption makes you scoff as you shake your head at the tone in his voice, he’s not in any mood today to help you out or make exceptions. So you do as you’re told, hauling the heavy pile into your arms and lugging it back to your desk outside. Once it’s on your desk, you walk back to shut his door before he asks, making sure to slam it harder than needed to make it known that you’re angry with him.

He doesn’t seem to notice or care though.

Now to get started on all of this work that’ll probably mean you staying later tonight, just brilliant. Guess your second date with Ashley will have to be rescheduled.

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

You finish off half of the pile by the time it gets to 1:30pm and you’re due a lunch break round about now so seeing as though Andy hasn’t left his office all day, you decide to pop out for some food with one of the other assistants, Stacey. Thank God you don’t have to face him since you have absolutely no clue what could have possibly rattled his cage this morning to make him snap at you like that. The two of you have always had this ongoing joke of you calling him Mr Barber and he usually allows you to call him by his first name until today when that alone was enough to anger him.

It’s obvious that you’ll have to put off telling him about your date until he’s in a better place to receive the news. You’re hoping that since he’s always been opposed to commitment that he’ll take it well but the halt in your fooling around might annoy him a little. It’s not your problem though, he always knew you were planning to eventually settle down.

Upon your return to your desk you find Andy sat in your chair, looking through your work “where the hell have you been?” he mutters as he avoids your eyes “you know what, don’t even bother making excuses, my office, NOW” you jump out of fear as he raises his voice slightly at you for the first time in the whole 2 years you’ve known him. Your anxious body shuffles into his office, scared of what’s about to happen.

“Was i not clear enough earlier Y/N? Hm? Because i specifically remember asking you to have this work done by the end of the day. You get off at half 4, it’s now half 2 and you’ve only done half. Do i pay you to galavant around town with Stacey or do i pay you to do your goddam job?”

In the 2 years that you’ve known Andy, he’s also never made you cry, yet here you are trying your absolute hardest not to let these tears fall in front of him.

“You pay me to do my job and i’ve tried my best to get it done. I-I’m sorry” you stand there awkwardly, picking at the torn skin around your fingernails as you stare hopelessly at your stilettos. “Well your best isn’t fucking good enough Y/N, try harder. You can stay here until all of the paperwork is done and that includes Friday’s load too now close the door on your way out”

Is he actually serious? He can’t be, surely. What is wrong with him?

“No” you stand tall, hands on your hips as you talk back and if he was angry before then now he’s livid with you “What do you mean no?” he questions, stepping towards you, hands in his pockets as he awaits your answer.

“I said, no. Just because you’re in a bad mood for whatever reason does NOT mean that you get to stand here and humiliate me. I said no and that’s final. I’ll do my best to get today’s work done before i leave but Friday’s work can wait and i don’t care what nasty comment you have in store to throw back at me”

His face screws up as he clenches his jaw again, you should feel really scared right about now, that comment might have just cost you this job but you don’t care. If that’s the case then you’ll walk out of here proud of yourself along with one less so called friend in your life.

“Bad mood? I’m furious and you don’t even know the half of it” he picks his phone up, tapping a couple times before handing it to you and walking back to his desk to sit down. You watch the clip in his camera roll, squinting as you try to make out the faces in it and then you realise that it’s you and Ashley. Fuck. He was there that night at your apartment, he was obviously coming to see you and you didn’t even know it. He must have seen you with another man and changed his mind. You feel awful as you look back at him, he just sighs once you place the phone onto his desk.

“Andy, i-i”

“Save it. If you wanted to cut our little deal off then you shoulda just said. I don’t appreciate being lied to Y/N and i don’t fancy talking about it with you for a minute longer so just do as your fucking told and get back to work”

All you can do is turn around and walk away since you’ve done enough damage already. But all you can think about is the look on his face after you watched the incriminating clip. He looked sad, broken even and it’s replaying in your brain over and over. Torturing you.

This is why he’s been so nasty today, so demanding and harsh. He’s hurt that you lied to him, hurt that you were with someone else, even if it was just dinner. You still arranged a date with another man and went and what Andy has never wanted to admit before, not even to himself is that he really likes you. In fact no, he’s fallen madly in love with you.

Every waking moment of his life is spent with you on his mind. You even corrupt his dream world too and it’s gotten out of control. Saturday he decided it was time to cut your little deal off and start over. He was going to do it right, confess his feelings, ask you on a date and then take you out and treat you like a princess.

Ever since he laid his blue eyes on you that first time when he was doing the presentation in your class at college, he liked you. You asked so many questions, engaged a lot in the debates and he knew then that you were going to play an important role in his life. And you have. You became close friends, going out regularly and doing things like bowling and eating dinner together more than a handful of times. He enjoyed your company and you enjoyed his but there was this unspoken rule that you had to remain just friends. He wasn’t ready for anything serious and you were still not over your ex.

But then when you walked through his office door on your first day dressed in that skirt, those heels and stockings and lets not forget about that blouse. He was trying his hardest not to drool. One things for sure though, he was painfully hard for you.

When he came to your apartment Saturday and saw you outside your door with some preppy douchebag who was around your age, he felt this lump in his throat form as his heart ached. Sure he expected you to get a man eventually after all you are 24 and he’s in his 30’s. But he didn’t expect it to happen so soon. He also didn’t expect you to have such an effect on him the way you have but here he is, angry at you for moving on without telling him and angry that you aren’t his anymore.

He feels bad for shouting at you today, for being so harsh with his words. He could see the tears pooling in your eyes right away but he was too pissed off to stop and now he’s almost certain that any friendship the two of you had is gone for good thanks to his vile actions.

Another 2 hours tick by and you’re still working at your pile, you’ve still got a lot left being that he’s included Friday’s in your load too. It’s going to be a long night so you pick your phone up and call Ashley.

“Ashley hey, it’s uh, it’s Y/N. Listen, i have to work late today so i won’t be able to make it” you announce and as he responds, Andy opens his door but you don’t notice.

“Rain check? Uh...” you trail off, trying your hardest to decide if you even want to see him again. It’s like you’re torn. On one hand you have Andy, your dream man. A man who knows your body like the back of his hands and a man who can more than likely take care of you if you just took a leap and told him about your feelings but then on the other hand you have Ashley. A guy who is your age and who makes you laugh a hell of a lot. Before you can even decide though, you hear a cough behind you. It’s Andy.

“Ashley can i call you back? It’s just now’s not really a good time, i have a lot of work to get done”

You hang up the phone as your eyes are locked onto Andy’s and the moment your phone is placed back onto your desk he wraps his large hand around your wrist, lifting you up off your chair and tugging you into his office. You watch as he locks the door behind him before going back to sitting behind his desk.

“You gonna see him again?” he asks, jaw clenched.

“I-I uh, i don’t know. I’m a little torn right now” your eyes settle on his plump pink lips, wanting nothing more than to bite down on his bottom one as you sink down onto his cock but you’re dirty thoughts come to a staggering halt as he speaks. “Torn with what? You like him right?” why is he asking you these things? Is he trying to torture himself with the details.

“Yes i mean no i mean I don’t know. I like him but i don’t think i can date him”

“How come?”

“Because i like someone else, in fact i love someone else”

Andy feels his heart sink further as more cracks appear threatening to shatter it completely. You love someone else and now he’s truly out of the game.

Rage works it’s way back into his body and he can’t help but take it out on you “did you sleep with him? Huh? Did the douche bag get to fuck that tight cunt of yours?”

At first you find him funny, laughing as you look around the room, anywhere but his eyes but then your own rage sets in.

“Not that it’s any of your business but no, he didn’t. We had dinner and that’s it” you state, matter of factly as you place your hands back onto your hips..

“Bullshit”

“Is that what you really think of me Andy? You think i’d just give it up to any guy that even looked my way. Wow, i knew you were a lot of things but vicious was definitely not one of them and what’s that i smell? Is it jealousy? Surely not.” you tut, shaking your head “I don’t think i even know you at all by the looks of things if you thought lying to me was better than being honest and trust me, i’m not jealous in the slightest, in fact i pity you. It’s your sex life that will suffer” he doesn’t falter for even a second as he stares you down and just as he anticipated, you’re the first one to break, looking away from him. You can’t help the way your heart starts to race from all of the fury filling up your body. How dare he.

“I was only keeping it from you until i found the right time to tell you. And don’t you dare think for one second that just because we’ve slept together that you have any right to comment on my sex life. You made it perfectly clear that monogamy wasn’t your thing so don’t be mad when i finally want to move on from being someone’s fuck buddy” you spit, heat rising to your cheeks as you realise what you just said. Fuck.

“I’ll comment on whatever i fucking want to so quit the bitching and yeah, i don’t do commitment but i sure as hell wouldn’t be with you even if i did”

You don’t respond to him this time, there’s no quick comeback to fire his way, no insult that could mean you having the upper hand again. Nothing is left but shock and disappointment. He really said that, he really played on your biggest insecurity. He played on it and used it to his advantage, to get the upper hand and win the argument.

“What? Got nothing to say?” he snorts, smug grin on his face. Watch his smile disappear now...

“I love you, Andy” you finally get the words out and you feel as if you’re going to choke on them and die right here in his office. Cause of death, unrequited love.

“W-what?” he’s practically speechless, his words barely audible.

“I’m so madly in love with you and i have been for a while now. But i continued to shut my feelings out and reject other guys because i came to the realisation that having you in any way that i could would be enough for me even if it meant that i couldn’t have you in the way that i’ve always wanted. But none of this matters now, right? Because you’ve made it pretty clear how you feel and where you stand. You wouldn’t date me even you did date and that’s fine but at least now both our cards are on the table”

He looks up at you, using his index finger to force you to look back at him and when you do, he looks so deep into your eyes almost as if he’s attempting to see into your soul. Like he’s trying to search for any signs of dishonesty.

“Why didn’t you just tell me? Instead of going out with other guys you shoulda told me and been honest about it?” is all he can say and that’s the last response you expected but what catches you off guard the most is how he said it, almost like he was hurt and relieved simultaneously.

“Andy, you’re my boss and you made it clear that you didn’t want a relationship” he has absolutely no right to lecture you about honesty when he’s spent the entire time he’s known you blabbering on about how the single life is better for him and how he’d hate to be tied down again. You roll your eyes as you move away from him when he attempts to move closer.

Silence falls upon the two of you and it seems never ending, leaving you no choice but to leave. The moment you turn around to walk away he’s on his feet too “where are you going?” the tone his voice makes it sound as though he’s pleading for you to stay without actually saying the words.

“I’m going back to my desk to do my fucking job, just like you told me to do earlier” you turn back around but just as you expected, he stops you “look. I’m sorry, okay. I was just mad that you”

“Mad about what? That i went out on a date? I’m a single woman Andy and despite our little deal, i don’t belong to you so you have no right to be mad at me for doing what any other single person does”

He bites down on his bottom lip as he runs his fingers through his perfectly styled locks, messing them up instantly “God, you’re so fucking infuriating”

“I’m infuriating? You really are clueless to your own behaviour aren’t you? I just told you that i love you and you still haven’t told me if you feel the same. So i think that says it all, don’t you?” you stop yourself before continuing your rant, trying your hardest to prevent something worse slipping out. Right now in your state, you’re bound to say things that you don’t mean and will later regret. “you know what, i think i’m gonna take the work load home and complete it there. I’ll see you tomorrow, if i still have a job that is” you raise your brows at him, praying he doesn’t fire you for your attitude alone. But to your surprise he doesn’t.

“You really think that low of me? That i’d ever fire you because of what’s going on between us outside of this office? Wow” he leans back on his desk and his shoulders drop as he slumps over, looking down at his large calloused hands.

“It’s what i assumed would happen. You’re really gonna pretend like you don’t want me gone after today?”

“I don’t, believe it or not. But i have no time to deal with this discussion any longer, i have to leave early today” he says as he goes back to sitting behind his desk again and turning his computer back on “i don’t expect you to stay any longer, you can take that work home and finish it after your date” he mutters the last few words, pulling a face as if they make him sick.

“Really? We’re back to that again. God i’ve had it with you” you spit, biting down on the inside of your cheek before strutting over to the door but his hand stops you before you even get yours on the lock.

“Let me go Andy. I don’t even want to look at you, let alone be stuck in a room with you” harsh, but in this moment it’s true. He’s done nothing but upset you all day long and even after your stupid decision to confess your love for him, he’s still doing it. You feel so defeated right now that you can’t take another second of his shit.

“Just one more thing and then you’re free to go and fuck whoever you want, whenever you want. How many guys have you been on dates with since we started hooking up?” the desperation is evident in his eyes as they pierce into yours, searching again but this time for the answers before you can even open your mouth to give them to him “one. It was only one date on Saturday night with Ashley” and that’s the truth. You would never repeatedly date behind his back, this was a one off. A one off you’re regretting more as the seconds tick by.

An awkward silence falls upon the two of you once more as he walks back over to his desk, pacing next to it and creating a draft. “Are you planning to see him again?” and he’s back with more questions. Why does he care so much?

He clearly doesn’t love you too otherwise he’d have said it once you confessed your feelings for him. Instead he left you looking like the biggest joke ever, the clown. And you feel so mortified for even believing he’d say it back.

Silly little Y/N, always catching feelings for men who don’t feel the same way back. You’re starting to feel as though you’ll never find someone.

But still his behaviour has you second guessing him. Maybe he does like you and that’s why he’s acting so hurt.

“Maybe i will, after all i am single. That shouldn’t be a problem, should it Andy?” you know full well that you’re pushing down hard on his buttons and you can see his cheeks turn red as his knuckles turn white from his tight grip on the side of the table.

“What you don’t like that? You don’t like the thought of me on top of Ashley, sinking down onto his cock as he touches my body and kis -”

Out of nowhere he interrupts you, slamming his fist down onto his desk “dammit, Y/N, what is it with you? Trying to make me jealous? Because i’ve had just about enough of you running your mouth” he pulls one of the chairs out, falling into it and spreading his legs “In fact. I’m so sick of your voice. Why don’t you come over here and put your mouth to better use? Huh? Maybe then you’ll shut up about that fucking douche bag” he is jealous, it’s so obvious to you now. He’s jealous of Ashley, jealous of the possibility of him spending time with you and he hates the thought of someone stealing you away from his tight grasp.

You can’t quite believe your ears or your eyes as he spreads his legs further, grazing his hand over the tent in his dress trousers and you can’t help the gulp that follows.

“Andy”

“Shhh, enough talking. I don’t have it in me anymore to argue with you, just come here” he insists but you stand your ground “no. i can’t keep going round and round in circles with you with absolutely no end in sight and with no hope for you to reciprocate how i feel. I’m sorry but i’m leaving”

Yet again, as expected, he clears his throat “fine. I guess i’ll just get off all by myself”

Like they always do around Andy, your legs turn to jelly and your eyes glaze over along with your better judgement being clouded by x rated thoughts of him railing you. The idea of him touching himself, working his hand expertly around his girthy cock causes arousal to flood your panties. How dare your body betray you like this. How dare your mind do the same. It’s not fair that every time you think you have the upper hand and the dominance, he comes along, snatching it away from you and proving you wrong.

You have absolutely no idea why you’re about to do what you’re about to do other than the fact that your body gravitates toward him like a magnet and it’s out of your control.

So without a second longer to fester or overthink, you spin around on your heels, charging towards him. Andy watches in awe as you drop to your knees and make quick work of his belt. Once you free his cock from the confines of his black Calvin Kleins and into your small hand you spot the droplets of precum oozing out of the slit on his red bulbous head. You look up at him through your eyelashes, batting them as you give the tip a couple of kitten licks before spitting all over his shaft and pumping him agonisingly slow.

“Fuck” he groans, rolling his eyes back as he grips the arm rests on the chair when you take him into your mouth “attagirl, sucking daddy’s cock like a fucking pro” his hands grip your face as he continues to watch you go to work, making a mess of yourself as you gag around him,

You don’t bother to issue a warning before taking all of him in your mouth, all the way down to his balls over and over. Making sure to hollow out your cheeks as you bob your head up and down, your tongue licking the underside of him as your hands grasp his balls. He starts bucking his hips up, attempting to fuck your mouth but you push him back down as a whole batch of unholy sounds that only you can elicit from him fall from his perfect lips, the sounds that are so loud and downright filthy that he has no option but to cover his mouth with his hand, biting down one of his thick digits to keep from exposing himself to his unsuspecting colleagues outside.

He soon pulls you off and you do so with a pop. He forces you to look up at him, his hand grabbing your cheeks and squeezing aggressively “no matter what undeserving boys you go out on a date with, no matter who flirts with you. You’re mine, always have been and always will be” he moves you to straddle his lap before he stands up to move the two of you to the couch.

“So no more dates princess, no more other guys. Because i’m the only one who gets to have you. Is that clear?” he cocks his brow up at you and you nod in response before mumbling a quick “yes” to satisfy his need for confirmation and assurance.

He lifts your knee length dress up to your stomach before he gets to touching you, squeezing at your ass cheeks a little too hard for your liking but you secretly love the way he gets so rough with your body, the way he smacks both ass cheeks repeatedly until you wince from how sore he’s made you.

“God, these clothes drive me crazy. Ever since that first day i met you, i’ve wanted you and when you started working here, i was so desperate to fuck you as you wore these stockings and these heels. You’re so fucking hot, princess and you have no idea how crazy you drive me when you bend over, shoving this ass in my face”

He starts to kiss your neck, sloppy open mouthed kisses on the spot that has your back arching as you grip onto the back of his neck to steady yourself. He’s working you up all the more, turning the pool in your panties into a river. You’re dripping wet for him, desperate for him to just fuck your greedy pussy, desperate to clench down around his cock as he pounds into you.

“You’ve done it before Andy. Many times in fact”

His kisses halt as he smirks at you, that devilish look in his eyes. It always drives you wild “do it again, please, i need it” you beg pathetically and much to your surprise, he does exactly that. He takes your panties, tugging them to the side and playing with your soaked core a little as well as touching your bundle of nerves. You whine into the crook of his neck as you urge him to hurry before he eventually pulls his pants further down his legs to position himself at your entrance better. You don’t even have time to breathe before he’s knocking the air from your lungs as he fucks himself to the hilt inside of you.

The way his pace continues to pick up until it’s rendering on animalistic is causing you to let out the loudest and sexiest sounds, it’s like music to his ears but he can’t have anyone hearing this. He flips the two of you over so that you’re below him, your legs pushed back to your head and you hold them in place. His hand covers your mouth as he slides himself back in, not making any effort to start slow “you’d better be quiet or everyone’s going to know what a naughty little slut you are” he continues with rough snaps of his hips as he fucks into you with reckless abandon and causing the sweet music you make to vibrate onto his hand.

“Yeah, like this? Like the way i fuck this pretty little cunt?”

Thrust

“Bet his cock couldn’t even touch what mine does to you, the way you cry out for more and scream my name every time. The way i can make you cum with just my words and my fingers. God, such a dirty little girl for me, ain’t that right, princess?”

Satisfied hums follow his questions along with a frantic nod as you feel the coil tightening in your stomach, like a knot twisting and pulling, you’re so unbelievably close that you can almost taste the impending orgasm. “Don’t make a fucking sound when i move my hand, okay?” again you nod in response and he moves his hand, smiling down at you with adoration in his eyes before moving his hand to your aching sex. His fingers pressing down onto your bundle of nerves, rubbing firm circles on it and as soon as your walls flutter around him, he knows your close.

“Gonna cum, huh? Gonna make a mess all over my cock? My filthy girl, go on baby, cream all over me”

Just like that, along with his permission you let everything go, allowing yourself to really feel the pleasure. Your walls flutter around him again and again and each time he pulls out of you he spots your juices as they cover his cock beautifully. The sight alone has his hips snapping harder, the sound of his skin slapping against yours bounces off of the walls in his office and you accidentally let out a lewd moan that he swallows with his kiss as you wrap your legs around him to pull him closer “cum for me daddy” your encouragement sends his entire world spinning as his thrusts stagger.

His cock jolts inside of you, twitching like crazy before his cream fills you up deliciously, painting your walls in thick ropes. You arch your back as your arms wrap around his neck. You need to feel his lips on yours.

He kisses you so hard that your teeth clash, making the two of you chuckle into each others mouths before attempting again. This time his tongue forces it’s way past your lips, battling with yours as he rides the two of you through your dramatic and intense highs.

Once his hips still and he pulls out, he flops down next to you. The two of you are nothing but a panting mess. Chests rising and falling along with your erratic heart beats.

“I love you too” he confesses, making you gasp as you turn your head to look at his spent body, the way his eyes meet yours and tears pool in them has your eyes doing the same.

“Andy”

“I’m not finished. I’ve felt this connection with you since the day i first met you, it caught me completely off guard. When we made the deal for it to be just friends, i was upset. I wanted a lot more but i know i wasn’t ready just yet. But the way you’d draw out laughter from me that no one else has ever been able to and the way you’d boss me around only made my feelings grow. Then we fucked and it was like confirmation to me that i was well and truly screwed. But i kept coming back for more because it was like an addiction, i had to have you in any way that was possible and if sex was the only way then i’d have stayed single forever just to keep you close. I’d have done anything to be able to hold your body and kiss your neck and make you feel good. If doing that as just your fuck buddy was the only way then so be it. But i got to a point where just fucking you wasn’t enough. I wanted something real with you. So on Saturday-” before he can even finish you sigh, sitting up.

“You came to tell me how you felt? Andy, why didn’t you just say that earlier?” you don’t know how to feel right now. You’re so consumed by emotions that your head is spinning. One one hand you’re angry, annoyed and upset that he kept this from you and didn’t just tell you he felt the same when you confessed how you felt. But then on the other hand you’re relieved and happy that he does feel the same. This was never some unrequited love, it’s always been reciprocated and real.

All the lingering stares you’d catch, all of the compliments thrown your way and the insults hurled at random guys who’d ogle you whenever you were out in public with him or whenever another guy at work would take an interest.

“I saw you with that guy Y/N and i broke down. Then today, i expected you to come in and talk to me about it but instead you sat down at your desk, acted normal and didn’t say a word. I was hurt that you’d keep this from me. I know we both felt these things and i know both of us were unaware of the feelings being reciprocated but you still didn’t tell me you’d even thought about seeing other people and i guess i just expected more from you, more honesty”

He’s right. You don’t have it in you to argue because he’s right. He might have had his reasons for hiding his true feelings but you hid your date from him and that’s a lot worse. How was he supposed to just come out with it when all he could think of was you with Ashley.

“You’re right. I was wrong, i didn’t even think about the effect it would have and i was selfish. To tell you the truth i only went out with that guy because i was trying to move on from you, i didn’t want to keep feeling this strongly with no possibility of you feeling the same so i did the first thing i knew to do, date some other guy”

Andy can’t say he isn’t relieved to hear you admit that preppy college boy means nothing to you but it’s bitter sweet, you saying that you thought your feelings were one sided so you wanted to move on to avoid getting hurt further makes him hurt too. You’ve always meant more to him than just some friendship or some steamy sex. You’re the first woman he’s even looked twice at since Laurie and that means a whole lot more than you’ll ever know or understand.

“So what now?” you ask, puppy dog eyes showing as you await his response.

“I know it’s a bit backwards but how about a date tomorrow?”

God, he really is so handsome, so sweet. His deep and raspy chuckles make you giggle along with him as you straddle him once again, crashing your lips to his, his beard scratching at your face just the way you like.

He pulls away for a second “is that a yes?” once more you shake your head, tutting at him “a thousand times yes, Mr Barber. Yes i’ll go out with you” he wraps his arms around you as he pulls you flush against his suit clad torso, kissing you eagerly and smiling into it. He finally got the girl.

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

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titan-fodder · 3 years

Text

Prima Vista Part IV

[ previous ]

Rating: E (explicit; mdni) Pairing: Mike Zacharias x fem!reader wc: ~ 9.6k

Warning: a big helping of abandonment/daddy issues, lots of feelings, explicit sexual content A/N: y’all are gonna be so soft and then so mad lmao.

The plan was to go to Mike's house then back to campus. You said you didn't have anything to do at your mom's, that a long phone call would suffice, which is why Mike is confused when you ask him if you can stop by before going back. It's an hour out of the way, but it's not like he has anything better to do, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious about your humble beginnings.

The house is in a decent-looking neighborhood, small, nearly identical one-story homes surrounded by cracked sidewalks. He has to be careful not to trip as you make your way to the front porch, pots of dead or dying plants along the edges of it. You shove your key into the lock, twist and open, then motion for Mike to follow.

The den is dimly lit, ceiling fan above with only one working bulb. A crime show is playing on the TV but there's no one watching. There is, however, another light pouring from a back room, and as soon as you drop your bag on the couch, a head pokes out from the doorway.

"Baby girl!" A shrill voice cries, and Mike sees you grimace. "I thought you weren't coming by!"

A woman walks into the den wearing long, cotton shorts and an old tie-dye shirt then pulls you into a hug so tight that it makes you cough.

"Mom," you take a deep breath as if to refill your lungs with all the air that was pushed from them. "This is Mike."

He holds out a hand and smiles, but all your mother does is stare with round eyes and blurt, "Oh, he's a big boy."

"My fucking god." You don't yell or whine, just pinch the bridge of your nose and mumble, "Just shake his hand please."

"Sorry, I'm sorry, just was not expecting… You didn't tell me how tall he was."

"'Cause it doesn't matter. Why would I—nevermind," you cut yourself off, face falling flat just like your voice.

Mike isn't sure if he should be flattered or offended or embarrassed, so he just ignores the comment entirely and says, "Nice to meet you."

You make your escape to the back, dragging Mike with you before shutting your bedroom door and leaning against it.

"Mom is a little weird, but you'll always know where you stand with her," you tell him. "Also, sorry about the house. She’s a teacher, so she’s usually pretty beat at the end of the day. Not enough energy to do a lotta cleaning."

"Didn't even notice," he reassures you.

Mike unpacks his bag next to you, and you gather the dirty clothes from both yours and his, balling them up and taking them with you out to the garage to throw into the washing machine. Mike should have done it at his parents', but as you were packing up that morning, his mother got all teary eyed and his dad just kept shaking your tiny hands and telling you to come back, so it just didn’t happen.

Back in the living room, your mom is sitting in an old rocking chair, and Mike thinks you'll take a seat on the adjacent couch, but instead you ask, "You need help with anything? Dishes or vacuuming or somethin'?"

She looks up at you, fly-away hairs sticking out around her temples and forehead and responds, "It'd be nice if you could do the dishes. I just haven't gotten around to it."

"Can do," you nod and walk into the kitchen, opening the dishwasher and making a displeased noise at the dirty plates and bowls inside. There's room for a few more, but once it's full and running, you just clean what's left in the sink by hand. Mike finds a towel, stands next to you, and holds his hand out for every scrubbed dish, drying it and placing it in the rack to hopefully be put up later.

"You hungry?" You ask when you're done and drying your hands. "It's almost one."

"Uh, yeah. I could eat."

Truthfully, he's starving having only had a small breakfast at his parents'. He doesn't want to say that, though, doesn't want you making a big meal for him or apologizing for anything.

"Sandwiches okay?"

Something in your tone has him on edge. Your voice is too quiet, deflecting downward as if you're forcing each word from your mouth.

"Yeah," he nods. "If you get the stuff, I can make 'em." Mostly so that you can relax but also because there's no way he's gonna let you make him a fucking sandwich.

You shrug your shoulders, grab bread, lunchmeat, cheese, and condiments, then say, "You can make ours. I'll make mom's."

He knows he's missing something, but he doesn't know what, and right now he's too afraid to ask.

He eats next to you on the couch, you and your mom watching TV as Mike tries to subtly glance around. Mounted shelves are decorated with dusty, mismatched figurines, cracks opening at the corners where the walls meet the roof. The brick fireplace is stacked high with plastic tubs and books, probably from your mother’s classroom, and the carpet has seen better days.

Mike isn't judging—not in the least—but he has a feeling he knows why being here puts you in a sour mood. The house feels lived in, cluttered and cozy and worn around the edges, but it's still empty somehow.

After the three of you are finished eating, you take the paper plates and dispose of them, then tell your mom that you'll be in your room. She gives you a soft smile that you struggle to return.

It's a little more you in the bedroom, blue walls covered in old posters and collages, a quilt similar to the one in your dorm folded at the bottom of your bed. Your pillow cases are faded and covered in an old flower design that matches your sheets, and there's a small nightstand next to the headboard that's bare on top with wrinkled papers poking out of the bottom drawer.

"It's not much, but if you wanna snoop around like I always do, feel free."

Mike doesn't really want to, especially since you already seem so uncomfortable in what should be a safe space for you. The only thing he feels okay investigating is the old bookshelf next to your closet—mostly YA novels, some poetry books, an old set of The Lord of the Rings series, a textbook over rocks and minerals and another over volcanoes. Tucked away in the bottom shelf is a tiny booklet that looks like a photo album, and Mike has to fight the urge to pull it from its place and flip through the plastic pages. Anything to get to know you better.

You lay in bed, eyes locked on the ceiling, and Mike doesn't know what to do. There's a very small TV sitting on your dresser, an old DVD player next to it, so he figures he'll save both you and himself from talking by picking out a movie.

He fingers through them, not that there's a lot, just skims the spines until he pulls out a copy of Space Jam. You only glance at the screen when the intro starts, and Mike immediately zeroes in on the way your jaw sets and your brows furrow.

"I can pick something else," he tells you quietly.

You take a deep breath and shake your head. Slowly but surely your features begin to soften.

"'S'fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. My, uh…" You swallow loud enough from Mike to hear, neck bobbing with the motion. "My dad and I used to watch it all the time."

He doesn't know what to make of it or how to respond. In the months he's known you, Mike has never heard you mention your father a single time, and he's never asked in fear of what your response might be.

He moves your quilt to sit on the very edge of the bed, a little too tense as he heavily contemplates ignoring what you'd said and still switching movies.

"You can lay down, you know," you mumble. "I'm not gonna bite you."

"You have before," he tries to act casual, but it comes out too stiffly.

You laugh through your nose— "Suit yourself—" then get more comfortable on the mattress.

Michael Jordan gets pulled into a golf hole and the Loony Toons journey to retrieve his shoes from the real world. Mike is barely paying attention, more focused on the way your breathing evens out until it becomes slow and deep.

That's good. You could use a nap.

He watches you for a while, the way your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks and your lips part. You're all curled up on yourself, hands tucked under your chin, knees to your stomach, and Mike wants to slip behind you so badly, to pull you to his chest and lay with you until his heartbeat syncs with yours.

But first.

As carefully as he can, Mike stands from the bed and glides to the bookcase. He lowers himself in front of it, quickly finding what he's looking for and pulls it from the shelf.

It's a small little album, full of polaroids and old pictures cut in half. The first page sets the tone for the rest of the booklet, a photo of a very small you outside eating a popsicle next to a man that is most definitely your dad. You've got a similar facial structure as well as his coloring. Not to mention the expression he's wearing is one Mike has seen you make many times before.

The next picture is the two of you dressed up for an event. He's in a striped Polo and slacks while you're in a little checkered dress, a rose corsage on your tiny wrist. Some kind of father-daughter dance, Mike guesses.

Sitting on his lap at a fair, a chubby little boy a few years older than you standing close with a stuffed snake around his neck. A party where you're posed with an honestly frightening costume character. You in a bright, mesh jersey standing back to back with your dad, arms crossed, looking at the camera with your chins tilted upward.

They all look like good memories. The little boy in the fair picture appears several more times, and as he loses his baby fat, Mike sees the resemblance he shares with you and your father. It's too close to be a cousin—your eyes and mouths shaped the same—so he must be your brother.

Mike doesn't know how to feel about that because again, you've never uttered a word. As far as he knew, you were an only child, so why…

He gets lost in the pages, watching you grow and pose mostly next to your dad. Smiles and laughs and silly faces with your tongues sticking out. Your mom is in some, brother in others, and then, you're in a cap and gown, grinning widely next to your dad who's beginning to gray at the temples. His own smile is barely there now, a ghost of what was seen in the previous photos. It's forced, it's sad, and it's the last picture in the book.

Mike's chest hurts. He wonders what happened, when exactly you'd lost him. Was it a quick goodbye, or had it been drawn out and painful? Had he been sick for a long time? He'd looked perfectly healthy in all the shots. Maybe a car accident that took both him and your brother…

He flips to check for one last photo on the back of the page, but it's empty. However, tucked in a tiny, paper pocket is a folded up note that Mike stares at for a few solid minutes, debating the pros and cons of reading it. He knows he's already violated your privacy by looking through the album, and fuck, he's only been in your house for a couple hours at most—how has he already managed to tumble down such a humongous rabbit hole?

Your tiny snores reach his ears, and Mike gently pulls the note out, biting his lip as he unfolds it as quietly as possible. It's soft, like it's been read too many times, and the letters scribbled in all caps are beginning to fade, but the words are still legible.

It starts with your name, and then it's all apologies—sorry I can't stay, I have to leave, you don't understand how much this hurts me and so on.

Mike's eyebrows pull together the further he reads, blood pounding against the walls of his arteries, pulse picking up because he understands now.

Your father wasn't in any sort of accident; he just left.

The letter ends with a gut-wrenching, You'll always be my little girl, and Mike nearly crumples the paper up to throw away. He resists somehow, simply folds it with shaky hands and slips it back into the pocket at the back of the album.

He's never been so mad at a stranger in his life. This must be it. This must be why you are—

"Should've known you'd go straight for the photo album."

Your voice makes Mike's body jolt, his face heating as he turns to look at you with wide eyes.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

You wave him off and prop yourself up on an elbow. "It's whatever."

But, it's not. It's this huge part of you that still affects you to this day. Mike is no psychologist, but he has a pretty good feeling this is the main reason you hold everyone at arm's length.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"What's there to tell?"

Sitting up fully, your gaze moves to the screen just in time to see Michael Jordan step off of the spaceship and onto the baseball field. I Believe I Can Fly is playing, and you're gritting your teeth.

"It's not anything that comes up in normal conversation anyway. I wasn't just gonna hit you with it outta nowhere. Also," you look back to Mike, eyes still sleepy, lips pulling downward in a frown. "I'm not the only one who hid stuff about my family."

Mike sighs and quietly tells you, "That's different," as he closes the album and slides it back into the row of books.

"Is it, though? Is it really?"

"I..."

Mike shuts his mouth and actually thinks on it. He wasn't trying to lie to you about his home life or his heritage. He's only half Greek on his mom's side, after all, and he's only been to the country to visit family a couple of times—once when he was a child and once right before college. The culture is a little different over there, but it all seems so natural to him, especially after being raised to speak the language.

Honestly, he didn't ever tell you because he didn't think to, but Mike can understand the shock of walking into his childhood home and getting thrown through that loop. It must have been jarring for you.

It's a positive aspect of his life, though. It's not something that's damaged him or made him cold toward others. And, he hates describing you in such a way, but it's true.

At least it makes sense now.

"I guess not," he shrugs. He's not about to fight you on it.

You stare at him for a while, waking up a bit more as you rub your eyes and stretch.

Then, you flop back down on your pillows.

"So. Any questions, Zacharias?"

He's surprised that you're asking, and though he doesn't want to twist the metaphorical knife in your gut, he still replies honestly: "Too many."

A long exhale through your nose, and then you're patting the mattress next to you and grumbling, "Fine, I'll do my best, but you gotta come up here."

"Why? You gonna need to cuddle afterward?" He can't help but tease.

"Fuckin' maybe, dude! We're about to get into my god damn trauma so—"

Mike is up on his feet and flying toward the bed. He isn't about to sabotage the one fucking moment you're opening yourself up.

"Alright, what first?" You ask, trying to look bored, but Mike can clearly see that you're nervous.

"He left."

"Yeah."

And then he gets the full story.

Your dad was pretty perfect during your younger years—a bit of a workaholic but still good. He took you to dances like the one you'd both dressed for in the photograph. You'd spend days at amusement parks where he'd carry you on his shoulders. He coached the basketball team you'd played on as a child.

"Not saying he played favorites, but I was definitely closer to him than my brother was."

The brother who developed a drug problem at fourteen, who was always either out with his little addict friends or at home where he would just scream at you and your mom.

"He went to rehab a couple times, but it didn't stick."

He left home at seventeen and hasn't gotten in touch with you or your parents since.

"I keep thinking one day we'll get a call from the police saying they found his wallet on a fucking corpse, but who knows. Maybe he got clean. Maybe he started a family somewhere else. He'd be twenty-five now."

"Were you ever close with him?"

You shrug. "We spent a lot of time together when we were really little, but even back then he was kinda a mean kid."

It very quickly circles back to your father. Mike still doesn't feel like he has all the answers, so he asks through the skin of his lip, "Why'd he leave?"

At this point, you've got your head in his lap as he sits against the wall. He smooths your hair back from your face every once in a while, something his mom used to do to him when he was very young that always soothed him.

He hopes it's having the same effect on you, thinks it might be considering you've had your eyes closed for a while now, humming now and then as you talk.

"Honestly, I don't really know. I don't think he and my mom were ever in love. Like, they just kinda settled for each other," you sigh. "They didn't have a lot in common. They had different upbringings. But, they didn't fight or anything—not in front of us. They were good at hiding the hard times from me and my brother. They just didn't… click."

Mike bites his tongue, wonders if that was hard to watch or if you'd been too naive to notice.

Then, there's his second train of thought that's really just the voice in his head screaming, we click, though! You and I work! But he keeps it to himself. This isn't about you and him.

"I think maybe dad had, like, a 'stay together for the kids' mentality 'cause as soon as I graduated, he was fuckin' gone. And, I mean gone. We went to a graduation party the next weekend that lasted a few hours—just me and mom—and when we got back his truck wasn't in the driveway and his drawers were empty. He left that note you read on my desk."

Mike breathes. Just breathes. He tries to make sense of it, how someone could just do that without a real reason. There hadn't been any explanation in the letter, only apologies.

"Have you seen him since?"

You open your eyes and reply, "Nope," popping the 'p'. "I don't know where he is, and he hasn't reached out. Mom made the drive to my grandma's—his mom—but she said she didn't know where he was either. Pretty sure she was covering for him, though. She was always kind of a bitch. You know, save for the whole paying for my college and all."

Mike snorts at this, not that there's anything funny about the situation. It's just his first reaction.

You ignore it, moving on with an, "Anyway."

"Anyway," he mimics.

"I don't know if you've noticed in the short time you've been here, but my mom is a little… off. Not super good at taking care of herself."

"Is this why?"

"Clever boy," you show a bitter smile. "I didn't really understand since they weren't, like, in love or whatever, but… I think it was the betrayal more than anything. Like, it came outta nowhere, a big ol' slap in the face."

"Plus, he left you behind," Mike adds, as if you don't already know.

Looking up at him, you raise your eyebrows and smirk. "And, now you know about my abandonment issues." The last part comes out in high-pitched, melodic syllables, a little song that would be funny if Mike didn't know it was a coping mechanism. It most definitely is, though. He can tell that you're the type to mask every issue with humor and sarcasm. It's how you've been dealing with him for the last several months.

"So, that's my story," you conclude on an exhale. "Now you know all my dirty secrets."

"For some reason I don't think that's all of them," Mike pets your hair again. "But, probably the important ones."

"Mm. I guess."

The rest of the day is really just spent killing time. You cook an easy dinner that you refuse to let Mike help with, then sit in the den with your mom just like you did at lunch. A medical show is playing. Then a reality show. Then a game show. None of you say much of anything, and it's painfully awkward for Mike now that he knows what happened, but he can power through a few days of this if it makes you feel better.

Hours pass until you can retreat, and moonlight shines through your bedroom window, not that Mike needs it. He's memorized your body at this point, knows where to touch without even seeing. He makes sure to be gentle, to suckle and blow on your pebbled nipples as you card fingers through his hair and breathe faster and faster.

Leaving love bites down your chest and stomach, he sucks on your skin, gently grazing his teeth over every bruise. Mike wants you to see them all the next day—not a staked claim, just something you can't ignore when you look in the mirror, evidence of his feelings in every mark.

When you're finally nice and relaxed, he spreads your legs and licks into you, trying not to be too rough with his beard, but a few swipes of it over your clit leave you shaking in his grasp. You whisper his name, the common one that everyone knows him by, but then, rolling off your tongue like a prayer, you call him, "Miche," and he can't help the rumble that rises in his chest.

It should be strange. That's the name only his family uses, the one he was born with. He only simplified it so that kids in school wouldn't ask questions or make fun of him, and after that, it just sort of stuck. But, here and now, falling from your lips, it's so soft. So intimate.

You whimper when he sucks on your folds, making them swell, making them sensitive. And then, he's pushing his tongue inside of you and humming happily at the taste. His nose is bumping against your clit, and Christ, you even smell good to him—that ripe, tangy aroma that has Mike going a little crazy. He has to make sure he doesn't get too carried away. You can't make very much noise even with the rattling of the air conditioner, but as he slowly slides a finger into your pussy, he hears you moan around the fist you're holding to your mouth.

He stretches you just enough to get you ready, then he holds himself over you and pushes into your wet cunt. Your eyes are open, locked with Mike's as your brow raises and your jaw drops. It's erotic, something you've never done with him before. You typically either gaze somewhere other than his face or keep your eyes squeezed shut.

Tonight, though, you've been vulnerable and apparently want to stay that way for a little while longer.

He bends to catch you in a kiss, lips and tongues moving just as slowly as his hips, and when you reach to tug at Mike's hair, he pants into your mouth.

Those words are there again, stuck in his throat but slowly crawling upward until they're just there, pouring from his tongue, "I lo—"

Until you cut him off with a sharp, "Don't."

He makes a noise of frustration, wants to protest because he's so deep inside of you, and you're holding onto him like you want him—truly want him, but you mutter once more against his lips, "Don't say it, Miche."

So, he doesn't. He bottles the confession up and keeps it locked away, hoping like hell that one day you'll let him tell you.

After you climax and coat his cock in slick and cream, he gives a few more thrusts and comes inside of you, filling you with himself and wondering why you're so willing to accept him in that way but not in any other.

He's hurting again, like he did at his parents' as you walked around like you belonged there. Except it's worse now.

If you don't want him to say it, that means you don't want to say it back.

He stays with you for a few more minutes before pulling out. You leave to clean up, and while you're gone, Mike sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands as he tries to get it all out of his system, whispering it out loud to himself:

I love you. I love you, I love you.

You still let him hold you as you fall asleep, gripping his hand until you can't anymore, and as Mike drifts off behind you, he has one last thought—Just let me.

* There’s only three weeks left of the semester when you head back to campus, and you intend to make the most of every passing day.

You pay better attention in class. You study harder in the library to prepare for final exams. You go to a few more Pi Alpha Kappa parties, making sure not to burn yourself out. And, you let Mike fuck your brains out every few days. Sometimes it’s late at night after those parties. Sometimes you're too tired after the nights of drinking and end up just going to bed only to wake up in the morning and have slow, sleepy sex. Sometimes it’s in the middle of the afternoon when you both have breaks between classes.

Neither of you bring up anything that happened over the break—meeting families, details about your childhoods, how much you learned about one another in general.

Most importantly, neither of you address that first night at your mom’s, the way Mike had basically worshiped your body, how he’d come so close to uttering the three words you least want to hear.

Thinking about it still makes your chest tighten, your heart beat faster. Sometimes when you’re sharing his bed with him, back pressed to his chest, large arm slung over your waist, you think about why it is you’re so vehemently against it. The two of you already act like a couple most of the time. You walk with each other to class when you can. You stick to each other’s sides at parties. You fuck like rabbits and don’t care who knows about it.

And, though you’re hesitant to admit it even to yourself, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t have feelings for him. Mike is your best friend at this point. He’s insanely hot. He’s goofy. He’s kind. Yeah, the frat boy persona he puts on around his friends is annoying, but you understand it a little better now. Plus, he always takes off the mask when he’s alone with you, giving both you and himself a break from it.

You know your time with him is quickly coming to an end—for about two months, at least—and whenever you think too hard about it, it makes you pout and huff. You’re not looking forward to your summer classes without him, but he promises on several occasions that you can call him while he’s at his parents’ if you ever need help with the material.

It’s impressive, the way he’s able to act like nothing happened. You know it must be troubling him, but it’s not like you can do anything to soothe him. If he was really upset with you, he would have stopped spending time with you, but he hasn’t. He just bottles it up, keeps smiling at you all crookedly, and keeps satisfying you in the bedroom (more than satisfying honestly. There’s really not a word to describe what he does).

He’s back to getting along with everyone in the Pike house, everyone being Erwin. It’s a relief just because you don’t have to put up with the tension between them, but it’s also awkward. And, a little frightening.

The brothers have Smash Brothers tournaments and movie nights, a few date parties here and there, and it never fails that at some point during the evenings, you find your neck prickling as it always does when you feel someone staring at you. You always hope it’s Mike. Fuck, you wish it was him. But, when you glance up and around, it’s Erwin. Every time. His deep blue eyes are trained on you, the corner of his mouth twitching upward on one side. It doesn’t matter if he’s alone or if he’s got Maddie or some other girl sitting in his lap. He's fucking shameless, and it makes your stomach hurt.

You keep your mouth shut for the sake of the friendship but also for the sake of Erwin’s pretty face. If he and Mike ever got into an actual fight, Erwin would probably be able to get a good few punches in, but you’re nearly positive Mike would end up destroying him in the long run. That could get him kicked out of school. That could get him thrown in jail.

Finals roll around, and you manage to pass all of them without issue, even getting grades above the class average. You feel fantastic, like your long term goals might actually be attainable. You have a long road ahead of you, but your GPA at the end of the year is more than enough to raise your confidence.

Mike asks you to come back to his house for the couple weeks between the end of the semester and the start of your summer courses, but you turn him down, too scared of what might happen while you’re there. Acting like a couple in front of his parents will only exacerbate his feelings as well as yours, and you’d like to avoid that as best you can.

Even now as you’re standing outside by the Jeep, he tries to persuade you one last time, almost pleading, “Are you sure you don’t wanna come?”

“Miche, I’m sure,” you tell him, trying to stay stern, but it’s hard when his sea glass eyes light up at the sound of his real name. It’s a habit you’ve gotten into, a bad one considering how much he likes it. How much you like it. “I already told you I wanna spend the free time I have at mom’s. I need to check up on her and… Probably clean, honestly.”

He lets out a little grunt of disappointment, then nods. “Yeah, I get it.”

“You saw what she’s like,” you remind him. “Someone needs to drop in every once in a while to make sure she isn’t, like, wasting away or something.”

“Makes sense. I’ll be bummed, though.”

“Be bummed all you want,” you smile. “I’ll probably still bother you over break. A lot.”

He sounds terribly sincere when he mumbles, “You never bother me.” It makes your stomach flip in the way you do not enjoy.

Mike sighs, taking in one of those deep breaths that makes his broad chest rise then fall, calling attention to it and making you bite your bottom lip.

“Alright, I should get going,” he concedes, bending down to kiss you too deeply for simple friends with benefits. It doesn’t stop you from humming into his mouth and smiling against him. You hold him by the back of his neck as he pulls your body close to his, his voice muffled when he tells you mischievously, “Don’t forget to send pictures.”

It makes you laugh, and you lean back to swipe your tongue over his lips so that he groans and chases after you.

“I promise I will. Perv.” The beating sun is nothing in comparison to the way your body heats at the thought. You’ve sent him nudes before, but the idea of him looking at them from hours away, fisting his cock as he admires your body through his phone… It makes seeing him off even harder.

After a couple more softer kisses, Mike swings into the Wrangler and pulls out of the lot. You stand in his parking space and watch him until he’s out of sight, then walk back to your dorm, dragging your feet the whole way.

You only stay at your mom’s house for a week, and just like you predicted, you spend most of it cleaning. She thanks you the whole time but makes excuses in between. You just reassure her that you don’t mind even though you do. She really should see a therapist and sort out the depression she’s been stuck in for a few years now, but telling someone they need professional help is easier said than done.

Sleeping in your old bed is much harder this time around. You're all too aware of the weight that isn't behind you, and most nights you lay awake for at least a couple of hours trying to imagine it.

Like you’d promised, you send him a few pictures, some of them just lewd selfies with your tits pouring out of the cups of your bra, but others are of your naked body in the bathtub, sometimes a shot of you with your hand between your legs. It feels wrong to touch yourself in your childhood home, but it’s necessary, especially when Mike sends you a few pictures of his own—one with his torso on display, defined abs absolutely mouthwatering and the V of his hips suggestively leading into mesh shorts. Another is of him in the gray joggers he wears all the time, the ones that always show off his cock.

He’s so fucking hot it atually hurts, makes your pussy throb as you crave his touch. It’s an awful feeling honestly, but even worse than that is the way you miss him. You aren’t supposed to miss him. You’re just supposed to be friends who have sex. Nothing more than that.

It's why you’re glad to go back to school. Your classes will distract you, keep you from thinking about him too much. The semester is shorter during the summer, so you have to work even harder than you do during fall and spring. You don’t really think it’ll be a problem since you’re trying to cram your brain full of anything other than Mike which is great motivation for studying.

Nothing is gonna get you off track, you tell yourself. Nothing will interfere with your studies. That’s the plan.

Then, you meet Zeke Jaeger.

* You're studying in the library. It seems like you spend most of your time here, nice and quiet and empty. The campus isn't nearly as busy in the summer as it is during the rest of the school year. No parties, no sporting events, just you alone with your books.

It's nice. Most of the time. A little boring but mostly nice.

Your eyes are getting tired, and when you check your phone, you realize why. It's almost eleven PM, meaning you've been studying for about six hours. You've had longer nights, usually spent on the phone getting quizzed on the information you're learning with a few breaks in between, but that wasn't the case tonight as Mike had to spend the day with family from out of town.

It's okay. You're supposed to be distancing yourself anyway.

Taking a deep breath, you pack up your books and slide your laptop into your bag, then stand and swing it over your shoulder.

The strap is too long. The bag swings too hard, and your heart sinks when you hear a little grunt followed by a, "Agh, hot!"

Turning with wide eyes, you immediately start apologizing, "I'm so sorry, oh my god, fuck, I'm so sorry!"

A head of light blond hair looks up from the brown stain on his white t-shirt, icy blue eyes narrowed behind wire-rimmed glasses, but when he sees the mortification on your face, his own expression softens, and he chuckles.

"It's fine. You can calm down."

You're still breathing heavily, guilt making your hands shake, but he really doesn't look angry. In fact, he's grinning now, eyebrows raised like he's amused.

The longer you stare at him, the more familiar he looks. You're pretty sure you've seen him before. Many times before, actually, and then it clicks that this guy is on the front page of the school website. You see him every fucking time you log in, looking much more stern than he does now. Baseball hat and jersey, mitt on one hand as he hides his other in it, and yeah, you know him.

"You're Zeke Jaeger."

He makes a face, scrunching his nose up and squinting. "Yeeeeah, I guess I am."

Best pitcher in the college league despite being a sophomore like you. He's beaten the records of some major league players.

You don't give a fuck about baseball, have never even been to any of the school's games, but you've been hearing about Zeke since the last season. You've learned to tune it out because, again, no shits given (and also you're much more partial to lacrosse now), but he's hard to ignore when he's staring you right in the face.

"Well, uh," you try to act casual. It's something you're pretty good at these days. "Cool."

He snorts, picking his shirt off his chest to air it out like it'll help, then says, "I don't know your name, though."

You run your tongue over your teeth, wondering why he cares, then introduce yourself.

"Oh, you're Zacharias' little girlfriend, aren't you?"

Your stomach flips at the mention of him.

"We're not dating."

Zeke cocks his head to the side. "No?"

"No. Just friends."

He hums but doesn't say anything, and your eyes are once again drawn to his chest as he fans over the stain.

"Okay, let me get you a new shirt or something," you try.

He laughs again. "I highly doubt you've got a men's shirt tucked in that bag of yours, sweetheart."

"I—" you pout for a second, mumble, "Okay, yeah, fair point."

"Another coffee, though," he muses out loud. "Wouldn't be the worst thing."

You shoot him a finger gun and smack your lips. "On it. Where do you get coffee at eleven o'clock?"

"I'll walk with you," he states more than offers.

Then, you're both leaving the library, leaving campus, and going to a little 24 hour cafe where you blow on lattes and cover the basics about each other—philosophy major, valedictorian of his high school class, playing baseball since age seven, etc. You should sleep. You should get ready for another long day of studying.

But it's hard to make good decisions when Zeke Jaeger is smirking at you from across the table like you're the most interesting thing he's ever seen.

* Zeke gets your number that night. You're not exactly sure how, but he does.

Then he doesn’t text you for three days. It doesn’t bother you that much. You figure he has other things to focus on. He’s on campus to take a couple courses and practice for the upcoming season, so he’s probably just busy. If that night had just been a one-off, it’s fine with you. It was cool to talk to him, but your heart isn’t broken.

These are all the thoughts and justifications running through your head when you’re in class on Tuesday and your phone lights up during the PowerPoint lecture. You glance down, expecting Mike or Hitch, but it’s an unknown number instead. Eyes flicking from the projection screen to your much tinier one, you slide to open the message and chew on your lip.

Hey, it’s Zeke. You have classes this afternoon?

You do not. And, you are too quick to tell him that.

He takes you to a little Mom and Pop restaurant, too far to walk so you end up riding in the black Bronco he drives, trying to convince yourself that it definitely does not make him any more attractive to you. Because you aren’t attracted to him in the first place. Right?

You sit at a table for two eating paninis and fruit. Zeke asks how classes are going, you ask about practice, and as you talk, he gets that look in his eyes again, like you amuse him or interest him or something.

It confuses you, and for a moment, you’re taken back to last fall at that first Pi Kappa Alpha party, the one you met Mike at when he tried to get you to shotgun a beer. God, he had been so obnoxious back then, always following you around and flirting and—

“You listening, sweetheart?”

Your eyes refocus on the man in front of you, his raised eyebrows and little smirk. “Looks like you’re a million miles away. Sorry if I’m boring you.”

“No, no,” you try to defend. “I just zoned out for a second. Realized I, uh, got an answer wrong on the quiz I took today.”

“That sucks,” he hums. “Anyway, I can stop talking about baseball.”

“It’s okay. Just go over the last, like, ten seconds,” you say with a laugh, hoping your cheeks will stop burning sooner rather than later.

Zeke chuckles and does just that, doesn’t seem irritated or put out. He tells you about how he has a new trainer this year to warm him up and make sure his throwing arm is in top shape. “I hope he’s as good as my last. Colt was always on it, knew exactly how hot to make the warm compresses and how cold to make the ice packs. Stuff like that. He learned my needs.”

You both laugh, and if it was anyone else, you’d have an innuendo sliding off your tongue, but for some reason, you don’t think Zeke would want to hear it, like he’d be unimpressed with your vulgar humor.

Back at the college, he drives you to your dorm, explaining that he lives in the apartments on the other side of campus and wouldn’t want to make you walk that far. Then, as you slide out of the Bronco, he stops you with a smooth, “Hey,” that makes you look over your shoulder at him. “Make sure you save my number in your phone, okay? I’ll text you soon.”

The way your stomach flips is worrisome, a feeling you’re only used to when you’re with…

“Yeah, okay.”

He grins widely and nods, then waits for you to get a good distance away from the car before driving off.

No distractions, you’d said. It’ll be good for your focus, you’d said.

What a fucking joke.

Mike has to help you with some homework that weekend. You can hear his smile through the phone, snort when he makes his little nerd jokes, then sigh when he gets to the actual subject and explains it to you without a problem. His brain is incredible, and when you think about it too hard, it makes you warm inside.

“You’re so fucking smart. Why don’t you let people know?”

“Maybe I just want you to know,” he chuckles. “You think I wanna spend my days tutoring every idiot who needs help?”

“Miche, did you just call me an idiot?”

You hear another breathy laugh followed by a sigh. “I have many, many names for you, but ‘idiot’ isn’t one of them.”

“Oh yeah?” You play. “And, what might those other names be?”

He lists a few, all of them making your face flush and your body tingle, and before you know it, you’ve got your pants off and your fingers between your legs. You can hear Mike’s heavy breathing on the other end, the wet sound of his hand stroking his lubricated cock, and when you reach your climax, you moan out your usual, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, Miche.”

He tumbles down right behind you, panting and telling you in a voice of disbelief, “Jesus, it just keeps coming.” It makes the pulses of your orgasm even stronger, remembrance of all the times he’s painted you in white, and God, you are so ready for him to get back to the school.

Then, there’s the voice in the back of your head that makes you think maybe it’s better that he’s gone for now, that he might not be too pleased that you’re spending time with another guy. But, it’s not like things with Zeke are going anywhere. You wouldn’t even call him a friend. You text on and off, have brunch or lunch or coffee depending on the time of day.

And, yeah, he calls you pet names, tells you that you look nice even when you’re just in leggings and a t-shirt, talks about his family and…

Okay, it could potentially lead to something more, but it’s only been a week, and considering his golden boy status, he could have anyone he wants, so why would he even be interested in you in any way, shape, or form?

Naturally, your thoughts circle back to Mike and the way he could have any girl on his arm, but he still chooses to spend time with you. To fuck you. To nearly confess his feelings to you. You have to wonder if you’re emitting some kind of scent or beacon, if there’s a sign hanging above your head with an arrow pointing down. Sports gods, come get a piece.

If only you’d never gone to that party. If you had just kept your head down like you had freshman year. Your life would be so much easier now.

But now you’re in Zeke’s apartment listening to him rant about some philosopher you’ve never even heard of. He’s gesturing with his hands, flipping curling, blond bangs from his face, and whenever he pauses to think, he scratches his beard. He’s very fond of the white t-shirts and jeans get-up, sometimes switches it up and wears a button down under a sweater vest. Both looks are becoming of him no matter how much you try to deny it, but when he drops down onto the couch next to you and peers into your god damn soul with those piercing, blue eyes, you have to choke back a dreamy sigh.

What is happening to you?

“So, what do you think about it?” He asks, looking hopeful that you might have some insight on this matter.

But, you simply laugh and shake your head. “Zeke,” you start. “I’m gonna be real honest with you here. I didn’t understand a fucking thing you just said.”

You assume he’ll be disappointed, maybe tire of you since you can’t be as intellectually stimulating as he’d like you to, but Zeke exhales in a lighthearted sort of way, shows one of those amused smiles, and tells you, “You’re cute.”

Anyone else and you would have snapped back, something along the lines of, don’t fucking patronize me, but with Zeke, all you can do is stare at him and let your lips part, silently asking for something you won’t speak out loud.

His gaze moves to your mouth for a split second. That soft smile turns into one of his famous smirks. Then, he’s back on his feet and asking, “You wanna go to dinner?”

You are more than relieved at the shift in atmosphere, but your heart is still beating too hard as you follow him downstairs and to his car.

* Summer is passing quickly. Too quickly. The eleven week classes are kicking your ass, or are close to kicking your ass. Lucky for you, you have your own private tutor just a call or text away. Mike helps you, and you laugh and goof around, shoot off innuendo after innuendo, but the phone sex slows to a halt eventually. You tell him that you’re tired, and you are. It isn’t a lie. But, it also isn’t the full truth.

Between classes when you could be resting, you’re eating out with Zeke. Or, watching him and the rest of the baseball team practice for the upcoming season. Or, sitting in his apartment, watching movies and chatting about all manner of things. Nothing important, of course—there’s no diving deep into your life story like you had done with Mike over Spring Break, but Zeke still learns the little things about you. Why you’re majoring in geosciences and how you became good friends with some of the Pike guys. You don’t give him the full details on that one—that you got blackout drunk and fucked Mike and just couldn’t stop. You don’t think Zeke would be interested in hearing about it anyway.

You learn a bit about his dad and stepmom, the latter of whom he isn’t very fond of. He also has a little brother who’ll be attending the college starting this fall, and he’s interested in the Greek life. Naturally, you build PKA up. Even if there are some… Problematic people in the house, there are also a lot of really good guys.

“I’ll make sure to pass it along to him,” Zeke tells you one evening as you’re both sprawled on the couch, backs against the armrests as you face each other. It’s how he seems to prefer to sit when the TV isn’t on. When you asked him why, he had told you, “Just like looking at you,” and you didn’t know how to respond. You still don’t know how to respond.

“Eren thinkin’ about joining any sports?” You ask now. “Does baseball run in the family or anything?”

Zeke snorts. “Kid couldn’t hit a baseball even if it was on one of the t-ball stands.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then.”

“I would say he’s more academically inclined, but,” Zeke sighs. “That would be a lie.”

You can never tell if he actually likes his brother. Most of the time he complains about him, but every once in a while he’ll bring up something cute Eren did as a little boy, and you see a fond glimmer in his light eyes.

“Anyway,” Zeke waves off the subject and transitions to a new one—one that makes your stomach drop. “Are you gonna tell Zacharias about us?”

You choke on your own spit, leaning forward to cough a couple times, then challenge him with a nervous laugh, “I wasn’t aware there was anything to tell him.”

Zeke tilts his head, mouth pulling up as he raises his eyebrows. “Come on,” he chuckles.

“Come on, what?” You frown. If you were with Mike, you both would have died at that. Come on my face, you can hear him say, and you have to fight a smile because there’s absolutely no way you could explain that to the man in front of you.

“You don’t have to play coy, sweetheart. We both know there’s something going on between us.” He says it with such confidence that even if he wasn’t right you wouldn’t be able to argue with him. The assumption should annoy you, should make you scoff and leave, but instead you sit there staring, caught up in his gaze and cocky grin.

“I—”

“It’s okay, you know. Not like you’re alone in this.”

Those questions swim through your mind again, all the insecurities that you’ve been sorting through with Mike, but now that voice is louder because that sense of trust hasn’t formed yet. You’ve only connected with Zeke over meals and movies. It sounds domestic, but despite your apparently obvious attraction to him, you still don’t feel like you really know him.

But, he draws you in, like a moth to a flame. You can’t help it. There’s just something about him that makes you want him to like you, like you want to impress him, like you want to be good for him. You’ve been trying to ignore those thoughts, but they’re much harder to fight now that you’re sitting in front of him, taking in his wavy hair and pale blue eyes, that ever present smirk on his face, the curve of his neck that disappears into his shirt.

He could just want sex. He could just want a fling. Wait for everyone to get back on campus and drop you for another girl. You tell yourself you wouldn’t care; you’re good at keeping things casual.

Wouldn’t it be fun to be his arm candy for a while, though? Let people look at you and whisper louder than they did when they’d see you and Mike together? You don’t care about status, about being in the spotlight. It’s more for the experience, dating someone who could teach you things.

Mike teaches you things, that voice pops up again. He’s been helping you with your work for almost a year now. You can’t just overlook that.

“What, are you weighing the pros and cons over there or something?”

You snort. “Maybe. We still don’t really know each other all that well, Zeke.”

“Might I remind you that we’ve been hanging out all summer? Did you honestly think it wouldn’t lead to anything more?”

“Honestly,” you mimic, “I never thought you’d be interested.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” His brow furrows like he’s genuinely confused. “You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re cute.”

God, you can’t even count how many times he’s called you ‘cute’, how many times it’s made you blush over the last several weeks, just like it does now.

Then, he pushes, “Do you not find me at—”

“Of course I do,” you cut him off. “I don’t know who doesn’t, which is exactly why I don’t know where this is coming from.”

Zeke sighs like he’s annoyed, then turns the hand on his thigh palm up and beckons you with two fingers. “Come here.”

“What?”

“Come here.”

Your blood pressure spikes, breaths coming in little puffs that have no way of getting to your brain. It’s probably why you obey, rolling to your knees and clumsily crawling over to him. You stop short, right between his bent knees, but Zeke sits up, straightens his legs, and pulls you into his lap.

More of that precious air leaves your lungs as you exhale too sharply, staring at him with huge eyes. You don’t know what’s happening, can’t believe it’s happening. It doesn’t feel real even as you rest your hands on his shoulders, even when he holds your hips and pulls you so that your full weight is on him, but fuck, you can’t say anything. You can’t make a sound. All you can do is wait for him to make his next move.

“Why do you look scared?” His voice is just above a whisper, but at this proximity you can hear him without a problem.

“I don’t have a lot of experience sitting in men’s laps,” you manage, trying to keep your usual careless tone, but you doubt it works.

“For some reason I don’t believe that.”

You rear back, actually offended. “Excuse m—”

That ire, however, melts away as quickly as it arose. Zeke slides fingers up your waist, all the way to the back of your neck to bring your face to his—your lips to his.

He feels different, not at all what you’re used to. His kiss is more demanding, hungry, and God, you still can’t breathe, can’t think straight because his tongue is moving past your lips, and you’re letting it, letting him taste you as your fingertips dig into the flesh of his shoulders. You lift yourself from him just a little only for Zeke to pull you back down with the hand still gripping your hip. He makes sure you feel him when he grinds up into you, the zipper of his jeans rubbing you through your little shorts so that you gasp into his mouth.

You both stay like that for what feels like a fucking eternity, biting and sucking on lips, stroking over each others’ tongues until you absolutely have to break apart. You’re panting now, body still tense on top of his, and Zeke stares at you with half-lidded eyes and shows the ghost of a smile.

“Oh, I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

The statement sets you on fire, so much so that all you can do is whimper quietly and lean in for more.

And, as you get lost in Zeke Jaeger, you decide for yourself.

I need to tell Mike

[ next ]

#mike zacharias x reader #miche zacharias x reader #aot x reader #aot fanfic #aot fanfiction #mels prima vista

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dr3amofagame · 3 years

Note

Dream thought that he can bring server together, he thought that they can be one big family... Well at least he really bond them, even if they bonded to fight against him. Even if that mean he's not part of this server anymore.

right,, the one big happy family thing always destroys me

bc it’s really the driving force behind everything he’s done, the reason why he’s cut off everything he’s ever loved, moved forwards despite everything he’s ever lost. it doesn’t make what he does right, by any means, but c!dream’s longing for a better past, his clinging to a family he loved and lost - it’s so desperately, painfully human and is very much the cherry on top of his whole tragic story. it’s something that tugs at my heart every time i think about it - especially how in the end, pretty much nobody knew what drove him to the lengths he went to, and how everyone still sees him as being motiveless, or doing it all for personal gain and power. it’s reasonable, with their limited povs, but oh man does it hurt when we know his real reasoning.

this,, ended up weirdly long haha but oh man was it fun. have some dream team angst as i cry abt c!dream for the millionth time

tws: death, grief, off-screen murder, implied mental deterioration

Two weeks after Dream dies, Sapnap asks George if he wants to come to the vault.

He almost says no. It’d be an early journey if they want to get out without anyone seeing, and he’s just- tired. He’s been tired for months even though he spends most of his time sleeping, usually can’t even find the energy to pull himself out of bed. The weird dreams hadn’t helped in the slightest, though they’ve been gone for a few weeks, and he’s not seen XD in a long time, save for a few minutes after he first heard the news. In all honesty, he doesn’t want to deal with the mental strain of anything to do with Dream at all.

But- Sapnap is still his best friend, even if they’ve grown apart ever since that fateful night with Dream, and he still knows the Netherborn better than nearly- well, everyone, now, with Dream gone. As much as Sapnap tried to put on a strong front, Dream’s death had taken its toll.

Killing Dream had taken its toll.

He’d been asleep (again) when it all went down, but he knows that somehow, Dream had escaped prison. Somehow, it ended with Sapnap’s sword stabbed hilt-deep in Dream’s chest, an unmarked grave in the forest behind the Community House that he knows Sapnap visits when he thinks nobody’s watching.

So when Sapnap asks, dark bags under his red-rimmed eyes, if he wants to come with him to see what belongings they can find in Dream’s old blackstone-brick vault- he says yes.

“There,” Sapnap gestures over the crest of a netherrack cliff above a bubbling lava lake, and George strains to look at what the other is pointing at. There, settled over a small outcrop of netherrack and gravel, a messy bridge of various blocks leading from it, lies the signature black and purple silhouette of a nether portal. “It’s just across that.”

George hums in acknowledgement, and they clamber down in sync. It’s been a while since he’s spent time one-on-one with Sapnap like this; George had half-forgotten what it feels like, to work with someone so different and yet know them so well. Years and years of teamwork means they fall in step almost without thinking, Sapnap easily sliding forward to block a skeleton’s arrow while George nocks one of his own to shoot it through the skull. It is a partnership built on years of bickering and banter and deep-set trust, of having to face a stronger, more agile opponent together through wind and rain and snow.

He missed it, though he’ll never admit that to anyone but himself.

He hesitates in front of the nether portal, pulling Sapnap back automatically by his sweater sleeve. “You sure the other side is safe?”

“Yeah, yeah- it should be,” Sapnap pulls his arm away, lets him enter the portal first before stepping into the frame himself. “Not a manhunt.”

“Mm,” George laughs, tired. “Just checking.”

The portal hums, purple creeping into the corners of George’s vision and filling it until it’s all he can see, and he rubs at his eyes to clear his vision as he stumbles out the other side. Sapnap walks out, seeming unfazed - it’s always been something that George has envied in the other, how unaffected he is by portals, but he’s also always had worse portal sickness than most- “We’re here.”

The place is - put lightly, a wreck, wooden planks scattered all over the floor and inch-deep water sloshing around his shoes. “What’s with the water?”

“I don’t know, someone must’ve come here after for something,” Sapnap frowns, points across the room to a chute leading upwards, filled with a crude spiral staircase of oak. “We’re going up there.”

George nods, letting him take the lead. The staircase is rickety, the bottom steps waterlogged; Sapnap grimaces the whole way up, makes some comment under his breath about how unsafe it all is, but they continue without much issue. The top of it is surprisingly unassuming - there’s really nothing around, just a small hollowed out space carpeted by savannah grass, shorn short. Sapnap tosses him a pickaxe.

“He respawned up here, that day - he’s gotta have a bed up here somewhere.” He gestures at the plain stone walls surrounding them, “My guess is that it’s just behind one of these walls. Just mine two or three blocks in all the way across, I’ll start from this side.”

“Whatever, Snapnap,” George takes the pickaxe anyway, walking over to the other side of the room and ignoring the protests Sapnap throws at his back. Mining the stone is simple, methodical; it’s a steady rhythm of the pick hitting stone and blocks falling into his inventory; if he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that they’re in the middle of a manhunt, and Dream has holed himself into the wall as he always does for them to find him. He doesn’t, because thinking about manhunt does nothing but make something cold and choking claw up his throat, almost like guilt, almost like regret, and he doesn’t have the energy for that in the slightest.

His next swing rings oddly hollow, and when the block drops neatly away the wall opens to a narrow corridor. He calls Sapnap over.

“Here.” Sapnap moves with large, heavy strides, face tightening into a foreign expression of grim determination when he catches the darkness behind the one-block hole George mined, “I found it.”

“Well, obviously,” he rolls his eyes as he takes out the bottom block, looking at George from the corner of his eye. “Nice observation, genius.”

“Hey! You told me to find it, and I did, unlike you- you should be thanking me, Sapnap.”

“Whatever, Gogy,” Sapnap sighs, looking into the corridor, feet settling against the ground into a wide stance that George recognizes as the one he’d usually use in a fight. It makes something long-forgotten ache in his chest, joining the dull ball of hurt that has been there for what feels like months, “You ready?”

“Yeah, yeah, hurry up, will you?” The retort rings hollow, dying on his lips even as he says it, and George watches as Sapnap turns his head away and pretends not to notice.

“Let’s go.”

The hallway is dark, dusty, a hastily made thing as shown by the rough gouges made on either side by a quickly working pickaxe. It opens into a tiny room, similarly carved into the mountain with roughhewn walls of stone; George’s lips thin and press against each other as he takes a closer look at the room, stepping in behind Sapnap.

“This place is a mess,” he states drily, scuffing his foot against the floor and cringing at the trail it leaves in the dust. There’s a bed left in the corner, a thin little thing with the covers thrown off, lying halfway on the floor, and a few chests and furnaces scattered aimlessly against the walls and making the whole thing look more cramped. There are papers strewn over the floor and chests, piles of coal and wood left to collect dust in the corners. It looks like a whirlwind swept through the place, and it’s almost eerie to see this room, completely untouched since the twentieth, a snapshot in time of Dream in the middle of his spiral into madness.

Sapnap kicks at one such pile with a humorless scoff, “That’s an understatement.”

“You looking for anything in particular?” George jabs his thumb at the mess in front of them, “Because I’m not cleaning all of that up.”

“I guess- just look through the chests?” Sapnap’s face darkens visibly even despite the dim lighting, and George stifles the urge to poke fun at how the younger clearly didn’t plan this far ahead, per usual. “Just look for anything useful, worth taking back I guess.”

“Mmhm.” He moves to the left-most chest as Sapnap moves to the right, watching from the corner of his eye as the other strikes up a torch to place in the middle of the room. The lid creaks open, and he rummages through the contents, vaguely surprised when his hand meets row after row of glass bottles. He pulls one out, squints at the contents. “Hey Sapnap, is this a regen?”

Sapnap looks over. “Yeah,” he says, rolling his eyes when George pockets it. “Seriously- you know Sam literally has an automatic potion brewer, right. You can just steal from that instead.”

“Or I could just steal from here,” he closes the lid, moving to the next chest. “That’s just his pots chest. He really stacked up, didn’t he?”

“Well, you know Dream. Always had to plan for the end of the world.” Sapnap closes the chest that he was hunched over, tossing over something in a flash of gold, “Was just his food chest. Don’t know why someone needs eight stacks of gapples, but whatever. We can split the god apples later.”

“Sure,” George nods, distracted as he fiddles with clasp of the next chest. This one, unlike the last, seems more worn over the bottom edge of the lid, the wood almost seeming to bear dents where fingers had pressed into the areas right by the clasp again and again. The lid eases open, and he frowns at the chest’s contents; there’s no rhyme or reason to them at first glance. There’s a half-stack of stone in the top left, a couple pieces of leather thrown in the bottom corner, a low-durability crossbow, unenchanted, that he briefly runs his hands over before throwing it back into the chest. He rummages through it for another second, about to dismiss it as a junk chest, when a well-worn book near the back of the chest catches his eye.

He pulls it towards him with careful hands, breath having caught in his throat. The cover is leather, scuffed and scratched in several places, not bearing the dull shine of a book that’s been signed and preserved magically. It doesn’t seem to be titled, no ink against the usual places on the front cover or spine, but the whole thing looks well-loved, the thread of the spine slightly frayed the leather heavily creased from where the cover had been eased open again and again.

He opens the front cover, and sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“Sapnap? I think I found something.”

There, nestled between the front cover and the first page, lays a pile of photographs. Unlike everything else in the room, these are clearly well-loved, well-cared for, the corners are sharp, the surfaces shiny, despite how often they must have been thumbed through and looked at. He plucks the first one off the top of the pile - it’s one that was taken from the inside of the old community house before the floor was replaced with crafting tables, string lights hanging from the ceiling in an impromptu party, Alyssa’s legs dangling from where she’s sitting at the edge of the spiral staircase, Callahan leaning against the wall with a slice of cake held between his hands. Sapnap’s sitting in the middle of the floor across from himself, both of their faces glowing softly in the flickering light - his own face is caught in a grimace, Sapnap bent over himself in laughter- Sapnap walks up behind him, gasps at the sight.

“What are-”

George passes over the photo wordlessly as he moves to the next; there’s Sam, grinning at the camera with a newly tamed Fran by his side, tail a white blur against the green of the grass; Bad, hands clutched around a bucket as he yells at someone off the frame, a salmon head poking slightly out the top; Ponk, sitting proudly in the top branches of his first lemon tree.

His breath catches at the next; it’s dim, the sky a pretty blend of purple-pink from the last remaining dregs of light of a sunset, hovering over the dark edge of the ocean stretching out towards the horizon. They’re sitting in boats, the bottom edges lit softly from the coral sitting in the shallow waters below them, brilliant halos of reds and pinks and yellows and oranges and blues dotted with the soft lights of sea pickles painting the wood in muted rainbows. Sapnap’s smiling from one in the back, head tipped to the side cheekily, right hand lifted in a cocky two-fingered salute. George is sitting in the back of a boat in the foreground, glasses lifted to his forehead, eyes mid-roll even as he grins obligingly at the camera-

And then, in the front, there’s Dream.

His mask is pulled to the side of his face, exposing his freckled skin and brilliant green eyes; he’s smiling widely, all teeth, hair wet and sticking up in a ring of untamed swirls and spikes. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, cheeks red, arm stretched forward off-frame from where he’d held the camera in front of them to take the selfie. George’s thumb brushes over the photo, pressing lightly against the dusty mess of hair framing Dream’s face, pausing at the sight of his pure, unadulterated joy.

What had happened to them?

A soft, choked sound comes from behind him, and George tucks the photos away, pressing them between two random pages in the book. His eyes flicker to the book’s contents, finally, finding Dream’s familiar, looping scrawl written on the first page. The words are big and messy, all capitalized and underlined several times, the last four circled roughly.

REMEMBER WHY YOU’RE DOING THIS: ONE BIG HAPPY FAMILY.

He snaps the book shut.

“George-”

“Let’s go home, Sapnap.” He throws one last look at the room, at the messy, desperate edges, the remnants of a man lost in his own reckless belief that he could build something beautiful out of blood and ash. He swallows, blinks back the image of a brilliant smile, freckled cheeks ruddy with laughter, at the golden glow of memories long-forgotten that threaten now to burn him with their warmth. He can imagine Dream, settled in the middle of this mess, pressing himself closer to the fire contained in these photographs, these memories, and not realizing how he’s being burned, can nearly see a ghost of him tucked in these shadowed corners, haunting the hopes that he had clung to against all reason with the promise that it could all be worth it.

Sapnap frowns at him tiredly, photos pressed against his own chest. “George,” he says, cautious, and George’s shoulders hunch defensively.

“Let’s go home,” he stands up, hearing more than seeing as Sapnap does the same. “Whatever closure you’re looking for- you’re not finding it here.”

#tw death #tw grief #tw murder #tw mental deterioration #queue <3 #long post #my writing :D #my asks !!

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songbirdstyles · 3 years

Text

sparks

summary: you’re a music journalist assigned to covering one of harry styles’ gigs, and he’s absolutely smitten with you. (part one.)

warnings: slight fluff, excessive liberties taken about music journalism; smut in later chapters, angst in later chapters

word count: 8.2k

inspo.: almost famous - cameron crowe; sparks - the who; hello, i love you - the doors

You’d never truly gotten a big assignment before - sure, you’d gotten a few pieces here and there detailing local LA bands that you knew would never live to see more than 100,000 monthly listeners on Spotify, and they mostly ended up buried by your higher-ranking coworker’s higher end stories on the front covers - and, for the most part, you’d honestly been fine with it. You’re fresh out of college, the newest recruit to your company and your colleagues who are sent out to tour with big bands and artists have been here for years, some even decades, and you suppose they deserve the opportunities more than you, don’t they?

You work your way up, your boss had told you the first day you’d started working, following him around like an eager puppy as he showed you the office. Eventually - if I’m impressed with you - you’ll get something big.

It’s enough for you. Small bands playing in hole-in-the-wall clubs and restaurants may not be the exact thing you’d envisioned when you’d set your sights on being a music journalist but it’s worked out well for you so far, hasn’t it? You’ve made friends - even dated the lead singer of an underground rock band who cheated on you hardly two weeks into the relationship - and your portfolio is slowly building, stacked with exposés and detailed recounts of small gigs that you’d watched from backstage. Eventually, you’ll leave this company and move on to something bigger, like Rolling Stone, and your career will take off until you’re practically the face of music journalism.

And, really, those dreams have carried you through college and the first year of your career, putting your all into every article and every piece just so your boss can tug you into his office one day with a rarely-seen grin to finally tell you -

“I want you to write an article on Harry Styles.”

You furrow your eyebrows, shifting in the cushy office seat that your boss has for guests in his office. It’s a facade that you’ve learned to acknowledge, because, no matter how much he makes it look like he appreciates guests in his office, you know he regards you as nothing more than an interloper, even if he’d invited you there to begin with. “Harry Styles?”

“You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?” Mike asks, light shining off his bald head, and your mouth opens and closes a few times uselessly.

“Of course I have!” You push yourself to sit up straighter in your seat, staring up at your boss with shock written in every feature of your face. You, writing about Harry Styles? God, you nearly want to pinch yourself to see if you’re dreaming. “Write an article about - about what?”

Mike scoffs in that pretentious way that makes you hate ever having to talk to him, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes at him. “He’s coming to do a few shows along the West Coast. You can go to one or two - talk to him a bit, talk to his band - you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“With small bands, sure - Tacocat and - and the Mystery Lights -” You swallow thickly, and Mike stares down at you in your seat like he’s unimpressed with your enthusiasm, or lack thereof. And it’s not that you aren’t executed - but, Christ. Going from bands performing in underground clubs to Harry Styles is like going straight from crawling to flying a fucking plane and you’re not sure if any of your experience with the musical locality in LA could prepare you for that. “I mean, that’s huge, Mike.”

“It is huge,” Mike confirms, crossing his thick arms over his chest, leaning against the desk before you as though he’s immune to sitting in his seat behind his desk like a normal boss. “Do you not want to do it? Because Melissa, you know - she’d love to, was going on and on about it last week -”

“No!” Your cheeks flush at the volume your voice raises to, and if you didn’t know better you could swear you see the ghost of a grin on Mike’s face. “I want to, Mike, I really want to - it’s just crazy.” There’s a pregnant pause between the two of you, your boss nodding smugly down at you as you struggle for words, before you ask the question burning the tip of your tongue with its desire to be heard. “But - why me? I’m sure you have people more qualified for it -”

“Easy,” Mike says, cutting you off and you’d be annoyed in any other instance but you’re too desperate to hear his answer. “Look, Harry’s a young guy. Younger than anyone else our people have interviewed - I think he’ll respond more to a young, pretty girl like yourself than someone older than him.”

Well, that makes sense, you suppose. The only coworker even close to you in age is Melissa, and she’s pushing 30 as it is. You’re 23 - graduated college just over a year ago, and by far the newest recruit this company has taken in years - but you had always imagined that was the main reason you wouldn’t get many big articles, and here it’s the main factor in you getting what will surely be the highlight of your portfolio once you apply to Rolling Stone. An interview with Harry Styles - God, they’ll probably foam at the mouth when they see it, and a grin spreads across your face as you think of it.

“Is that a yes?” Mike questions, blonde eyebrows raised high and nearly disappearing into his scalp.

“Of course,” you respond without another moment of hesitation, and you push yourself to stand, office chair rolling behind you with the force, and it hits the wall behind you with a soft thump. “Yes - of course - of course.”

“Great.” And he crosses to the other side of his desk, pushing aside a few loose papers and folders on his desk, and you clutch your hands in front of your stomach as you watch him, practically bouncing up and down with uncontained joy and fear bubbling inside of you. The last time you’d felt like this was the first time you got a real assignment - more than just ranking songs and discussing new album releases - and you’d been sent to a strip club to cover a gig from an up-and-coming band. Back then, you’d never expected to ever feel more excited over anything in your life, and yet, here you are, eight months later, fighting back the urge to burst into joyful tears. “They come in a week - I’ll send you the address - if you need help with your questions -”

“I’ll ask Francine,” you finish the same advice he gives you every time you’re assigned an article, referring to your oldest coworker - a little old woman who’s been with the company since the 70s. She’s always been more than willing to help you with your assignments but this - you need to do this by yourself. “Thank you so much, Mike, this is - this is great.”

“Don’t let me down,” he says, pointing his finger at you, and you nod furiously. “I’m trusting you on this - it’s a big opportunity.”

“I won’t disappoint you,” you promise, holding up your crossed fingers just to show him how much you mean it, and you know it’s the truth - you’ll make this piece the best damn one this company has ever seen if it’s the last thing you ever do.

The night begins a bit - rocky, to say the least.

For one, you couldn’t decide what to wear, even after spending nearly a half hour trying on every variation of clothes in your closet and tossing them onto the floor of your studio apartment when they didn’t satisfy your needs. In the past you’d worn to gigs what you’d wear if you were a simple concertgoer, albeit a bit more modestly, but you can’t decide what you would wear to a Harry Styles concert if you got the regular chance to - and you’d never even dreamt that it would happen in the first place -

Well, you peruse your closet intently and land on a pair of patterned flare pants and a long sleeve sweater. It only seems fitting for the chilly weather outside, and you fold a shirt into your bag in case you need to change if it gets hot backstage. You’re not dressed to impress, necessarily - you’re dressed to get a job done, as Mike would always say, but how could you be expected to not attempt to impress Harry Styles? It’s a preposterous idea. You’re sure anyone would understand.

Journalism pass - phone - keys - deodorant - when you’ve checked your bag over three times to ensure you have everything necessary you finally leave, locking your door shut behind you and ordering an Uber to take you to the concert.

You hadn’t anticipated Uber and Lyft being absolutely overloaded with patrons due to the concert just a half hour away and you need to be there by 6:30 at the very latest to ensure you get in and can at least talk to Harry before he goes on - a quarter of your questions are geared towards how he feels pre show and you can’t get pre show questions after the show - that’s barbaric. But the minutes inch closer to 5:30 and your Uber driver is still ten minutes away and your heart beats so fast against your chest you think you might vomit right into the street in front of your building -

You’re in the car by 5:45. It’s not ideal, and you know you’re cutting it close, but hopefully you’ll be there before the soundcheck ends. It’s always an ideal time to take photos, watching the band warm up and check mics, and with a piece like this, you need all the opportunities for pictures you can get.

And traffic is horrible - you suppose that’s also to be expected, and your Uber driver curses in a language you can’t recognize as cars cut him off on the highway and if you were a different person, you’d recommend a shortcut he takes, but he doesn’t look like he wants to hear a single word come from your mouth. He had given you a dirty look when you entered the car, and that’s enough to make you shut up and pray for the entire car ride that you make it on time.

6:27. Mike would piss himself if he knew how close you cut it, and you hop out of the car with a speed you didn’t even know you could muster, pushing past the buzzing crowd standing in front of the main entrance. The hoard of people seems to have a steady heartbeat, pulsing with excitement much like your own, and you can’t help but smile as you make your way around the group, goosebumps cropping up over your skin as your teeth chatter in the coldness. For a moment you fear that the directions to the backstage entrance that Mike had given you were total bullshit - but then you see the door, blocked by a burly security guard that glowers at you as you walk up to him like you’re something sticky beneath his shoe.

“Hi!” you call, breath exploding in a white cloud in front of you in the cool night air. The security guard smells so strongly of booze that you need to try harder than you’d care to admit not to scrunch your nose - you cough softly. “Let me - um - find my pass - I’m with Autoamerican, the magazine?”

Fingers grab onto your journalism pass, deep within your bag, and you tug it out, flashing it to the security guard with a slightly nervous grin. All of the gigs you’d been to before hadn’t even had backstage doors - to get backstage, you just had to climb onto the stage and walk behind the wings - but this is a fucking stadium, not just a measly club, and a big one, at that. In your youth you’re sure you could recall your dad watching a football game that occurred in this very stadium - funny how life turns out, sometimes.

“Autoamerican?” the security guard questions, bringing his face closer to your badge as the wafting smell of alcohol increases, and he raises his eyebrows with a scoff. “Never heard of it.”

“Oh.” you pause, feeling your teeth beginning to chatter in the cool February air. You’re not quite sure what to say - you’d assumed Mike had called to arrange the entire thing, hadn’t he? And this is the time you’re supposed to be here - “well, we’re not as big as Rolling Stone magazine, but - we’ve done interviews with The Cure, The Smiths - even Zeppelin, at one point -”

Your voice trails off into silence. He doesn’t care. He’s looking at you like you’re some innocent teenage girl, trying to bribe your way backstage so you can bombard the artist and not a fully grown woman here on business, goddammit. And you’re not sure what to say - he doesn’t believe you, clearly, and you hadn’t anticipated that even as you listed all the ways tonight could go wrong.

“Look, kid,” he begins, and that really has your blood boiling, eyes narrowing to glare at him. “We get this all the time. I’m a journalist - I’m with the crew - it’s a bunch of bullshit. Now go to the front with your general admission tickets like the rest of them -”

“I have a pass - I’m a journalist!”

“Sure -”

“I can call my boss if you want proof!”

And before you can reach into your bag to search relentlessly for your phone to follow through on the promise like you intend to, the door the man is guarding suddenly swings open, nearly hitting the guard in the ass as it opens out. You take a step back as dim light from inside floods the darkness, and a man steps out of the doorway, his eyes darting between you and the security guard.

“Are you with Autoamerican?” the man questions, raising his finger to point at you as though he could be speaking to anyone else. You nod furiously, and you hold up your journalism pass again just to prove it. “You can come inside, then - c’mon, Steve, she’s got a pass, for God’s sake -”

And you can’t resist flashing the guard a smug smile as he steps to the side to let you inside, rolling his eyes so far back into his head that all you can see is a strip of white.

The man lets you inside and the door shuts behind you, and you nearly knock straight into a second security guard standing by the door inside, as though trying to stop people from going out. And, well - you’ve been backstage at more concerts than you could count but this is certainly bigger, better, bustling with people carrying equipment and makeup artists and more people you couldn’t possibly identify. You’re half inclined to reach into your bag and grab your notebook to jot down exactly what you’re seeing so you can make sure to include it in the article, but you have a distinct feeling you’ll never forget it.

“I’m Jeff,” the man tells you, already setting off through the people, and you’re quick to follow, trying to maintain your pace beside him. After a second of walking in silence you realize he’s waiting for you to say yours - you clear your throat and introduce yourself, and he sends you a smile. “The band just finished their soundcheck, if you’d like to have a word with them before they go on - what’s the article about, anyway?”

Jeff shoulders the two of you through lingering groups of people until you emerge into a small hallway lined with doors, and you can hear bustling noise coming from the one closest to you - holy shit, is that Harry?

“Um - just about the shows, the tour, how everything’s going. My boss basically told me to do what I want with it, so I’ll have a better idea once I speak to the band.” It’s the loosest instruction you’ve ever been given for a piece - you’d expected a clear cut outline - but perhaps with an artist this big, Mike trusts you to know what to write. “It likely won’t be anything too personal, but I’d love to get a chance to speak with Harry before and after.”

“Sounds great,” and you can tell he’s stressed - you wonder if he’s always anxious before his client’s shows, or if there’s something special about tonight that has him worried - and then he reaches past you, twisting the doorknob closest to you and holding the door open for you to enter before him, and you give him a gracious smile before walking in.

The room isn’t as crowded with people as you’d expected but they’re bustling with energy - a woman and a man, holding a guitar, lean against the wall with each other - two other women sip water bottles, laughing loudly amongst each other - another woman leans above someone, their body hidden from view except for their legs, covered in silk, floral printed pants -

Your breath catches in your throat as Jeff shuts the door behind you both, and the sound of the door clicking shut draws far more attention to yourself than you’d expected - it seems like every pair of eyes lands on you and Jeff, and you’d decided on being a music journalist to keep away from being the center of attention. You’ve always preferred being behind the scenes, a bit, at least until your career progresses until you’re a household name for music journalism, and now -

You feel very much in the scenes, eyes on you as Rhiannon plays in the background.

And then Jeff is tapping you on your shoulder, leading you around the room to the small groups of people lingering - you shake hands with Mitch and Sarah, the couple against the wall, and the rest of his band, and they’re so nice your smile feels like it’s going to break your face in half. You’ll need to interview them at some point - nothing too intense, and you may not even need to, if Harry’s answers are satisfactory enough - and you can already feel yourself building a strange sort of rapport with the band, their kindness rubbing off on you until you practically glide beside Jeff to the woman bent over Mr. Floral Pants, whose identity you’re fairly certain you’ve already deduced.

It doesn’t make it any more surprising when the woman steps aside where she’s carefully applying powder to the man’s face, and then Harry fucking Styles is staring up at her with a smile and an outstretched hand, suit jacket matching the floral pattern of his pants. His curls are carefully slicked back from his face, skin matte with the powder the woman resumes applying to the side of his face that isn’t turned to you, and you swallow your shock before reaching to shake his hand, Rhiannon turning into Hello, I Love You, playing from a source you can’t identify.

“Nice t’meet you,” Harry says when you’ve told him your name and the magazine you work for - Jeff had already mentioned it, but it is customary to repeat it to whomever you may have to interview. “Y’know, I love Autoamerican - told Jeff, s’the only magazine I’d let interview me backstage. Don’t usually allow it.”

“Really?” your stomach flips as Harry stops bouncing his arm, but it takes just another half second for him to untwine his hand from yours - you’re sure it’s because the makeup artist fretting above him is using her thumb to wipe off powder from his nose, but it still makes your heart thump faster against your chest. “I assumed most people haven’t heard of it - it’s nowhere near Rolling Stone.”

“I love it,” he insists, dropping your hand, and he looks so casual, as if this interaction isn’t blowing up your entire life, and you’re brought back to the many moments you’d spent as a teenager fawning over him in his One Direction days - God, this feels like a dream, and you’re half inclined to pinch yourself in case it is. Maybe you’ll wake up in Mike’s office to him giving you another shitty underground LA band to interview. “The interview with Sublime s’great - read it all the time.”

You swallow thickly, grin spreading wider across your face, and before you can open your mouth to tell him about Francine’s go-to story about how Eric Wilson had flirted with her while she interviewed them for the story, Jeff interjects - “Steve hadn’t even heard of it.”

“Steve’s an idiot,” Harry starts, and you giggle - his lips lilt upwards just a bit. “Hope he wasn’t hasslin’ you ‘bout it.”

“Just a little,” you say, hoisting your bag further up your shoulder just as the makeup artist drops the powder back into the apron slung around her waist, and her manicured nails tilt Harry’s head around for a moment before she seemingly deems his makeup satisfactory before leaving, sending you a tight lipped smile as she goes. “I’d love to ask you a few questions before the show - nothing too heavy - and then I’ll observe the concert and how everything goes, ask a few questions after.”

“Sounds great,” Harry responds, lifting his fist with his thumb up and you didn’t think your heartbeat could grow any faster or louder but you suppose today is just proving you wrong time and time again. “D’you need t’record m’answers? S’a bit loud in here.”

The truth is, you’re sure you’ll have this entire experience engraved in your brain for years to come - you’ll remember every word he utters for you until your dying days - but it is more practical to have a recording. You swing your bag off your arm and open it, digging through the jumbled mess of items inside until you find your phone, and you hold it up with a nod. “Yeah - there isn’t anywhere a bit quieter, is there?”

It takes a minute of bustling - Jeff tells you two instructions to go down the hall into another room where you may find more silence - and Harry promises, accent thick and eyes rolling, to be back in twenty minutes or less, if tha’s enough time for you, ma’am, and you try to trick yourself into thinking the burn flushing up your cheeks is due to the heat of the room.

Down the hall is another door that Harry opens for you, letting you walk in first. It’s a small room, clearly meant for storage, and he shuts the door behind the pair of you. There’s - luckily, or perhaps unluckily - just enough room for you two have at least a few feet between you, and he leans against the wall with an air of casual elegance you couldn’t hope to achieve as you scroll through your phone to search for the voice recorder app.

“Hope this s’good enough - is it?” Harry inquires, leaning his head closer to yours, and you nod. “Good - wish there was a nicer spot for you, but -”

“Don’t worry about it,” you interject, smiling up at him, and he grins back, and your stomach churns violently. You almost feel like you could vomit - when he goes on, you’ll go and have a bit to eat at the table set up with foods that Jeff had wheeled you past when you arrived. Eating seems to solve more of your nerves than you’d care to admit, and you feel like you’re nearly 95% nerves right now. Your fingers fiddle with the voice recorder app, adding a title to the recording while entirely too focused on the sounds of Harry’s breathing above you, and you can practically fear his eyes boring into your face before you press record.

And, for the most part, it does go smoothly. Harry introduces himself with an ease that only comes with years of practice, so much time spent being interviewed that it must feel like as much of a second nature to him as interviewing is to you. He’s charming and charismatic - flirtatious, even - making jokes and adding lines that you make a mental note to be sure to include in your final piece - whatever direction you go - and you can’t say you’re bothered by the way he leans closer to the phone, and thus closer to you, in order for his voice to be heard more on the recording when occasional noise bustles in from outside.

You don’t need to look at the questions you’d spent weeks laboring over - every question you inquire derives directly from his answers like he’s practically feeding them to you, and then you’re interviewing him so naturally, you could nearly fool yourself into thinking it’s an organic conversation between friends.

What’s his process to prepare for shows? Well, listening to Fleetwood Mac and eating finger foods, of course - he loves mozzarella sticks. Does Fleetwood Mac make you less nervous for shows? No, he doesn’t get too anxious before shows, now that he’s out of the band. He just loves Fleetwood Mac - he could listen to them at any time of the day. What do you think makes your solo career less anxiety-inducing than being in the band? Different fans let him be himself more. There’s less pressure to be someone he isn’t - do you think he could’ve worn a floral printed suit at a One Direction concert?

And, in the end, twenty minutes hardly feels like it, and by the time Harry tilts his head over the screen of your phone to check the time, you could nearly convince yourself that you’d merely spent a minute with the heartthrob, and it pains you to stop the recording.

“How’d I do?” he questions, cheeky smile indenting the dimple in his cheek, and you feel like you need to dip your face in ice once he goes on stage - your face hasn’t felt anything less than piping hot since the first moment he rested eyes on you, and his kind-bordering-on-flirtatious nature only makes your skin heat more under his gaze.

It isn’t as though you’d have it any other way, though.

“Perfect,” and you send him a smile. “I’ll watch the show - probably eat a bit, too, if I’m being honest - and maybe ask you a few questions. How many shows are you doing in LA?”

Harry reaches past you, grabbing the doorknob and opening the door for you once more, and you slip out with a small smile as he follows, face twisted in what’s clearly a show of being in deep thought. “Four. An’ a few more on the West Coast ‘fore we move out - reckon you’ll need t’come t’a few more?”

“Depends.” He looks at you curiously as the two of you make your way back to the room you’d been in before, and when you enter, it’s clearly in a more prominent state of preparation for the show - there’s more bustle and movement between every band member and Jeff, who looks entirely relieved to see you two come in as She’s a Rainbow thumps softly, volume clearly turned down on whatever produces the music. “If I feel like I’ve got enough material from this show, then that’ll be it - I usually just do reviews of specific gigs, and this is a lot broader - so I really don’t know.”

Harry nods, and you feel a flutter in your heart at how intently he seems to be listening to you, like he really cares, and you’re sure it’s a facade - he probably has a million other things on his mind as Jeff descends upon the both of you, whisking him away as he calls goodbye! to you - but still. When was the last time you’d felt listened to? By Mike, or by the security guard outside, or even from your own parents when you try to convince them over and over that you have a plan, that your degree wasn’t a waste of time when you could’ve been a doctor -

Well, Harry’s a gentleman, you decide, sliding your phone into the back pocket of your flares as you reach in your bag for your notepad. You can tell they’re preparing to go on soon and so you descend against the wall, grabbing your pen from deep inside the confines of your bag to scribble the essential notes of what you’ll need - it’ll make it easier when it’s time to write, rather than listening to the entire 20 minute interview again to try and find the important sections to include.

His responses to your question still burn fresh in your mind, and you began scribbling your bullet points on the small notepad in your hands. It’s decently easy to block out the chatter of the room you’re in along with its music, volume turned down further until it’s hardly audible, and it really is a skill you’ve mastered, though you suppose you’ve had to - trying to take notes for articles about gigs occurring in buildings so small that their noise reverberates off of every surface has made you a master in tuning out noise surrounding you.

You are aware, and acutely, at that, when the band starts exiting through the door beside you. They don’t look nervous, returning your encouraging smiles with ones of their own, and you watch them pour out the door with confidence practically radiating off of them. Well, that’s something to mention, isn’t it? Most of the bands you’d interviewed were practically vomiting with nerves -

Harry takes up the rear, fingers running through his slicked back hair, and you can’t tell if it’s a nervous habit or if he’s simply trying to let his curls fall in front of his eyes more. Jeff walks in front of him, giving you a smile as he leaves, and the singer stops beside you.

Your breath just about catches in your throat as you look up at him, and he’s staring down at you with a decidedly ambiguous look in his eyes, and you smile at him. “Good luck out there.”

“You’re gonna come and watch?”

You nod. “Eventually - I’m gonna eat something first, finish my notes. Maybe give myself a tour of the backstage in case I decide to include it.”

“Sounds good t’me,” Harry says, but he doesn’t make a motion to leave, and then his eyes roll down your body and is he fucking checking you out? Because - no - that’s crazy. That would cement into your brain the knowledge that this is a dream, and not reality, because there’s no fucking way Harry Styles is checking you out, eyes roaming from your eyes to your stomach to your - “I like your pants. Where’d you get ‘em?”

Ah. Of course. Fashion icon, he is, inquiring about the pants you’d chosen specifically because they looked like something he may like. “These?” You glance down as though you’d forgotten what pants you’d donned, as though you hadn’t spent hours in front of your closet envisioning what outfit you could wear to impress him. “I think they’re from Zara. Got them a couple years back.”

“They’re pretty.”

“Why, thank you -”

“Harry!”

Jeff’s voice calling from outside the room snaps you both out of your conversation, a slightly embarrassed grin spreading across Harry’s face that you’re sure is mirroring your own. His cheeks are tinged pink and he clears his throat.

“Sorry - gotta go - make sure y’try the mozzarella sticks, ‘kay? They’re good,” Harry tells you, and you grin, drumming the pen clutched between your fingers against the notepad in your hands.

“Will do,” you reply, and then you lift your hand and point to the door, raising your eyebrows with a smile. “Go break a leg - and then be ready to talk about it when you’re done!”

He doesn’t say anything else - just gives you a thumbs up and slips out the door, and you can hear his frenzied apologies to Jeff as their voices fade away, surely preparing to get on stage and sing his heart out and blow the fucking stadium away, but you can hardly focus on it. Because - God, you really don’t want to sound like a narcissist - but he was joking around with you, complimented your pants, and he did technically check you out, even if it was just to see your pants.

Was he flirting with you?

Surely not. No, that would be absurd. He’s probably just bored - maybe entertaining random people backstage is his way of dealing with his nerves.

That makes a bit more sense.

When you glance back down at your notepad, the page half filled with scribbled bullet points of things you’d sworn to remember, and when you click your pen open to continue your list, you find that you can’t quite think of anything else to write. All you can think about is the mozzarella sticks waiting for you, and then standing in the wings to watch him sing his heart out to a crowd of adoring fans that you, at one point, would have killed to be apart of -

You shove your pen and pad back into your bag with a determined spin of your heels. Food first - contemplation second.

~~~

The show is - needless to say - amazing.

You’d feasted on slightly-cold mozzarella sticks that were, even in their lowered temperatures, immensely good, and clearly garnered all the affection Harry had for them. The food table was nearly completely empty, crew members repeatedly coming up to fill plates with vegetables and snacks, and so you simply gathered the last three sticks of celery once you were done with your sticks before taking a leisurely stroll along the backstage area. Celery firm between your teeth, you pulled out your notepad and your pen once more and jotted notes of what you could possibly include in the article to jog your memory later -

It takes a while, admittedly. You don’t want to leave anything out, and eventually you have two pages filled with notes in your handwriting that would surely be illegible to anyone else who happened upon them - and, sure, your pages are small, but still. Two pages is a lot, and you’re sure most of it won’t even make it into the article but you don’t want to risk forgetting any important information.

A trip to the bathroom - perusing the food table again to pick up the last few carrot sticks - and the show is nearly halfway over, so you decide it may be time to slip into the wings and watch. Take notes, possibly, but mainly just listen and absorb the music and the atmosphere and exactly how the fans react to his every move. That’s what the people want to know, isn’t it? It’s what you would want to know - so you slip past the lingering groups of people into the wings of the stage, where you get a clear view of Harry and his band, singing his heart out to a tune you know to be Kiwi.

It’s ear splitting, truly, in a way that none of the other gigs you’d witnessed had been. But it sounds good - better than good - and he’s as charismatic on stage as he is off, waggling his eyebrows during the more suggestive lines and undoing the button of his suit jacket, and the latter garners a deafening scream from the adoring fans in the crowd.

No, you won’t need to take notes, at least not yet. You’ll remember this forever, won’t you? Watching him work the crowd like he was born to do it, like it’s a second nature and you’re sure it is, at this point. It’s all you can do to stand there, watching him, and you’re sure you look no different from the other fans in the crowd, your eyes wide and lips parted in absolute awe of him -

His head turns to the side, briefly, as if he can sense your eyes on him above anyone else’s. In reality you’re sure he’d simply turned his head to flick a sweaty curl out of his face but it’s never a bad thing to dream right? And your gaze locks for just a moment, his eyebrows raising when he sees your face, and heat burns at your cheeks before his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his right eye shuts in a quick wink before he’s turning back to the crowd as if his attention had never left them.

Shit. You nearly drop your damn carrot. God, he’s a fucking tease, and you’re not even sure he knows it - that this experience will never leave your brain for as long as you walk this Earth, watching him wink as he stared into the depths of your fucking soul, clad in a gorgeous suit with his gorgeous hair and -

Harry truly is a sight to behold, and you’re more than content to watch him forever.

Forever ends up being another half hour or so before you’re made entirely too aware of the fact that you have to pee - not insanely bad, but enough to make you shift uncomfortably from side to side before sighing, turning and making your way further backstage in your search for the bathroom. In your determined tour of the backstage you’d forgotten to search for the restroom, and you wander about for nearly five whole minutes before getting to it -

You do your business. There’s not much more explanation needed.

It’s when your washing your hands, though, water freezing cold against your palms, that you become slightly aware of a myriad of noises occurring outside the restroom. At first you choose not to focus on it, shoving your hands beneath the air dryer to ease your soaking, cold hands, and the noise of violent air assaulting your palms drowns out the scuffling sounds from outside.

When the dryer turns off, and you reach down to wipe your damp hands on your pants, the noises haven’t stopped. And, sure, no one could expect it to be completely silent backstage, but whatever you’re hearing isn’t the normal laughter and chatter and muffled music that you’re used to hearing -

It sounds like someone is fighting, and your hand freezes in its place on the cool metal doorknob. You lean forward, scrunching your nose as you plainly try harder to hear what’s happening -

But, Hell. You have a job to do - you need to get back to the wings to watch the remaining few minutes of the set before Harry leaves and, subsequently, returns for the encore, and you’d intended to write with detail about his closing repetition of Kiwi. So you grab the doorknob, swing the door open and step out, and freeze nearly immediately once you’ve exited.

There is a fight - not as violent as you’d expected - as the security guard from inside scuffles with Steve, who looks positively wasted in a way you’ve come to know all too well, doing gigs in LA. His face shines with a sheen layer of sweat, skin glowing in the artificial light, and his fists move slowly to pummel into the other security guard’s back. It’s, truthfully, a bit pathetic to watch - he isn’t putting up much of a fight against the guard trying to hold him, and your mouth parts with poorly-concealed confusion at the display in front of you.

You’re not sure what to say - or do - or think - standing in the doorway of the bathroom as you watch the poor excuse of a fight, Steve nearly toppling to the ground as the other guard tries to contain him.

“Come on, Steve - don’t be like this -”

Then the other security guard looks up and sees you, and the expression on his face nearly makes you burst into laughter, but you contain it with a bit more difficulty than you’d like to admit. He looks annoyed, like he’s absolutely done with his coworker, and also slightly embarrassed. Clearly, he’d dragged Steve into the hallway containing the bathrooms with the hopes of nobody seeing either of them, and you’ve interrupted his bid for privacy desperately. “Sorry, ma’am,” the guard says, grabbing one of Steve’s flailing fists in his hands. “Don’t mind us - he’s drunk - just trying to contain him.”

You’re doing a damn good job, you want to say, but you bite back the retort with a small nod and a whisper of a smile on your face, walking with your back to the wall past their display in the hopes of Steve not seeing you. He hadn’t been particularly nice to you when you’d first seen him and you can tell he’s in a much more heightened state, now - he’d been drunk when you’d seen him before and you can tell it’s only gotten worse.

Maybe you should’ve told Jeff the guard was drunk?

Well, it’s counterproductive to dwell on the past.

You’re not so lucky, though - you’ve barely made it down five steps down the hallway before Steve lifts his head, pupils blown and skin even stickier looking than before, and he gives you the same disgusted look as though you’re something his dog had left on the grass. “Hey - hey - Jim - do you know who that is?”

And the other security guard - Jim - just rolls his eyes. “No, Steve, I don’t - stop making a fool out of yourself.”

“She works at - at - Eat to the Beat - Parallel Lines - what is it?”

Do you answer him? You don’t quite know. You just swallow thickly, forcing yourself not to don the smile that’s urging its way onto your lips as you hear roaring screams from the crowd that alerts you to the fact that, if Harry isn’t done with his set yet, he’s close, and you need to watch the end. “Autoamerican. Those are all good albums, though.”

“She’s snarky - get off of me, Jim -”

In Steve’s final bid for freedom his legs kick out, and his sneakered foot knocks into your ankle, and it’s certainly not hard by any stretch of the definition but it’s enough to catch you off balance, his toe hooking into the loose fabric around your ankles as he brings his foot back to kick again. One kick did it, though - you tumble to the ground, legs flying out from under you until you land on your ass on the hard floor, your bag slipping off your shoulder, and its contents scatter across the ground.

Fuck. That hurt, more than you’d care to admit, as you brace your elbows behind you to stop your head from knocking into the ground. Your ass hurts and you can see Steve’s leg bracing backwards for another kick, and you push yourself backwards so his foot merely pushes against the air.

You can already see Jim opening his mouth to desperately say sorry when a set of footsteps interrupts his apology - you don’t have to look to your side to see who it is, the smell of expensive cologne wafting before him like an introduction. You practically feel him before you see him.

Your name falls off Harry’s lips entirely too easily, like he’d been looking for you in the overtly small window of space he has before he has to go back on stage - his hair is messy and his skin is sweaty and he bends down next to you with such sentimentality in his eyes - you almost feel like a child again.

“Are y’okay?” Harry questions, and his hand rests on the small of your back and warmth seems to seep through your body from its spawning point, palm moving in circles against your sweater so gently you can tell he’s scared to go much harder. “Wha’ -?”

For his eyes had just landed on the sight in front of you - Jim managed to pull Steve up, the latter clearly coming to his senses at least a little bit, and his eyes narrow at the sight of you on the floor and subsequently widen as he sees Harry next to you.

“Wha’ happened?” And you can hear anger quivering under his voice like boiling water, ready to overflow, and you instinctively reach up to press your hand against his forearm - you do it to your niece all the time when you can tell she’s on the verge of a tantrum and it always works on her - but she is five, and Harry’s twenty years her senior, so, needless to say, the motion doesn’t do much to soothe him. “Fightin’ back here, kickin’ her - you’re s’posed t’be security guards!”

“It’s okay, Harry -”

“S’not okay -”

And then there’s another set of footsteps jogging over to you, and you look up to see Jeff -

“Har, you need to get back out -” but you can see the confusion set into his features as he stands over the scene, eyes flickering to you and Harry on the floor to Jim and Steve, the former having settled the latter into a fairly calm position. The scent of alcohol is strong and you can practically watch as Jeff smells it, his nose crinkling. “Is he drunk?”

“He is drunk, an’ got into a fight wit’ -”

“Okay, okay,” you interrupt, squeezing Harry’s arm again as you push yourself to stand, attempting not to wince at the pain in your ass as your muscles tense. He’s looking at you like you’ve just been hit by a car instead of having a mild scuffle with a security guard, eyes wide and concerned, and you shake your head at him. “Didn’t get into a fight, Harry - he accidentally kicked me. It’s really fine - you need to go back out, anyway.”

“She’s right,” Jeff insists, reaching down to tug Harry up as his eyes bore into the sight in front of you, Steve slowly calming himself down until he’s simply red in the face and reeking of booze. “Come on, Har - you need to get on.”

But Harry’s already bending down again, grabbing your pen and your notebook and your phone (you can see a crack in the screen that most certainly hadn’t been there just a mere ten minutes ago) and you could nearly laugh at the display he’s putting on, shoving your items back into your back, if Jeff’s demeanor wasn’t bordering on murderous as he drags Harry up again. You reach down and grab your bag, now fully stocked again with all of the items that had clattered out, and you give the tussling security guards one final fleeting look before following Jeff and Harry as they make their way down the hall.

“Y’sure you’re okay?” Harry questions, slowing his pace so you can jog beside him, much to Jeff’s lingering annoyance as he brings his fingers up to rub at the space between his eyes. “Y’should know - tha’ doesn’t usually happen -”

“I get it,” you tell him.

“No, really.” You’ve reached the wings of the stage, and Jeff leaves the pair of you alone to descend on to where the band stands, clearly waiting for the cue to go on. Harry runs a hand through his hair, and he looks oddly exasperated and you wish you could get it through his head that it really isn’t a big deal - “Someone will take care of the guards, okay?”

“Don’t fire them,” you insist, even though you’re sure he has no say in it. “Not Jim, at least.”

“Jim -?”

“The sober one.”

“Oh.” He pauses, dropping his hands to his sides. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Just try.”

“Will do.”

There’s another brief second of silence before you nod towards the stage where he’s needed - the few lowly minutes between the end of the show and the encore has come to an end, and you’re sure people are beginning to wonder if he’s not coming back. “Go on, Har. There’s people waiting for you.”

“M’going!” And he isn’t going, just staring at you with his brows furrowed, and you raise your own with a confused stare. “Are y’gonna come t’any more shows?”

You pause, nibbling on your bottom lip as you contemplate your answer. “Well - maybe. If I need more information.” “You should,” he tells you, and you tilt your head to the side. “Look, I don’t want your only impression of m’shows t’be that they’re violent an’ crazy.”

“I don’t think -”

“Jus’ one more? In two days. I’ll send you th’address. I really want you t’come -”

Before you can process the request Jeff has stepped forward, hooking his arm in Harry’s and practically dragging him towards the stage, and you watch him prance back in front of the audience like it’s his God given purpose and perhaps it is. You’ve never quite met anyone like him, you don’t think, and you’d certainly had a perception of what you’d imagined him to be like based on the insane amount of time you’d spent obsessing over his band when you were younger -

Your mouth feels suddenly dry as you watch him begin, and the music seems to reverberate beneath your skin, and suddenly - without having to think about it much at all, really - you know it won’t take much convincing on his part to get you back for a second night.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles writing #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles series #harry styles drabble #harry styles one shot #im sure im going to regret starting this as a series and not trying to make it one long piece #but honestly??#im working on another fic right now so i just want the beginnings of this to be out there #i hope u enjoy

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mirkysconcubinefiction · 3 years

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Kinda the Secretary

Plot IdEa:

MobBucky! x Reader (either gender but I write as female) swear warning.

Bucky isn't a fool. He knows there's a snitch in his midst. Someone is talking and he's sure it's you.

You are after all here - his secretary/PA - as an undercover to take him down.

He should have killed you but it would have been too easy. Too obvious. So Bucky treated you accordingly.

With what he was paying you it wasn't worth the hassle. First week you're hired you dress in business casual, fetch coffee, answer phone, play candy crush.

Second week there's a hidden camera in every corner, listening devices just about everywhere and there's a God dam dress code.

Skirts - heels - makeup - blouses... you had to take a stupid selfie and send it to him. He complained about your wardrobe and you snidely made a comment that paying rent was more important than making sure each day was something new and titillating.

What does the biggest asshole mob boss of the east coast do? He has someone deliver you clothes every week. A fucking rotation of mini skirts, busty blouses, some with cutouts showing off an inappropriate amount of skin, stilettos with red bottoms and pencil thin heels that made you self conscious of your weight.

God... you would die if your luscious ass snapped a heel and tipped over.

Also. Your desk. Your beautiful mahogany desk with it's hand carved character was replaced by a modern monstrosity and positioned in a way that the asshole Boss could look up from his desk, peer through the glass, and see right up your skirt.

Accepting this stupid assignment was supposed to be easy.

Easy money.

Paid time off from assignment after assignment, working a desk job was supposed to be a vacation.

Paid hours from the government and paid by a man easy on the eyes but he was a good excuse to not do shit. You were fine funneling money into your bank account and pretend to be a loyal dog for the cause.

You didn't care about the drugs, the gambling, the murdering and typical old fashioned business.

James Buchanan Barnes was your retirement. Last a year with his murderous tendencies and you could apply for permanent leave of your secret government job and cash in years worth of OT, Vacation, and Sick leave.

Instead Bucky the asshole ran you ragged. It was as if he knew you were here for shits and giggles.

You're not stupid. The bastard has a mole - it was that incel Quentin Beck - the guy was creepy and got a hard on over being Bucky.

Instead you have fun. Either you survive the year or you die. If Bucky wanted you to dress like the office slut then so be it.

Underwear? Meh, laundry day.

Bra a dark shade that stuck out from your tops? Can do.

Nails? Black French tips, pointy witch nails, bedazzled with fake stones? Done.

Pedicures? You thrived in pampering yourself.

You deserved it.

No matter how much was stacked on your plate you got it done. Late nights? Early mornings? Skipped lunches? Whatever it took you made sure it was perfect.

Sucked that the minions took to bothering you at least it annoyed the asshole Boss

Had to suck moreso for the asshole Boss when you didn't fall into his amateur ruses. Giving you bread crumbs to see if you would snitch.

The frustration looked good on the man.

The scowl.

The pacing.

Eventually it comes to a head when the higher ups question you. They send people to bother you. To intimidate you for information to put the asshole man away.

You ignore it until it gets physical. They're aggressive and now they believe you're a traitor. You break a heel when someone pulls you into a stairwell. It's a dirty fight. Woman to woman and you regret wearing your hair loose.

Your nail chips.

Another breaks off and it hurts since it tore off part of your real nail.

You toss the woman out of the stairwell and leave her in a heap. Thankfully you have spare clothes at work, you take off your broken heels, pick up your bag, and run up the stairs and away from the mess left behind. Your head is down as you have to walk through the garage to get to the business entrance of the company that was a front for the heavy stuff.

Unfortunately you're recognized and someone tattle, calling their boss to tell him you're a mess.

Making it to the office you hurry to the coat closet where your spare uniform is hanging in a garment bag. Leaving is another story as Bucky is suddenly there, filling the doorway and he's pissed.

You try and fix your hair and hide your sore hand with it's broken nail but he's taking you in. Dirty, bruised, bleeding, hot mess with torn and rumpled clothing.

He leads you to his private bathroom, his goons quiet as he pushes you inside and closes the door. He's careful and gentle as he helps you undress, you don't fight it, he cleans you up, wipes away the makeup, checks for a bump on your head, helps you redress and even sits you on his marble counter and cleans your feet.

Unexpected and weird.

"Stay here" he says and leaves.

Later once a doctor checks you over, finger is bandaged, the cuts and bruises are tended, he shows you security footage of the stairwell.

He knows.

He's had you followed.

One day you're an agent of the government playing secretary and the next you're the girlfriend of an infamous mob boss.

It's all i got so far 😅

Too many stories working on so here you go. Hashtag and @ if interested 🖤

#mirkysconcubinefiction #fanfiction #avengers #writing prompt #fanfic #dark #marvel #mob!bucky x reader #mob!bucky #dark bucky barnes #bamf #reader insert

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grailfinders · 3 years

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Fate and Phantasms #198

Happy New Year! (If it is not new years, please disregard.) Today we're crossing into the 2020 servants; hopefully this build makes that clear.

Today we're building Katsushika Hokusai, the daughter/fatheroctopus painter duo, most famous for... waves? And also making a deal with Cthulhu. We're grabbing some levels in Creation Bard for the former, and Hexblade Warlock for the latter. Don't worry, it'll make sense as we go.

Check out their build breakdown below the cut, or their character sheet over here!

Next up:

Race and Background

Oui is a Human. Her dad's an octopus, which is weird, but we'll deal with that later. Also, we're making her a variant human for cool stuff. She gets +1 Wisdom and Charisma, as well as Animal Handling proficiency to get along with her parents and the Magic Initiate feat, which uses her Wisdom to cast druid spells. Since magical paintbrushes aren't an official weapon in D&D 5e, we'll call it a quarterstaff instead, which means you can use Shillelagh to make it fancy and magical for the duration. It also turns the damage die into a d8, deals magical damage, and uses your wisdom instead of strength to hit things and deal damage. You also get Frostbite to splash cold water on people, and Protection from Evil and Good. You can cast that last one once a day for free, and it'll protect you against aberrations (plus celestials, elementals, fey, fiends, and undead) for ten minutes with concentration. They'll have disadvantage to hit you, and they cant' charm, frighten, or possess you, and any existing effects of that ilk you can shake off with advantage. No spoilers, but that'll come in handy soon enough.

You also get the Guild Artisan background, because you paint for money. That gives you Insight and Persuasion proficiency.

Ability Scores

Make your Charisma as high as possible. You paint good, and you have the mental fortitude to keep an elder god from yeeting your soul from your body. Good job. Second highest is Dexterity, painting lifesized waves in the air around you doesn't actually need all the backflips, you just like to show off. Your Wisdom is also pretty good, it's hard to paint things you can't see well, and again that whole "mental fortitude" thing. Your Constitution is pretty good, you handle all-nighters pretty well. That means your Strength isn't great, but we're dumping Intelligence. You're kind of a hick, after all. Plus, really? Swordbeauties?

Class Levels

Bard 1: You weren't born with the squid powers, so we'll grab those up a bit later. Right now you're just a plucky young artist with a dream. As a bard, you get proficiency with Dexterity and Charisma saves, as well as three skills of your choice. Performance and Nature will help you paint nature, and Arcana will help you find the squid guy in the first place. You get Bardic Inspiration, Charisma Modifier d6s per long rest, and you can give one to your allies to boost one attack, check, or save by however much they roll. Nothing like some tasteful nudes to get the spirits up. You also get Spells that you can cast using your Charisma. Friends makes it easier to pass charisma checks against a creature for a minute, but they'll know you magicked them afterwards. Thankfully, getting paid doesn't take that long. Minor Illusion helps you bring your paintings to life, but just a little bit. It'll create a still object or sound that lasts for up to a minute. Creatures can tell it's an illusion with an investigation check, or by touching it. You also get Animal Friendship- your dad can be hard to get along with. Color Spray weaponizes your paints to blind creatures in the area, and Illusory Script lets you write one thing, but really write another. I'm sure you can argue this should count for paintings as well. Oh, you also get Dissonant Whispers. You're a Foreigner, you can be a little creepy if ya wanna.

Bard 2: Second level bards become a Jack of All Trades, adding half their proficiency to skill checks they aren't proficient in. You're an anime character, it's an unwritten rule you should be good at everything. You also get a Song of Rest, adding a d6 to healing your party does over a short rest. On top of that, your bardic inspiration becomes Magical Inspiration, letting your allies add it to the damage or healing of a spell. Finally, grab the spell Silent Image for moving images, so now you can paint birds and/or waves and have them look just like the real thing. Now, third level of bard is where things start getting funky, so before we can do that, let's make a deal.

Warlock 1: Bouncing over to warlock lets you become a Hexblade, which sounds kind of weird, but there's a reason for that. You don't do weird mind stuff like the GOOlocks, and you don't really use Tentacles like the Fathomlocks. What you do need though, is a fancy magic brush, and a fancy magic octopus. There isn't a familiar-based subclass yet, so we had to go with the weapon-based one, and we'll pick up your dad later. Anyways, starting off as a Hexblade lets you invoke a Hexblade's Curse as a bonus action, dealing your proficiency in extra damage to the cursed creature, crit on 19s, and heal yourself when the cursed creature dies. The curse lasts 1 minute, and you can use this once per short rest. Hokusai also become a Hex Warrior, turning one non-two-handed weapon into a special weapon at the end of a long rest. Now your brush uses your Charisma to attack, nice. Unfortunately, this doesn't include magical damage, but you can stack this with Shillelagh if you really need to. You also get another set of spells with your Pact Magic. These slots recharge on short rests, and it means your multiclassing doesn't mix slots like most spellcasting classes would. You can still use one kind of slot to cast the other kind of spells though. Speaking of spells, grab Eldritch Blast for some paint splashes, and Mage Hand for a pseudo-octopus that'll grab things for you. Cause Fear lets you paint a really creepy thing one target can see, forcing a wisdom save and scaring them if they fail. Arms of Hadar will give you a little bit of tentacles, as a treat. They'll force a strength save on creatures near you, dealing necrotic damage and making them too gooey to take reactions.

Warlock 2: Second level warlocks get Eldritch Invocations, mini-feats to help you cope with only having two spell slots. Grab Armor of Shadows for free Mage Armor on yourself at will. Your family is your armor, and I mean that literally. Stop wearing your dad, it's creepy. You also get a second one, but we're saving that for the next level. Don't not take one now though, I'm just saying it won't matter in the long run.

Bard 3: Now that your pact is sealed, we can get the real living paintings going. If you're thinking 'bout an inking feel free to shuffle levels around, I just want to hit Font of Inspiration quickly. As a Creation bard, Hokusai gets an Inkling of Potential, adding extra effects to her bardic inspiration. Ability checks let the user roll twice, attack rolls deal extra thunder damage, and saving throws add temporary HP to the user. She can also enact the Performance of Creation, creating a nonmagical item nearby. Currently it must cost less than 20 times your bard level, and it has to be medium or smaller. You can do this once per long rest, or by spending a 2nd level slot, but doing so destroys the first object if it still exists. Right now this only makes medium objects, but a 5' wave of water is nothing to sneeze at. You also get Expertise in two skills, doubling your proficiency them. Pick up Insight and Performance for the ultimate style-copying skills. Finally, you get second level spells. We can't focus too much on non-charisma abilities, but this'll give you a leg up on seeing the true nature of things. It gives you advantage on any one kind of ability check for up to a minute.

Bard 4: Use your first Ability Score Improvement to bump up your Charisma. Now you have more inspiration, better spells, and a bigger brush. Charisma's good, you'll like charisma. You can also paint Dancing Lights and a Phantasmal Force now. The former lights up an area, the latter creates a phantasmal creature or object that only one creature can see for up to a minute. It can break the illusion with an Investigation check, but until then it treats the thing as completely real, rationalizing away inconsistencies. It also can take a bit of psychic damage if the illusion would cause harm within 5' of itself.

Bard 5: Fifth level bards become a Font of Inspiration like we talked about earlier, giving you inspiration recharges on short rests instead of long ones. Your inspiration also jumps to d8s. Finally, grab Major Image for more major illusions than minor image. It creates an object up to 20' on each side, and includes effects like sound, smell, and temperature, as long as they wouldn't deal damage. You can also move the illusion using your action. Same rules apply to breaking it though- investigation check or just touching it.

Warlock 3: Finally back in warlock, you get your pact boon, and the Pact of the Chain gives you Find Familiar as a ritual, and you can skip your own attack to attack with your familiar. Wildly enough, Octopus is already a rules as written option for Find Familiar. Awkward point; octopi can only be out of water for 30 minutes. Good luck with that! On top of that, Mirror Image lets you paint duplicates of yourself, making it harder to hit you. Boom, evade skill achieved. You get three extra copies, and every time you get hit, there's only a 25% chance of actually hitting the real one. If an illusion gets hit, it's destroyed, so the odds go up to 33%, then 50%. You also put in the Investment of the Chain Master, giving your dad a flying speed, the ability to attack as a bonus action, magical weapons, your DC for saves, and you can react to give the little bugger resistance to one instance of damage. Literally everyone else's dad is dead already, try not to add one more to the pile. Except for Romani's, but that's sad in its own way.

Warlock 4: Another ASI, max out your Charisma. It's good, you use it for literally everything. For spells, Mind Sliver deals psychic damage an makes the target's next save a bit harder to make. You also get a Crown of Madness, which gives you control over a creature's attack action. Just because you're less spooky than Abby doesn't mean you're not spooky.

Warlock 5: Fifth level warlocks get a new invocation and third level spell. Summon Shadowspawn lets you paint one of three kinds of shadowspawn, creepy little things that can scare people by screaming at them. They'll obey your commands, and it'll last up to an hour, until they hit 0 HP, or you drop concentration. Your last invocation is the Gift of the Depths, letting you breathe underwater and swim as fast as you can walk. Now it's slightly less awkward to carry your dad around, yay. You can also cast Water Breathing for free once per long rest.

Bard 6: Finally back in bard now, sixth level creation bards can put on an Animating Performance, turning a large or smaller item into a Dancing Item with its own stats and everything. You have to use your bonus action to command it in battle, but you can inspire people at the same time. I'm not sure how well animating water would work, but it's something to look into. You also learn how to Countercharm, spending your action to give creatures near you advantage on saves against being charmed or frightened. For something better, grab Intellect Fortress. For up to an hour, you'll resist psychic damage, and you get advantage on all Int, Wis, and Chr saves.

Bard 7: Seventh level bards get fourth level spells, like Hallucinatory Terrain! Now you can paint a landscape- literally! It's only 150' in range, but that's still plenty of space to mess with people. It doesn't really change anything, but forcing people to look at non-euclidean geometry is its own reward.

Bard 8: Another ASI. Bump up your Dex now so you're less likely to get hit, then grab Phantasmal Killer to paint a scary creature that will follow the target around and beat them up. It's a shame only one creature gets to see it.

Bard 9: Ninth level bards get a better song of rest, but more importantly you get fifth level spells. Legend Lore will help you see the true meaning of things more easily, and the more you already know about something the more you'll learn. That's why your Arcana and Nature skills are so high. Oh, wait, sorry, one sec...

Bard 10: And that's why your Arcana and Nature skills are so high... starting now, with another round of Expertise. Your inspiration also jumps to d10s, and you learn Magical Secrets, two spells from any spell list you can cast. On top of that, you get Prestidigitation to paint up small objects. For your secrets, Conjure Animals lets you paint up some real animals that'll attack enemies for you. Alternatively, you can Control Water to make those waves we've been trying to do with way less fuss than a Song of Creation or Animating Performance. It does come with the limit of using existing water, though you can also Part Water, cause a Whirlpool, or Redirect Flow with this one.

Bard 11: Eleventh level bards get a sixth level spell, and True Seeing will help you see All Things in Nature, letting you see through illusions, invisibility and the like.

Bard 12: One last ASI; bump up your Constitution for better concentration and more HP.

Bard 13: Your Song of Rest is a d10 now, and you get a seventh level spell. Prismatic Spray is the return of Color Spray, but it's taken steroids. Now it deals plenty of damage of a random type to each creature in its area, or it has a chance to shove them into another dimension or petrify them.

Bard 14: Your last goody from the college of creation is a Creative Crescendo, allowing you to paint up to your Charisma Modifier in items when you use a Performance of Creation. Only one can be a biggun, the rest have to be small or tiny. Also, your max size is Huge now, and a 15' cube of water will make a pretty big splash. You also get another round of Magical Secrets, grabbing you Conjure Elemental for a more symbolic approach to flooding people, and Wrath of Nature to paint a landscape that'll really fuck with someone. The grass turns land into difficult terrain, the trees will slash at enemies nearby, Roots and vines restrain enemies, and Rocks will throw themselves at enemies, knocking them prone on a failed strength save. It's not mind melting geometries, but it's still mess with people's heads.

Bard 15: Your ultimate level gives you a d12 inspiration die. You also get one last spell, of the eighth level. Feeblemind will handle all the mind melting the last level failed to live up to, forcing an intelligence save and dealing damage regardless. On a failed save, the creature's Intelligence and Charisma drop to 1, and it can't cast spells, use magic items, talk, or understand people. The only ways to fix this are with another Intelligence saving throw (every 30 days) or using Greater Restoration, Heal, or Wish.

Pros and Cons

Pros:

Like the regular Hokusai, this build has a great deal of flexibility, with pretty good AC, HP, and physical attack options to get up close and personal, as well as ways to buff allies and attack with spells at a distance.

Speaking of spells, they give you a lot of crowd control options. You can create extra allies with summoning spells and Animating Performance, blow them away with waves from Control Water or Performance of Creation, or keep them tied up with various illusions.

You're also really good at fighting other spellcasters. Spells like Protection from Evil and Good and Intellect Fortress will shore up most of your saves against fancier spells, and you can use Feeblemind to completely shut down anyone who isn't a wizard or artificer.

So piss off your patron and kick the ass of their flunkies, easy! Wait, there's still cons.

Cons:

Okay, so there are some problems with throwing waves all over the place: they're hard to control where exactly they end up. Also, your best wave requires real water, which won't always be available.

On a similar note, you specialize in summons and illusions, both of which tend to require Concentration saves. Yours aren't that great, and on top of that it means you can only have one up at a time. Unless you're cool with an elemental running around willy nilly, but that fits into Con #1.

Your Familiar can only stay on dry land for 30 minutes at a time. If you're going to play this in a landlocked campaign, switch the octopus and last invocation for something else, it'll be a pain otherwise.

Okay, she isn't perfect, just make sure you carry an aquarium with you, problem solved, right?

#fate grand order #fgo #D&D 5e #dnd #Katsushika Hokusai #Warlock #Bard

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lardguz · 3 years

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All You Can Eat Bluff-et

WHEW. This took me a lot longer to write than I anticipated because I got kind of stuck near the end (just like a certain fatass lawyer in this one, hehe) but YEAH. Wow! Hope you guys like gay lawyer feeder/feedee relationships!

Phoenix Wright sat on the couch in his office, formerly known as the Weight & Co. Law Offices, blankly staring at the TV screen in front of him. It had been two weeks since he was found presenting forged evidence to the court and subsequently stripped of his attorney’s badge and defense attorney title. Since then he’d not really had much to do, not being used to being unemployed for the first time in years. He had cleaned the office from top to bottom multiple times in the first few days following his sudden dismissal, trying to keep his mind off the creeping existential dread. His friends had stopped by frequently to check on him when they heard the news, and he put on a reassuring smile to them all, but now? The apathy was beginning to set in. Phoenix sat there, wearing just a dress shirt, an undone tie, and some slacks, watching the news talking yet again about his disbarment, with his hand rummaging absentmindedly around in a bowl of potato chips. He kept bringing handfuls of the crunchy snacks up to his mouth, loudly chewing on them without realizing how much he was eating.

Phoenix had been eating like this for as long as he could remember, but without constant cases keeping him on the move, and all the time in the world to just sit on the couch and mindlessly watch TV, his snacking habits were starting to show on his body. His middle was starting to protrude just the tiniest bit, slightly straining the button nearest his tummy on his dress shirt. As his fingers scraped the bottom of the bowl with nothing left to eat in it, Phoenix got up off the couch and turned off the TV. At that precise moment, he heard the familiar Steel Samurai ringtone that his former assistant, Maya, had begged him to put on his cell phone echoing from across the office. Trotting over to his messy desk, he picked up the phone. “Wright and Co. Law Offi—er, wait. No. Hey, this is Phoenix Wright speaking?”

“Wright, I’m outside your office door,” spoke a familiar voice with a slight British accent to it, “Open up. How long have you been hiding away in there, anyways?”

Phoenix audibly sighed. “Just a couple of days, Miles. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be right over.” He hung up and made his way over to the office door, hastily running his hand through his hair to make sure it wasn’t a mess.

There outside his door stood Miles Edgeworth, the famed prosecutor, long-time rival to Phoenix Wright, and his boyfriend. The silver-haired man had bags in each hand which seemed to be very heavy. Phoenix leaned in to kiss his partner and then welcomed him into his office. Edgeworth looked around at the shabby state of the room, empty snack bags littering the floor, and huffed in mild disgust. “Really, Wright, you live like this? Have you eaten nothing but garbage junk food at all the past week?”

Phoenix rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, you know, I was always more of an art guy in college than a cooking guy? Ehehehe…”

Miles groaned and dropped the heavy bags onto the couch, sitting down next to them. “Well, it is a good thing I brought you some real food then, Wright. Here, come sit next to me. I’ll show you what I’ve brought.” The well-dressed prosecutor patted the cushion beside him gently. Phoenix lowered himself down next to his boyfriend slowly and looked into his cool gray eyes curiously. Edgeworth opened one of the bags and pulled out a few plastic containers of some sort of soup. “This is homemade potato and leek soup, with lots of heavy cream. Very nourishing. It’s still warm, I made it just before I left to come over here. And this,” he said as he opened the other bag, revealing a single much larger container, “is a devil’s food cake. I also made this myself, but I baked it last night. The frosting is also homemade.”

Edgeworth popped the lid off of one of the containers of soup and, pulling a spoon out of the bag, dipped it into the bowl and lifted it to Phoenix’s mouth. Phoenix leaned back a little in confusion, stammering. “I-I am perfectly capable of feeding myself, Miles! You don’t have to—”

He was cut off abruptly as the spoon was inserted into his open mouth. The soup, with beautiful, bright flavors and creamy deliciousness, practically melted in his mouth. His cheeks flushed crimson as his eyes met his boyfriend’s, who lifted a finger to his own lips in a shushing gesture. “You have done so much for me, Wright. Now it’s my turn to take care of you. Understand?” Phoenix nodded quickly, still a little dazed, and Miles removed the spoon, refilling it from the bowl and bringing it to his lips again. This went on and on, as Miles emptied one container of soup and moved onto the other two, until there was no more left to feed to his lonely boyfriend. Phoenix belched softly, rubbing his distended belly, which strained against the buttons of his shirt even more now that he’d eaten essentially a whole pot of soup by himself. Miles rubbed his swollen tummy sympathetically before leaning over to whisper in his ear. “I hope you still have room in there, Wright, because you still have to eat dessert…”

Removing the rich chocolate cake from its container, Edgeworth cut off a large piece and held it to his boyfriend’s lips, encouraging Phoenix to take a big bite of the delicious confection. He opened his mouth wide and took a much larger bite than Miles had anticipated, taking about a quarter of the slice in one gulp. The two men continued in this manner, the prim and proper prosecutor delicately feeding slices of the moist chocolate cake to his now very stuffed boyfriend until no more cake remained. Phoenix undid the buttons on his shirt to allow his strained gut some relief, the orb of flesh firm and hard to the touch. Edgeworth gave his boyfriend some gentle belly rubs to try and ease his aching tummy before leaving for the night, promising to be back again tomorrow with more proper food to keep the unemployed former lawyer well-fed.

A year had passed since the fateful trial that had left the legendary Phoenix Wright unemployed, and not many people had seen much of the former lawyer since. Only his closest friends, and the occasional food delivery person, had been in contact with Mr. Wright since his disbarment. The one-time master of courtroom bluffs was sitting on the couch in his former office as he did every day now, a small stack of takeout boxes stacked on the coffee table in front of him. Anyone who knew Phoenix Wright in his lawyer days would hardly recognize the man on the couch as that legendary defense attorney now. Phoenix was wearing a baggy hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, having long since outgrown his old tailored suits from when he still practiced law. The loose, stretchy clothing he preferred to wear at present didn’t leave much to the imagination despite not being form-fitting yet. Phoenix’s chest, once a decently defined pair of pecs, had blossomed into a pudgy pair of moobs that even his XXL hoodie couldn’t hide, and his growing gut sat comfortably in his lap, the bottom of his softening tummy rolls peeking out from the bottom of his hoodie whenever he stretched or moved his arms. Speaking of which, Phoenix’s arms were also noticeably jiggly with fat, with rolls that bunched up at his shoulders whenever he reached upwards. He also had a nice, plush pair of love handles that oozed into a muffintop over the elastic waistband of his sweatpants, which his boyfriend Miles Edgeworth had taken quite a fancy to grabbing ahold of whenever they kissed. None of his weight gain on his upper half even held a candle to how his lower half looked, though. Living such a sedentary life for the past year since his disbarment had sent quite a bit of fat to his thighs and rear end. Phoenix’s ass cheeks were enormous, giving him a beautiful pear shape whether he sat his fat ass on the couch or stood up to waddle to the door to get food delivery. Each round cheek was roughly the side of a pillow, and just as soft. His thighs were also thickening at an astounding rate, each one roughly wide enough to get him stuck in some smaller chairs. When he’d weighed himself earlier that week, Phoenix saw that he’d surpassed 350 pounds. If he had still been a lawyer, that number would have stunned and horrified him, but now? He didn’t really mind at all.

The tubby former lawyer scratched at the stubble on his double chin, leaning forward to grab one of his takeout containers stacked in front of him, when the doorbell rang. Phoenix lowered his arm and instead hoisted himself off the couch, his chubby stomach wobbling underneath his sweatshirt as he did so. He walked over to the door to the office, his meaty thighs rubbing against each other uncomfortably as he did so. God, I’m probably going to have to start taking bigger steps when I walk soon, Phoenix thought to himself as he reached the door. He peered through the peep hole, expecting to see Maya or Edgeworth or someone more familiar, but instead he saw a face he never thought he’d see again. Or, rather, the lower half of a face, since the upper half was covered by a very familiar visor. Phoenix hastily opened the door and stepped outside to confront the visitor.

“Godot?!” he shouted, “How did you get here? Aren’t you supposed to be—”

“In prison?” the white-haired man laughed. “Yeah, well, as it turns out, murder in defense of another isn’t a death sentence. Your pretty little boyfriend got my sentence reduced for “good behavior” and “health reasons”. He also said I should stop by and say hey.” The former prosecutor glanced up and down at Phoenix’s body, chuckling dryly. “Good to see you’ve been taking real good care of yourself, Phoenix, despite everything that’s happened to you.”

Phoenix gulped, subconsciously scratching at the bottom of his overfed gut which flopped over the waistband of his sweatpants. “So, you heard about… that?” Godot nodded, and Phoenix sighed softly. “Figures. Yeah, I got played for a fool. Given forged evidence to present in court. I’m sorry for letting you down so soon after I proved to you that I was worthy to follow in Mia’s—”

“Trite!” Godot snarled. Phoenix yelped and reflexively covered his face, expecting to feel a scalding cup of coffee smack into his face upon hearing his old rival’s nickname for him. He peeked around his fingers to see the masked man rummaging around in a plastic bag that was slung over his arm. That was the first time Phoenix noticed that Godot was carrying multiple plastic bags. The older man clicked his tongue decisively and pulled out a small white box, marked with a logo like a coffee cup with three red lines going horizontally across it. He held it out to Phoenix.

“What’s in this?” Phoenix asked curiously as he reached a hand out to take the box. Godot stayed silent, so Phoenix opened the little package. Inside was a large pastry, a cream tart shaped like an attorney’s badge. Phoenix looked down at the confection, then glanced back up at Godot, a look of confusion plastered on his chubby face. The masked man’s eyes couldn’t be seen, but his mouth broke into a sly grin upon seeing the disgraced attorney’s expression. “I needed something to do after I got out of prison, so I decided why not do what I was always born to do and open a nice little coffee shop? We’ve been a massive success, and your prettyboy boyfriend told me you’d been really enjoying sweet stuff lately, so I decided I’d bring a little taste of Café Armando to your office.” He lifted his bag-laden arms to properly show off just how much he’d brought with him. “Got a little something of everything we make back there for you, Wright. Mind if I come in?”

Phoenix swallowed heavily, his mouth watering already at just the prospect of gorging himself on fresh-made pastries. He nodded shakily, unable to form words with his mouth in his dazed state. Godot shouldered past the overweight former lawyer, heading further into the office. He chuckled loudly at the stack of takeout boxes on the coffee table. “Looks like you already got plenty to eat here, Phoenix, but that’s fine, I’ll put my stuff on this side of the couch for you.” Godot dropped the bags of baked goods onto one half of the couch, leaving Phoenix with the other half all to himself.

The portly man sat back down on the couch cushion, his lardy ass spreading out under him to take up the entire couch cushion. He made to reach for one of the plastic bags and grab a box from within, but Godot slapped his hand away. He waggled a finger in Phoenix’s face. “Ah ah ah, that’s not how we’re doing this, Wright. Your man had very specific instructions for me. So you just sit there and look pretty while I handle the hard stuff, tubby.” Godot prodded a finger into Phoenix’s chubby gut to emphasize his point before reaching into one of the bags and removing the box that contained the cream tart from earlier. The older man then swung his legs over either of Phoenix’s thick thighs and straddled his rounded gut, leaning on it lightly while pressing the cream tart to the scruffy man’s lips. Phoenix eagerly devoured the tart in just a few bites, waiting impatiently for the next confection.

The two men continued their feeding session for hours, Godot getting more and more forceful the more Phoenix ate. His fat cheeks and double chins were covered in crumbs and cream, and a few bits of pastries had fallen onto the front of his hoodie, which was now riding up heavily on his distended gut. The soft layer of fat cushioning the outside of the enormous orb was stretched far by the amount of food Godot was stuffing into his former rival. Phoenix’s mouth was constantly full, every time he finished chewing on a pastry another was prompt shoved into his tiring mouth. Godot growled taunts in a low tone the entire time, calling him a fat pig and commenting on how far gone he was after just a year of unemployment. Finally, as he reached into the last bag to grab another pastry to shove into his adversary’s mouth, Godot’s long fingers closed around empty air. Turning his gaze back towards Phoenix’s exhausted, messy face, he grunted in annoyance. “Well, I guess that’s the end of my fun for now, Wright. But before I leave, I got one last thing I need from you…” Before Phoenix could muster a response, Godot leaned heavily against his bloated gut and wrapped his arms around the stuffed man’s chubby shoulders, planting his lips against Phoenix’s cream-covered mouth. Phoenix let out a muffled noise of surprise before melting into the kiss, unable to deny his long-standing attraction for the mysterious masked Godot back from his lawyer days. The two passionately made out for another few minutes, Godot’s sharp teeth digging into Phoenix’s lower lip occasionally. Finally, they parted, and Godot stood up, slapping Phoenix’s engorged stomach as he made to leave the room. Phoenix sat there in a daze for a few moments before the inevitable food coma washed over him, lulling him into a slumber while his stuffed gut digested its feast.

Morning light filtered through the blinds of the former Wright & Co. Law Offices’ windows, shining directly into Phoenix’s eyes and waking him up. The disgraced lawyer yawned and stretched as he leaned back on his couch, where he had fallen asleep sitting up the night before, just as he did every night these days. It was now a little over four years since the once-famous Phoenix Wright had been stripped of his attorney’s badge, and that time had not been kind to his once-slim and fit body. As he yawned, his fat cheeks caused his eyes to squish shut entirely, and his triple chin creased into a quadruple chin. His neck was buried under rolls of fat, showing no separation between chins and neck anymore. His hoodie, once slightly too big for him, was now several sizes too small, and yet he kept wearing it. The only thing it covered was his oversized moobs, which stretched the elastic fabric nearly to its limits just from their girth alone. The sleeves of said hoodie were starting to rip in places on the seams, his pillow-sized fat-coated biceps poking through the little tears in diamond-shaped bubbles that widened as he stretched his arms above his head. Phoenix’s stomach, while nowhere near his biggest asset, was still impressively large, completely visible due to his hoodie not even coming close to covering it now. His gut split into two distinct rolls that were separated by the fold where the upper roll collapsed over his belly button. The lower roll pooled in his lap like a liquid, settling between his overstuffed thighs while also overflowing over the outer edges of them, and flopping over the edges of his knees slightly. His love handles had also become a multi-layered deal, each one soft and squishy and overflowing out of his strained waistband like an overcooked souffle.

Still, due to his sedentary lifestyle since losing his job four years ago, Phoenix Wright was incredibly bottom-heavy. All those months of planting his fat ass on his couch and doing nothing but eating crappy takeout food, sleeping, and watching Steel Samurai reruns on his TV, with the only exercise he got being walking to the door to bring in all the bags of food he got delivered every couple of hours, truly did a number on the lower half of his body. Each of his enormous shapeless asscheeks took up one half of the couch, the cushions completely flattened underneath his incredible weight. The burgeoning bulk of his massive ass strained the fabric of his once-huge sweatpants, with one steadily growing tear going right down the middle of his butt, which would reveal his boxers to anyone behind him if his ass weren’t firmly sat down on his overburdened couch at almost all hours of the day. His thighs were almost as thick as tree trunks, making his pants look like overfilled piping bags, with little rips forming on the seams where his dimpled cellulite poked through. His thighs were so fat that no mater how far apart he spread them while sitting, they pooled under him in a way that they were always touching. The fat from his thighs was also starting to fold over onto his knees, making it gradually harder to bend them when he stood up to get his food deliveries. Phoenix was also starting to notice that his meaty calves were starting to get so fat that his ankles were fusing with the mass of fat that was the rest of his flabby leg rolls. All in all, the former legal legend was nigh unrecognizable to anyone who hadn’t seen him in the past four years and known about his decline into pure sedentary gluttony.

Phoenix felt a buzzing coming from the pocket of his hoodie that currently rested right between his massive pillow-sized moobs, straining his fat arms against his squishy chest. The sheer size of his chest made it hard for his already-overburdened arms to reach things in front of him, especially when it was something so close to his body. Eventually he managed to reach his pocked and pull out his phone and saw that the last of the deliveries had been made, so Phoenix swung his bulk off the couch and began waddling to the office’s door. His soft, flabby gut hung almost like an apron in front of his legs, the lower half of it dangling halfway down his couch-crushing thighs, slapping against them loudly with every heavy step he took. The obese man opened the door and gathered up the piles of takeout containers in his flabby arms, his wobbling gut just barely brushing the floor as he leaned down to pick up the precious packages. He knew he had a double date tonight with his husband and boyfriend, but Phoenix just couldn’t wait that long to have his greedy gut properly filled. He began steadily waddling his way back to his old worn out couch, his shapeless orbs that were his enormous ass cheeks jiggling hypnotically the entire time.

Phoenix slowly lowered his incredible bulk back down onto his sofa, oblivious to the strained groaning of the metal frame beneath his prodigious rear end. He deposited his delicious cargo onto the coffee table in front of his couch and leaned forward, his double-layered tummy splitting into even more rolls as he strained to reach one of the roughly thirty or so containers of food. He grabbed it in his pudgy fingers and sat back, sighing in relief as he opened the styrofoam box. Inside was a triple decker cheeseburger with extra cheese and bacon, with extra fries. Phoenix always gorged on burgers on Wednesdays, it was an old tradition of his and Maya’s to get burgers on Wednesdays nights after working a long case. Now that she was too busy training to be the next Master of Kurain Village, Phoenix opted to just stuff himself with extra large burgers on his own instead. Grasping the massive burger between his sausage-sized fingers, he lifted it to his mouth and took a huge bite, moaning in joy as the flavors of the juicy burger burst over his taste buds. A little bit of grease dribbled down his scruff chins, but Phoenix didn’t even notice. He continued devouring the triple cheeseburger with practiced ease, demolishing the entire thing and all the fries in record time before moving onto the next container, and the next, and the next…

The former lawyer ate and ate for hours, completely lost in the decadence of his burger feast, each one just as fattening and greasy as the last. Phoenix was completely ignorant to the pounds he was packing on in his fast food haze, too busy stuffing his flabby face with his greasy “breakfast”. His fatty arm rolls grew thicker and thicker, ripping the seams of his hoodie’s sleeves to shreds after just an hour of gorging himself. Tears in the stretchy fabric began to form between his massive breasts, each one straining the overburdened sweatshirt in opposite directions. His soft, flabby gut gurgled as it slowly seeped further outwards, filling his entire oversized lap and overflowing over his legs entirely. His enormous ass and titanic thigh rolls finally won the battle against his formerly-loose sweatpants, a series of loud ripping noises and the twang of splitting elastic signalling their end as waves of lard erupted out of them, his meaty love handles and wobbling cheeks resting comfortably on the arm rests of his overtaxed couch as his oak tree sized thigh rolls dangled over the edge of the sofa cushions.

Finally, after just a few hours, Phoenix finished devouring the last of his burger feast, belching into his closed fist after swallowing the last bite. The man lazily looked down at himself, realizing all he could see was his bare tits and the top roll of his gut. Then he felt his soft fatty flesh covering the entire couch, overflowing over the edges, and it hit him: Phoenix had officially grown fat enough to fill his two-person couch just by himself. As that realization was sinking in, he heard a loud noise, like metal bending, and his heart sank. Trying desperately to lower his sagging lard-covered arms to his sides to hoist himself off of the ticking time bomb that was his couch, Phoenix realized he was now so fat that his arms couldn’t bend right at the elbow anymore, his rolls of arm fat folding over the joint and making it essentially useless. Not only that, but he couldn’t even get his arms down to his sides anymore because of his beanbag-sized moobs and layers of side rolls getting in the way. Well, that just leaves me with one option, Phoenix thought to himself as he planted his chubby feet on the floor in front of him. He began slowly leaning forward, trying to inch his way upwards and off of his sofa, but after a few minutes a cold realization dawned on him: his enormously fat ass was stuck between the armrests of the couch. He’d heard of people getting stuck in a dining chair before, but an entire loveseat?! This was ridiculous! Phoenix didn’t have long to think about how incredibly obese he had gotten, as the couch let out one last groaning metallic shriek and gave out under his unbelievable weight. Phoenix let out a yelp as he plummeted backward to the floor with a resounding boom that sent the entire office quaking. Thankfully he had a lot of extra padding to cushion the fall, and he lay there groaning, his flabby shoulders and back rolls pushing his multiple chins and drooping jowls up around his face. Well, at least Miles and Godot will be here in a few hours, Phoenix thought to himself. I may as well sleep off those burgers while I wait for them. The gigantic man yawned loudly as he fell asleep, pinned beneath his own hundreds of pounds of lard, snoring loudly the entire time.

Phoenix woke with a start as he felt something laying on top of his squishy chest. He opened his eyes and was greeted with the familiar red glow of his boyfriend Godot’s visor inches from his fat-wreathed face. Standing over him and looking mildly amused was his husband, Edgeworth, holding a few bags of food in his arms. The chief prosecutor tssked softly as he shook his head at his obese partner. “Really, Wright, I’ve been warning you about that couch for months now, and yet you kept ignoring me. Now look where that got you, stuck laying on your back, pinned by your own greedy ways.”

Godot laughed softly as he leaned forward to kiss Phoenix’s fat lips. “He has a point, Phoenix, you really have let yourself go. You’ve become quite the hungry little hog, haven’t you?” The masked man grabbed heaping handfuls of Phoenix’s flabby jowls as he shoved his mouth against the helpless former lawyer, making out with him with such an intense ferocity that Phoenix didn’t really know what hit him. Their lips parted with a whimper from Phoenix, craving more, but it was cut off by Edgeworth sticking a sticky cream-filled donut in his husband’s greedy mouth. “There will be plenty of time for that later, dear, but for now, I’m sure you must be starving. Let us take care of that little issue first before we get you up off that floor and find out just how big a butterball you’ve become.” Miles passed the rest of the box of donuts to Godot, who was still laying on top of Phoenix’s enormous bulk. He positioned the box on Phoenix’s chins for easier stuffing access and began pressing the fried sweet delights into his mouth one after another, barely giving him any time to swallow one before another was fed to him. Miles sat on the floor beside Phoenix, leaning against his pillowy arm rolls as he began stuffing his husband’s face with large fancy cupcakes, frosting and crumbs flecking his droopy jowls and his many stubble-covered chins.

The tender dual-feeding session was over quickly, with two feeders and one voracious feedee making short work of the boxes of baked goods. Edgeworth leaned over his morbidly obese husband’s arm fat to kiss his round overstuffed cheek. “All finished? Then we should probably get you off the floor now and see how much you weigh, hm?” Godot whined from where he still lay on top of Phoenix’s mounds of man-tits. “Aww, but I’m having fun up here! He’s so soft and fun to pinch and lay on now “ The masked man grinned mischievously. “Plus, it’s so fun to see from above just how far the mighty Phoenix Wright has fallen.” Miles gave Phoenix’s flabby gut a hearty shove, sending the entire expanse of his husband’s fat-swaddled body wobbling so hard that it knocked Godot off of his chest. The two men each grabbed one of Phoenix’s lard-coated wrists and heaved, taking a solid five minutes to get the jiggling mound of pure fat that was once the best defense attorney around back on his feet. Edgeworth then led the pear-shaped butterball to the scale he’d bought last year, watching the numbers go up and up. They finally stopped, and Edgeworth read the display out loud. “Seven hundred and sixty-two pounds. Good god, Wright, you really have gotten enormous.” He pulled Phoenix into a hug, squishing into his pillowy soft body. “I’m so proud of you, dear.” Godot grabbed a fistful of his boyfriend’s chair-sized ass cheeks appraisingly, before grunting in approval. “Yeah, I’d say you’ve become a pretty prize hog, Phoenix. Good work. Looks great on you.”

The two much smaller men escorted their doughy partner as he lumbered his way back to the broken sofa. Phoenix was breathing heavily, worn out from just waddling over to the scale and back, but the couch was completely busted. He had nowhere to sit now. Edgeworth patted his squishy shoulders reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Phoenix. I can get you a special reinforced couch delivered tomorrow. But more importantly, I have a job opportunity that came my way for you.”

Phoenix looked at his husband quizzically. “Job opportunity? What kind?” Miles chuckled. “Well, it involves a lot of eating as a front, but… how good are you at playing poker?”

A young brown haired lawyer was pacing around the defendant lobby of the courthouse. Today was his first ever trial as a defense attorney, and his client was nowhere to be seen. The chubby man was very nervous, loudly muttering to himself in a voice that had clearly been driven hoarse from practicing all night the night before. “It’s fine, Apollo! Everything is just fine! Your client is probably just stuck in traffic, that’s all! He’ll be here in time for the trial! It’s fine! You’re fine! I’m fine!” He took a deep breath and let loose a yell that could probably be heard from across the entire courthouse. “I’M APOLLO JUSTICE, AND I’M FINE!!!” Breathing heavily after such an incredibly loud scream, Apollo wiped his forehead with the back of a pudgy arm and walked over to one of the benches in the lobby, collapsing onto it gratefully. It was then that the rotund young man noticed the array of tables on the other side of the defendant lobby, each one piled high with mountains of food. “What the…” he mumbled to himself, “Who is all that food for…? Is- Is that for me?” He hoisted himself off the bench and walked over to the tables, his fat tummy growling hungrily at the sight of all that delicious food. Apollo was by no means a skinny man, having been well acquainted with stress eating ever since he started law school. Reaching out for a cream-filled donut with one chubby hand, he stopped when he heard noises coming from out in the hall. Loud noises, like a dinosaur was stomping around out there. Curious to know the source, Apollo turned around at the exact same moment the door to the defendant lobby opened. His eyes were greeted with the sight of none other than the Chief Prosecutor himself, Miles Edgeworth. Apollo yelped in shock and bowed his head respectfully, but Edgeworth stopped him. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Justice. I’m not here on prosecutor business. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, though. I’ve heard much about you from your mentor, Mr. Gavin.”

Apollo’s chubby cheeks were bright crimson, flustered to receive such high praise from such a legendary prosecutor. “U-uh, th-thank you, Mr. Edgeworth. I mean! Uh! Chief Prosecutor, sir!” Miles chuckled, a sound that Apollo was certain not many heard. “Please, Mr. Edgeworth will do. Now, I’ve heard you’ve taken over the case that Mr. Gavin was originally meant to take?” Apollo nodded. “Yes, Mr. Edgeworth. Once I heard who it was I would be defending, I insisted! He was always a hero of mine when I first decided I wanted to be a lawyer as a kid. Even after what happened seven years ago, I still believe he’s innocent!”

Edgeworth nodded, satisfied by the fledgling defense attorney’s passionate answer. “Excellent. Well, then, your client shall be arriving shortly.” Apollo looked up at him, clearly confused, so Edgeworth continued without pause. “I said I wasn’t here on prosecutor business, correct? The only reason I came here was to make sure your client could get here on his own.”

Apollo hummed in even further confusion. “What do you mean, Mr. Edgeworth? Is he… injured?” Miles shook his head gently. “You’ll see soon enough. Good day, Mr. Justice, and good luck with your trial.” With that, the Chief Prosecutor left the defendant lobby, his coat tails swooshing behind him. Apollo stood in the middle of the lobby, absolutely baffled, when he realized the loud stomping noises in the hallway had started again, and were getting louder-- and closer. He stood and watched as the door to the hallway was opened, not by a hand, but by an enormous flabby stomach as wide as the door was pressed into it slowly. The wobbling double-decker behemoth of a gut oozed past the door frame, soft enough that it could still fit through despite being wider than the doorway itself. Then came the rest of the doughy man’s front, his enormous drooping moobs and upper belly roll the only thing covered by his tent-sized sweatshirt. His neck was a thick ring of no less than eight flabby chins, all covered in a stubbly beard. His eyes squinted from behind jiggling oversized jowls that drooped down to his shoulders. The mammoth of a man continued shuffling his way through the doorway, squishing all his doughy rolls against the frame. His arms, which were just cylindrical dimpled pillows of fat that were slowly absorbing his round hands at the wrists, grasped at either side of the door frame to try and lever his massive bulk through the door easier. But suddenly, his flowing rolls of lard stopped moving through the doorway, and the flabby behemoth strained and pushed against the walls with his swaddled arms, trying desperately to get the rest of his bulk through the door. Apollo shook himself and trotted over to help the comically oversized man.

As he got closer to the wedged ball of lard, Apollo really got a good look at just how massively obese this guy was, even with only half his body visible. The young lawyer wasn’t skinny at all, but this guy even put his soft and round physique to shame. Apollo was pretty sure he could see the man’s feet peeking out from under the bottom of the exposed rolls of his incredible gut, which came down to just above his ankles. Looking down at his own stomach, which only just barely drooped over his belt, he couldn’t help but feel a little impressed, and maybe jealous, that someone could get just so ridiculously fat.

Apollo coughed nervously before addressing the panting, wobbling blob of a man. “Uh, sorry to bother you, sir, but uh, do you… need help getting through the door?”

The blubbery behemoth responded in a voice that was deepened by all the fat caking his neck and interrupted with wheezy breaths every few words. “Yeahh… tha’ woul’… haah… helph a lot… thin’ my assh ish… haah… shtuck…” Apollo had to take a few seconds to mentally translate what the enormous man was saying through his speech being slurred by his flabby jowls getting in the way of his mouth. “Oh, your, uh, b-backside is stuck? Here, let me grab your arms and try and pull you through, okay sir?” The doughy butterball nodded, his cheeks and chins jiggling as he did, and he reached his overburdened arms as far forward as he could. Apollo had to lean into the man’s cushiony stomach rolls to reach his arms, feeling himself sinking into the warm, soft adipose. He grabbed onto the man’s fat-ringed wrists and began pulling as hard as he could, trying to ignore the way being enveloped between the man’s blubbery tits and tummy made him feel. After a few minutes of pulling the immense man’s nearly useless arms, Apollo finally felt the wobbling flab all around him begin inching forward slowly. He kept tugging at the monstrously sized man’s round hands as he in turn shuffled his titanic thunder thighs through the door, every roll and fold of fat covering them touching at the middle, all the way down to his ankles. Once he got his double door-wide hips and thighs through the door, it was just a manner of getting his fat ass inside, which was easier said than done.

Apollo let go of the man’s flabby arms to take a few steps back and think of a new plan of attack. He scanned the blubbery blob’s body, observing the parts he could now see that were stuck on the other side of the door before. It was no wonder he’d gotten stuck in the door. It was a single doorway, and this man, who was so fat that he’d probably be immobilized by his own weight soon if he kept getting fatter, had a lower half that was wide enough to take up five chairs at a dinner table. One overstuffed thigh was almost as wide as the doorway itself on its own, let alone two of them. His squishy love handles oozed over the top of his sweatpants that probably had more X’s in their size than Apollo cared to even imagine, giving the already definitively pear-shaped blubber bag a overflowing muffin top behind his apron of stomach rolls. His arms rested at a ninety degree angle because of his beanbag-sized tits and plush love handles colliding with fat-coated arm rolls that were the size of his own fat head. Damn, how huge must this man’s butt be if it’s still stuck in the doorway after all the rest of that managed to get through?! Apollo thought to himself, when he noticed the whale-sized lardball eyeing the food tables that he’d almost taken a donut from earlier. “Who’sh tha’… haah… food f’r...? Haah… haah…” the behemoth wheezed. “The food? Oh, I’m not sure. It was here when I got here. No one said whose it was.” Apollo could only stand and watch in awe as he observed what happened next. The monumentally obese man began wobbling his bulky form forward and backward against the door frame, slamming his rolls against it repeatedly as cracks began to form around the wooden framework. He then began slowly inching his thunderous legs forward, having to shift his blubbery bulk back and forth in a painfully slow waddle, his lard-caked thighs touching at all points no matter how far apart he spread his legs to “walk”. As he moved his door-sized legs forward, the cracks around the door frame widened, creating loud snapping noises as he dragged his rolls of fat further and further into the defendant lobby.

Finally, with one resounding crunch, the door frame gave way, parts of the walls surrounding it coming with it, crushed to pieces by the enormous blob of a man and his incredible ass cheeks. The flabby titan’s doughy body surged forward as he freed his backside finally, giving Apollo a chance to finally see the probably half-ton of lard in all his glory, and boy, did it make sense how he’d gotten so stuck in that doorway. The man’s ass was easily wide enough to get stuck in a double door, let alone a single one! Each doughy cheek probably took three chairs to sit on on their own, and they sagged so far down that they were touching the floor! Apollo was stunned. How could someone get this fat and still be up walking around? The swollen mass of fatty rolls wobbled constantly as he stood still, wheezing from the effort of busting through the doorway using his hundreds of pounds of fat as a battering ram. After getting his breathing back to the normal level of heavy breathing for one his massive size, the colossal mountain of man-flesh turned his attention back to the tables piled high with food across the lobby, drooling at the sight of it all. He began shuffling his jiggling bulk towards the tables slowly as Apollo watched in fascinated awe. Each heavy step shook the entire room, his double-decker gut rippling with shockwaves from slapping against his meaty cankles with every step. His shapeless flabby ass cheeks wobbled hypnotically as they bumped against the floor with every movement. His beanbag chair moobs slapped against his flab-caked arms, which rested at an angle even when waddling across the room. His cascade of chins and sagging jowls shook with every heaving breath from the exertion of walking so much. As soon as the man’s gut rolls reached the tables before the rest of him, he flung his doughy body at the plates of food, his fat hands grabbing any food within reach and stuffing it into his greedy face, chewing loudly and getting his chins covered in food. Apollo cleared his throat and spoke to the whale of a man. “Um, excuse me, sir, but, wh-why are you here? This is the defendant’s lobby, not a buffet.”

The barely-mobile butterball spoke around a mouthful of food. “Mmmmph… sho… Milesh… mrrrrmph… dihden… shay…? Youh… ahre… hffff… my… lawyuh…mmmmph…”

Apollo’s jaw practically hit the floor. Gazing at the mound of blubber before him, wearing a tiny sweatshirt stretched across his moobs and sweatpants what couldn’t even contain half of his ass fat, the young defense attorney stammered out a response. “W-what?! So then… y-you’re the Phoenix Wright?! The famous defense attorney?” The man’s swollen fatty head wobbled in something resembling a nodding gesture, his neck too fat for an actual nod. “Wh-what happened to you? Last I heard, you’d been disbarred seven years ago! How did you end up like… like that?” The enormous Phoenix Wright paused his gorging himself to explain. “Haaah… haah… I wohrk… ash a… haah… tashte… teshtuh… urrrrp… fuhll… tihme…” The blob-shaped man smiled cryptically, before immediately returning to stuffing his face with the frantic speed of someone who thought they would starve to death. Apollo rubbed his temples, more stressed than ever. How was he going to defend someone who couldn’t even go ten minutes without eating? This case was going to be an ordeal, he could just tell.

#my writing #fat!ace attorney #fat!phoenix wright #ssbhm #male weight gain

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fruitcoops · 3 years

Note

Would love to see a wired autocomplete interview with coops! 🥰

Anon, did you read my mind? These two have such chaotic energy when they’re given an outlet and it was a true pleasure to write it. Dorcas is exhausted. Sweater Weather credit goes to @lumosinlove!

“Wait, I want to pull the tab,” Remus said, tugging on the edge of the cardboard lightly as Sirius tried to hold it out of his reach without falling off his chair.

“I get to read it out loud for you and then we switch!” Sirius protested, smacking him gently on the head with it. The resulting bonk noise made them both break down laughing.

“You guys know we’re rolling, right?” Dorcas asked as she gathered a stack of cards in her lap, looking highly amused.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She turned to the camera with a bright smile. “Welcome back to Lion Pride, hockey fans! I’m Dorcas Meadowes and I’m here today with Sirius Black and Remus Lupin to answer some of the internet’s most pressing questions. How are you two feeling?”

“Terrified,” Sirius said.

“The internet is like the Twilight Zone,” Remus agreed. “Who goes first?”

“Sirius, you’ve got a card already. Take it away.”

He cleared his throat and grabbed the edge of the first pull tab, ripping it off slowly. “That is so satisfying, woah. How tall is Remus Lupin?”

“I am five foot eleven and a half.”

“That half inch comes from your sneakers and you know it.”

“It does not!”

Sirius just smiled and removed the next paper slip. “What language does Remus Lupin speak?”

“I speak English and a little bit of French. Tried to learn Spanish in high school, but failed miserably.”

“I love the wording on this one,” Sirius said as he turned the board toward the camera. “Remus Lupin Green Bay Packers.”

“Dammit, now everyone knows my full name,” Remus sighed. “Uh, the Packers are cool.”

“I think people were wondering if you ever played on the team,” Dorcas said.

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like a football player to you?”

“Next question!” Sirius ripped the tab off and took a good section of the paper above with it. There was a beat of stunned silence. “I am…so sorry.”

Behind the camera, Marlene burst out laughing, along with most of the camera crew. “It’s fine, keep reading.”

“Okay, um…” Sirius squinted at the partially torn-off question. “Remus Lupin name meaning.”

Remus groaned. “I hate this question. Yes, it does mean Wolf Wolf. Yes, my dad’s name also means Wolf Wolf. Yes, my mother’s maiden name is Howell. I’m aware of the endless puns.”

“Don’t you mean a-were?” Sirius asked as a slow grin spread across his face. Remus grabbed the card and bonked him over the head with it.

“Remus, your turn.” Dorcas handed him a poster board and took the blank one.

“I’m going to be careful with this one, unlike somebody,” he teased, kissing Sirius on the cheek. “Is Sirius Black…related to Pascal Dumais?”

“In all the ways that matter, yes.”

Remus grinned when he read the next one. “Is Sirius Black missing a tooth?”

“No!” Sirius gave the camera an offended look. “I have all my teeth, thank you very much.”

“Is Sirius Black mean?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Reporters don’t like you very much.”

“The feeling is mutual. I love the fans though, most of them are so sweet.”

“Oh, I like this one. Is Sirius Black married?” Remus rested his chin on the top of the card and batted his eyelashes, making Sirius laugh.

“Almost! Ask me again in July.” Remus set the card on the floor and Dorcas passed Sirius a new one. “Does Remus Lupin wear glasses?”

“Nope.”

“Does Remus Lupin—I have never said your name so many times in one sitting, my god—does Remus Lupin have siblings?”

“Yup.”

“Does Remus Lupin—”

“Can you elaborate?” Dorcas asked with a laugh. “How many siblings? Names? Ages?”

Remus turned to the camera. “I have one brother named Julian and he’s ten years old. He likes piggyback rides, ice cream, and hockey.”

“Much better. Take it away, Cap.”

“Does Remus Lupin have allergies?”

Remus frowned in confusion. “Why do people want to know that? Uh, yeah, I’m allergic to some pollens. Spring is hell.”

“How many of these do we have?” Sirius asked as he tossed the board over his shoulder and crossed his legs.

“Quite a few! Loops, you’re up.”

“Where is Sirius Black from?”

“Canada.”

“Where does Sirius Black live?”

“The Lions ice rink. I set up a tent in the middle of the goal posts every night so that I’m never late to practice.”

“Sirius Black gay.”

Sirius paused. “I think we’re missing a couple words in there.”

“That’s literally all it says,” Remus laughed, moving it to show him. “Sirius Black gay. I don’t know, honey, Sirius Black gay?”

“Sirius Black very gay,” he confirmed. “Sirius Black thinks people need to have better grammar.”

“Is Sirius Black’s hair naturally curly?”

“No, I use a curling iron every morning to do each individual curl,” he said. “It takes me seven hours and thirteen minutes, and I use a full can of hairspray.”

Remus scooted over so Dorcas could hand him a new card. “He keeps a stopwatch and tries to beat his personal record every time.”

Sirius pulled the first tab away and immediately started laughing too hard to speak.

“What does it say? You can’t just leave me hanging!” Sirius turned the board around and Remus leaned down to read it. “Is Remus Lupin hockey? Yes. I am the entire sport of hockey condensed into one being. I’m coming for basketball next. Thanks for asking!”

It took a few seconds for Sirius to get his breath back. “What is Remus Lupin—”

“I thought we just answered that.”

“—what is Remus Lupin zodiac sign?”

Remus paused. “Is that the thing Pots was talking about the other day? With the quiz?”

“That was love languages.”

“Your zodiac sign depends on your birthday,” Marlene called. “When were you born?”

“March 10th.”

“You’re a Pisces.”

“I’m a Pisces!” he said brightly to the camera. “No idea what that means, but it sounds cool.”

“It means you’re two fish.” She laughed as Remus sucked his cheeks in for a fish face. “Very nice.”

“Thank you.”

Sirius was especially careful as he pulled the paper slip off the next question. “What is Remus Lupin first job?”

“The grammar of these questions is killing me. Um, I worked in the university bookstore during college.”

“On the list of ‘things that don’t surprise anyone’,” Dorcas joked.

“Did Remus Lupin go to college?”

Remus gave the camera a look. “First of all, I have a medical degree. Second of all, did people completely forget about the whole ‘about to be drafted right out of college’ thing? It was a grand total of four years ago! Google it!”

“That’s what they did,” Sirius pointed out, gesturing to the board.

“True.”

“Last one for this card: how old is Remus Lupin?”

Remus thought for a moment. “Y’know, I kind of lost track after the first few centuries. My turn…what is Sirius Black real name?”

Sirius glanced at the camera. “It’s Sirius Black? Is this a trick question?”

“There are people out there who think that’s a fake name,” Dorcas said.

“Um, okay. Yeah, my real name is Sirius Black, my brother is Regulus, my dad is Orion, and I have cousins named Andromeda and Bellatrix.”

“What’s your uncle’s name again?” Remus asked.

“Which one? Cygnus? Phineas Nigellus? Arcturus?” At Dorcas’ surprised look, he laughed. “Oh, I could go all day long with this. That’s the tea on old French families with weird-ass naming traditions.”

“This next one is similar: Sirius Black middle name?”

“Orion.”

“Fun fact: the first time I saw your full name, Moody had written it and I thought it said ‘onion’.” Remus laughed as Sirius’ jaw fell open. “Those three seconds were a highlight of my life. Alright, what’s next…what color are Sirius Black’s eyes?”

“Blue.”

Remus shook his head. “They’re gray, almost silver.”

“Basically blue.”

“There’s nothing basic about you, babe.” Remus slid the board onto the floor and passed Sirius a new one. “Hit me with your best shot.”

“Is Remus Lupin Canadian?”

“I wish.”

“Is Remus Lupin left-handed?”

“No, but a lot of people seem to think that I am.”

“Is—” Sirius cut off with a snort. “Is Remus Lupin scrappy?”

“Are you fucking with me?” Remus asked, leaning over. “Is that actually what it says?”

“Yep.”

“Scrappy? Really?” He shook his head, lost for words. “I mean, I guess. Nobody’s ever called me scrappy before.”

“I don’t like this last one. How much is Remus Lupin worth?” Sirius wrapped an arm around his shoulders and kissed his temple. “You’re priceless.”

“I’m worth at least half a PB & J, but only if you use the good peanut butter. If you use the shitty Skippy stuff, hand over the whole sandwich. My turn! Does Sirius Black have piercings?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Does Sirius Black have an Instagram?”

“I do. Sblack12, if you want to see pictures of my friends’ kids and this cutie.”

“Is Sirius Black Australian?”

“Fuck off. I’m French Canadian, how the hell did anyone think I was Australian?”

“Sirius Black birthday.”

“I have one.”

“What is it?” Marlene asked. “I’ll tell you your zodiac sign.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “November 3rd.”

“Scorpio bitch.”

“Hey!”

“On the bright side, Scorpios and Pisces are super compatible.”

“What a relief, I was really banking on our astrology compatibility,” Remus said drily.

Dorcas handed Sirius a fresh board. “First up: can Remus Lupin sing?”

“Eh.”

“The correct answer is yes. What is Remus Lupin like in real life?”

“I’m horrible. I kick every puppy I see and carry one of those sticky hands from arcades to steal candy from children.” A smile twitched at the edges of his mouth and Sirius’ cheeks turned pink from suppressing his laughter. “Like Spiderman, but evil.”

“What happened to Remus Lupin after college?”

“What didn’t happen to Remus Lupin after college?” he laughed, leaning back in his seat. “These past couple years have been bonkers fucking yonkers. I became a PT, got a secret boyfriend, and now I’m engaged and an NHL player. There were, like, three seasons of character development squished into eighteen months.”

“Alright, last one. Why Remus Lupin kissed Sirius Black?”

“Because he’s hot and nice. Also, because he’s my fiancé.”

“Is that the criteria for kisses?” Sirius asked. “I just have to be hot and nice?”

“Pretty much. You’ve got both boxes permanently checked.”

“Final card,” Dorcas warned as she handed it to him. “Make it count.”

Remus cleared his throat. “How does Sirius Black work out?”

“I rollerskate and hula hoop for six hours a day simultaneously.”

“How old is Sirius Black?”

“Ageless.”

“How did Sirius Black meet Remus Lupin?”

“Fun story, actually. You know the movie Ocean’s Eleven?”

“Are Sirius Black and James Potter—”

“Dating.”

“—still friends.”

“Damn, I thought I had that one.” He did a double take. “Still friends? What happened? I saw him an hour ago, tops.”

“You might have to google it,” Remus suggested as he slid the board across the floor. “That’s it!”

“Way to go, guys,” Dorcas laughed. “I know literally nothing new about you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sirius said as the two high-fived. “We were completely honest the whole time.”

She faced the camera with a poorly-hidden smile. “Thanks for joining us today, Lions, and remember to like and subscribe for more content!”

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watermelonlipstick · 3 years

Text

Dreams, Chapter 18

If you haven’t read this series before, you might want to start on Chapter 1, or check out the Dreams Masterlist! Here’s the series description:

When Dean dies for good leaving Sam and his girlfriend (the reader) behind, they must figure out how to carry on without him. Alone, reeling, and unsure what to do next, trying to honor Dean’s memory and follow their hearts gets even more complicated when their nightmares become dreams that feel a little too real.

Title: Dreams, Chapter 18

Pairing: (past) Dean Winchester x Reader, (eventual) Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 4326

Summary: Dean gets a better sense of what Sam and the reader’s new life is like.

Warnings: FLUFF, swearing

Barbie opens the door with an honest to god plate of pigs in a blanket as though she just had them going and you have to remind yourself you’re in a dream. “What a nice surprise! Come in, come in. And who’s this?” she asks, hugging Sam with one arm while holding onto the plate and offering for you to take one. It’s as buttery and salty as you ever could’ve hoped.

“This is, uh, this is my brother Dean.”

“Well hello, Dean! What a handsome pair you two are.” She offers the plate to the brothers. Dean grabs two with a pincher, tossing both in his mouth. Sam politely takes one as Barbie yells over her shoulder. “Mike, we have company!” She motions for you three to follow her into the house and Sam has to practically clothesline his brother to get him to take his shoes off before he trails blindly after the plate full of sausage.

Mike stands up from one of those leather armchairs, folding back the magazine he’s reading to greet Sam with a bear hug. “This is my brother Dean,” Sam offers as Mike hugs you with decidedly gentler back pats than he had for Sam. Dean holds his hand out as if to shake but Mike curves his big paws around Dean’s shoulders and pulls him in for a hug with enough force that Dean almost falls into him.

“You didn’t say anything about a brother!” he bellows to Sam over Dean’s shoulder.

Sam and you both freeze, and you can only speak for yourself but you suspect Sam is also worried Dean will be upset to hear that. Instead, finally released from Mike’s binding embrace, Dean rocks back to holding up his own weight with a big smile. “Crazy private, these two, right? You’d think they were in the witness protection program.” For another second you’re worried about how you’ll do damage control, how you’ll talk to them about Dean after this, and then you remember this isn’t actually Mike and Barbie, they won’t actually remember anything.

Mike leans into Dean conspiratorially. “You can say that again. Now, what can I get you three to drink?”

“Whatever you’re having works for me, sir,” Dean answers, charming as ever with his most clean-cut smile.

“You’re going to regret saying that,” Mike laughs, heading over to the kitchen where Barbie is fiddling with something in the oven. He fills a row of pint glasses with dark beer out of a growler you know is the extremely strong beer he brews himself and hands one to his wife with a kiss on her cheek, motions for you and the Winchesters to each take one. “To a pleasant surprise and finding out there’s another man in the world like Sam.”

“I think you mean another man like me,” Dean says cheerfully as you all clink your glasses together.

“So you’re older?” Barbie asks, handing Sam a stack of plates to go make the table with.

“Four years, yeah. It was easier to tell when I had a foot on him.” Dean reaches up to ruffle his baby brother’s hair, and Sam generously waits a half-second before swatting his hand away with a sheepish flush.

“A foot? Really? I wouldn’t have thought anyone would ever have had a foot on this behemoth,” Mike laughs, catching Sam with a jokey punch to his bicep when he comes back for silverware.

“Oh, yeah. Sam was a little squirt until he was like 17.” Dean continues.

“How’s Luke’s basketball team doing?” Sam asks, color rising in his cheeks and desperate to have the focus shifted off of himself.

Barbie grants his wish with a knowing smile. “Going to the playoffs! He’s very excited.” She hands Sam a huge bowl of salad to carry to the table and takes out a hot casserole dish from the oven.

“They do playoffs for middle school?” you ask, about to trail into the dining room after Barbie with Sam and Mike like a chain of ducklings. Dean stops you with a hand on your arm.

“It’s going to make it weird if you’re not yourself with him,” he mutters, low so the Kaisers and Sam won’t hear. “I’m okay, kid, I promise. This is…awesome, but I know you’re holding back. You don’t have to.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“You touched Sam more when I was topside and we were together. You’d think he has leprosy the way you’re dodging him now.”

“Dean, we’re always going to be togeth—”

He rolls his eyes in frustration. “Okay, fine, yeah, we’re together now. But you know what I mean.”

You bite your lip. “I thought they’re just my mind’s projections, who cares if they think it’s weird.”

“Babe.” He holds firm, his gaze steady.

“Jesus, Dean, it is weird, okay? The whole thing is bizarre!” Your whisper has turned into a bit of a hiss and he glances to the dining room to make sure you haven’t caught anyone’s attention.

He wraps his fingers around your hand and swipes an arc into it, looking down as he does. “I know it is, I’m sorry. Can you try, just a little bit? The whole thing is only going to get less awkward if we keep at it.”

“Fine, yeah. I’ll try.”

Dean holds your eyes for a moment, not seeming to buy it, before staring back at his feet. “For you it’s a dream but this—this is the closest I’m going to get; to being part of your lives. I just—I just kinda want it to be as close as it can be, you know? If you’re acting different then it’s not really—”

“Understood.” You swallow hard against the lump forming in your throat, willing it to dissolve, not about to keep feeling sorry for yourself when he’s clearly putting so much aside to be present.

Too quickly for you to react Dean lifts your hand to his lips, and the warmth of the kiss on your skin sends a shudder through you. He follows you into the dining room, where Sam and the Kaisers are about to sit down. You grab the seat next to Sam, leaving the head of the table opposite Barbie for Dean as the new guest.

“You okay?” Sam asks, quietly enough you’re sure you’re the only one who can hear it.

You squeeze his thigh reassuringly under the table. “Yeah, definitely.”

Dean catches your eyes to give you a meaningful look that makes you swallow again, and before you can think about it you’re sliding your hand around Sam’s neck, looping him down to kiss him on the cheek. Sam’s cheeks flush pink as the corner of his mouth tries to tug into a smile and it’s so impossibly cute that you’re not faking your subsequent smile for Dean’s sake.

Both Barbie and Dean smirk thoughtfully at the two of you before pretending to be engrossed in the salad she’s passing to him. “So, Dean! We heard your families were friends before these two got together; was it one of those things that you always knew was going to happen?”

Sam chokes on a sip of beer, trying his best to cough with his mouth closed to keep the sputtering to a minimum. You think you’re probably the only one who catches the flair of joyful ribbing behind Dean’s eyes as he pretends to be concerned.

“Aw, I remember my first drink. All good over there, Sammy?”

His little brother strains to stop, his voice sounding as rough and cracked as if he’d spent 50 days breathing sand. “Yep. Wrong pipe, sorry.” He gives a closed-mouth smile of reassurance to his hosts that makes him look like a kid.

Dean turns to Barbie, smile smooth and charming as anything. “You know, it’s funny you ask that. When we were younger, I was the one with the crush on her.”

You probably should’ve guessed Dean would pull some kind of jokey shit like this but you’re still thankful that the Winchesters aren’t sitting close enough to kick each other’s legs under the table. As it is, you give a grin you hope seems warm and not tense.

Mike finishes chewing a huge bite and nudges Dean’s arm with his elbow playfully. “I hope there’s no jealousy there.”

“Ah, you know how it is. You grow up, things happen.” And if that isn’t the damn understatement of the century. “Couldn’t ask for a better girl to take care of my baby bro.”

“Well I think that’s pretty damn sweet. Barb’s sister hated me until I drove to Wausau on Thanksgiving Day to change a blown-out tire for her. We’d already been married six years!”

Barbie rolls her eyes across the table at Sam, mouthing “not true,” with an easy smile.

“I think that’s worth a drink,” Mike emphasizes, raising his beer. “To the best girl for—what’d you call him? Somehow I can’t imagine He-Man over here ever being a ‘Sammy.’”

You raise your own drink with everyone else and Dean catches your eye with an iridescent twinkle as he repeats the toast. “To the best girl.”

The rest of dinner is the exact emotional and literal comfort food you always get from the Kaisers, a respite from the world in the best way. As you had suspected he would, Dean gets along perfectly with them, falling into a good-natured ribbing of Sam borne of admiration with Mike and charming Barbie within an inch of her life. Dean tells stories about Sam as a little kid that you know are really far more embarrassing than the version he shares, and hearing Dean edit to idealize Sam for the Kaisers even as an eight year old makes you want to melt into the floor.

You pretend to be tired too early in the evening, feeling selfish and wanting the boys all for yourself. Being handed a Tupperware of leftovers reminds you this isn’t real; the futility of carrying them a flash in the evening that you’ve otherwise forgotten won’t last.

Standing in the doorway, Sam’s already on the porch when Barbie stops Dean as he’s following you out. Quietly, trying for privacy, she says to him, “Honey, I am so glad we got to meet you. We worry about these two being all by themselves, but knowing they’ve got you looking out for them is going to help me sleep a little more soundly tonight.”

Dean covers her hand where she has his arm and looks at her with soft doe eyes. “You have no idea how much I could say the same to you.”

They hug for a beat longer than necessary and then Dean’s right at your side, trailing after Sam’s long legs down the road to your cabin.

It’s hard not to think it’s purposeful, Sam going ahead to let you walk with Dean on the way back. Dean flicks a side of his jacket away from his body and you slide in there like you always did, warmed by the pre-contained heat coming off of him and giggling when he kisses the top of your head. “Man, I guess some things never change,” he murmurs, breath spilling over your hair. “You even move to the damn arctic and still don’t get any warmer coats.”

He’s feeding you the intro to an old script but you don’t have the heart to tease back, just snuggling up to him and walking to the cabin together feeling the familiar way the muscles in Dean’s side move against you as he does. Sam doesn’t even look back and it’s so unlike him not to check that you’re there that then you know definitively he’s giving you a moment together. “I miss you, baby.”

“Kid, I’m right here.”

You peer up at him. “Don’t be a dick.”

He glances down at you bundled against him. “I miss you too. But I see you guys all the time; it’s like nothing changed.”

The reflex to laugh bitterly doesn’t fit the moment but you can’t stop it. “Right. My mistake.”

His jaw muscles tighten to a ball for a whisper of a beat. “I need you to fucking work with me here, babe. I know this is not ideal but it’s so much more than anyone else gets and I gotta be honest, you’re being kind of a bitch about it.” You kick your eyebrows up on your forehead, both disbelieving and challenging. Dean realizes the mistake borne of his frustration immediately. “Not a bitch, that’s not what I mean, sorry. A baby. You’re being a baby.”

“A baby?”

He stops you both. Sam’s already about halfway up the driveway. “Listen, I know that you’re—I don’t know, mad. At me for not being here, the way things happened, whatever. But it’s done. It’s over. No one else in the fucking world gets this, gets to have it both ways, visit like I’m just a town away. You get to see me, I get to see you guys, pretty much whenever we want.”

A few tears start collecting in the wells of your eyelids, indignance or grief or both. You try to blink them back but when one falls, lightning fast and stupid like Wil E. Coyote running out over the edge of a cliff, Dean brushes it away with a swipe of his thumb. “I get it. I miss you too, all the fucking time. I miss the way things could’ve been; I miss shit I didn’t even have, you know? I miss this fucking cabin, believe it or not—I—we all could’ve lived in a cabin like this together. We—maybe we could have had kids or something, couple of little girls to braid Uncle Sammy’s hair, the fuck do I know? But at some point I had to accept what I do have, and you do too.”

You look over his shoulder, not wanting to meet Dean’s eyes or the truth that’s there. He’s right, but that doesn’t make the bottomless pit of greed for more of him go away. “Sam’s going to be waiting for us.”

“Don’t deflect. It doesn’t have to be this second, but you have to get good with this. Today—tonight, whatever—was pretty damn near perfect and you’re upset because you want something that doesn’t exist.” He flicks his gaze up the driveway to confirm it’s empty; Sam’s already inside. His jaw is still tight but his eyes are tender and fuzzy, the same way he looks when he’s tired. When they lock onto yours, you can feel them sear straight into you, heating you up slow like an Easy Bake oven. “But right now you’re going to kiss me like it’s the first time. Then we’re going to head in, and you’re going to act like I know you’ve been with Sammy, sappy freaks that you both are, I’m going to have a few drinks with my brother, and we’ll tell the same stupid stories you’ve heard a hundred times.”

That’s finally enough to make you chuckle and you venture an arm out of the protective embrace he has on you to take his chin in your hand, thumb on that perfect indent as you catch Dean’s lips with yours. It’s soft and delicate, a thank you and a reminder and a memory at once. His lashes catch a shadow when he opens his eyes, and you hold them for a long second. “I thought you said like our first kiss—you didn’t even try to jam your tongue down my throat.”

Dean rolls his eyes through a smile and a part of your mind flares with victory knowing you’ve made it past the bramble patch of emotion. “I was like twenty, can’t blame a guy for trying. You couldn’t have been that mad; you still let me get under your shirt the next day.”

You laugh hard, letting it ring out along the driveway as you tug Dean to the house with your fingers interlinked in his.

Sam is pouring a few fingers of bourbon into three little juice glasses when you walk in, and you grab one right off the counter without breaking your stride, tossing it back and offering it to Sam. “Hit me.”

He smirks and obliges as you slide a hand to his lower back. There’s a half beat of hesitation before he leans back that inch or two into your palm like he always does, but what’s more important in that moment is that he still does, and without flushing. Sam and Dean both grab their glasses and you don’t remember the last time you’ve done this many toasts in a night that weren’t at the bar following a Packers win.

“To you two morons finally figuring this shit out,” Dean says, raising his glass.

“Yeah, whatever,” Sam grins. For a beat you can see in his eyes the unbridled admiration he has for his brother, the complete devotion and deep grain of grief he’ll never be free of even if he can see Dean like this every day for the rest of forever. You wonder if you had truly realized the way it flared in his eyes before everything. All three of you sip at your whiskeys together, and you have to fight to keep your mouth closed through a petite yawn.

Sam tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear and lets you lean into the wall of his body, wrap your hand around to his side. His hand moves to envelop your shoulder, thumb swiping absentmindedly back and forth. It’s nothing, genuinely less physical affection than you used to show Sam most of the time when you and Dean were two halves of a living couple like he’d pointed out to you earlier, but the most important thing is that it feels okay. More than anything it feels like being at the bar, the ‘aren’t they so cute’ on Dean’s face the same one that you get at work only made different by how much you wish you were somehow able to tuck up under Dean’s arm at the same time.

A couple drinks and a while later you’re sprawled on the couch, head laid back on the armrest. One foot is tucked under Sam’s thigh where he sits next to you and one rests on top of his lap, a large, warm palm gently wrapped around your shin. The living room—area in the non-bedroom-or-bathroom-space in the cabin where you’ve put a couch, armchair, and rocking chair you’ve grown fond of, really—is small enough that Dean’s knees, extended and one crossed over the other where his feet are on the coffee table, are right by your shoulder, absentminded slow rocking of the maple chair he’s on not quite matching the pace of the hand he has playing with your hair. You’re close to drifting off, and isn’t that weird, that you would get sleepy in a dream, but listening to Sam and Dean is so relaxing. They’re talking about the few weeks they stayed in Bar Harbor as kids, running around Acadia National Park like it was their own personal playground and swimming in freezing cold Atlantic waters, creating all kinds of imaginary games in spite of even Sam being maybe a touch too old for it, by then.

It’s warm; Sam has put a couple logs on the fireplace, trying to hide how eager he is to show his brother all the repairs he’s done to the cabin. More than that, you realize suddenly, it finally feels like home, Dean’s appraisal the baptism that it needed to make you feel safe enough here to approach sleep so casually without Sam’s body as physical protection. Dean’s hand wraps around to cradle your head and he leans over to whisper in your ear. “It’s okay, you can fall asleep.”

You shake your head loose of a little of the drowsiness. “No, I—we’re in my head, it’ll be over if I—” you murmur, waking up even more as you talk.

Sam’s hand moves up and down your shin reassuringly. “It’s okay. We have a greenhouse filled with dream root now, we can come back all the time.”

“Well, not all the time,” Dean amends. “You guys have to get out there, not become sleep junkies. Once, twice a month or something.”

“Oh good, a standing appointment. Like the dentist,” you say, rolling your eyes around a bitter smirk and killing the rest of your drink. Sam smiles softly and looks up at Dean, silently willing him to be the one to argue with you.

Dean takes the bait, sliding his hand out of your hair to prop his elbows on his knees. You sit up straighter to be able to fully see his face.

“Babe, come on, don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Sam and I have seen what happens to people who get hooked on this shit, take it every day. It’s a risk to do it even every couple weeks.”

“You haven’t even explained to me how this works—do I have to decide to wake up or will it happen by itself?”

“It’ll be a natural transition if you don’t consciously decide to,” Sam offers, voice quiet and smooth like you’re some victim’s family member he’s trying to soothe. You let him do it, stop yourself from rankling defensively and appreciate for a second how nice it sounds, how comforting it really is. “Most likely it’ll get easier to control it with a little practice, but I think Dean’s right, if you go to sleep that’ll probably do it a little more, uh, gently.”

Sam’s eyes reflect the firelight as they do every time he sits in that spot on the couch. He looks warm, looks calm and whole. You can see right away that he needs you to be the one who’s struggling to let go—maybe partly for Dean, who’s eviscerated every time he sees his brother hurt and has always been, but also for himself, for the way he’s telling himself this is enough. Though you were the one who’d threatened Dean, Sam had undoubtedly gotten closer to following through—following Dean—both actively and passively. You loved Dean, but Sam in many ways was Dean, just like Dean was Sam. Inextricable in the parts that really counted and that was the point, why you would’ve mainlined dream root swamp ass tea until you withered away like a rat choosing a pleasure button over food to see them both. They were each perfect alone, Sam and Dean—different and perfect—but together they were the sun and the moon, the entire universe inside one Impala.

It’s easy to let him have it. Sam deserves so much more than this small mercy and you are struggling, want desperately to have been put in some kind of coma together in this little play-pretend world where the food’s always exactly what you want and the time passes inconsequentially if at all.

You wipe a tear off your cheek that you hadn’t felt fall, can tell before you open your mouth that your voice is going to falter. “Couple weeks, right? You promise?” Sam and Dean nod in tandem and you try to drink up every drop of it, try to ignore the shade of sad-desperate behind both of their eyes. “And it’s going to be the same? No one’s going to like, forget or anything? Is this like Groundhog Day where you’ll have to be re-introduced to Barbie and Mike every time?”

Dean’s eyebrows screw up in thoughtful empathy. “Pretty uncharted territory here, kid. I hope not, but I don’t want to promise you something I can’t deliver.”

Sam reaches over to take your hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb. “It’ll still be us, though. That’s the important part, right?”

You nod tightly, feeling small and stupid ironically like a kid trying to fight off bedtime. It hangs in the air for a beat.

“Catch you losers later, I guess,” Dean smirks, standing up and offering you a hand. Like he’s heading to his house on the other side of the block you reach up for a hug, only momentarily surprised when Dean foregoes the hug to slip a strong hand into your hair, cradling your face for a kiss that’s somehow bruising and tender as he presses your lower back to weld yourself to him. The feeling of his lips steals the breath from your lungs and you barely have the presence of mind to realize you’re blushing, getting dangerously close to making out just a step away from Sam. Dean, cocky asshole that he is, winks at you as he draws back.

When you turn back to Sam, he’s—he’s rolling his eyes through a smile. With a start you realize it’s exactly the same long-suffering playful tolerance he’d have catching you stealing a kiss during a case and that thought alone is a buoy as Dean pulls Sam down to tuck into his arms, that same eternally-little-brother hug that has always made you smile. You look down at your feet, giving them a second to share a few of those ever-indecipherable looks.

“Do you guys want to just stay out here maybe? I can ‘go to sleep’ or whatever in the other room? Feels a little weird to just sit here and have you both staring at me,” you offer with air quotes.

Sam’s eyes are earnest and reassuring when he meets yours. “Whatever makes you most comfortable. Do you want me to, ah, also…?” He tosses a casual thumb over his shoulder to the bedroom.

“I’ll be okay, I think. Thanks, though.” You rock back on your feet awkwardly. “Um, goodnight, I guess.”

“See you soon, babe,” Dean says, and it’s not hard to see the sweetness under the casual affect he’s trying on.

“See you both soon. Love you, morons.”

You don’t remember falling asleep, but then you wouldn’t, because in reality you’re waking up.

Continue to Dreams, Chapter 19

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crown-anon · 3 years

Text

@hearts1ck my beloved

November 1st

CW: explicit; more CWs under the cut

format: one-shot

people: GeorgeNotFound

pronouns: he/him; reader has male anatomy; more specifics under the cut

edited 14 March 2021

anonymous asked

consider. okay. CONSIDER. consider masochist george. okay?? okay. okay LISTEN.

I think I have a problem with gimmicks also. because. because. ever since strawberry milk george, I. I have not stopped thinking about strawberry flavored lube. because! listen okay hear me out.

(this is absolutely 110% a response to discovering that you share a birthday with him. what of it?)

I know everyone likes pillow princess george and. that's okay. that's FINE. these are not mutually exclusive.

george looking up at you with The LookTM wearing some pink strawberry milk lingerie. not even lingerie really! just something cute like that

& him being like. "I know you love me 👉👈 but I need you to fuck me like you don't"

so I was. thinking. that brat george is the exact kind of person to say (playfully & consensually) "but I don't wanna give you head, I just wanna fuck >:(" after you've got him worked up, maybe from teasing him throughout the day, or edging him a little. but you still need some type of lube. so you go to apply the first bottle you see and he's pink when he asks you "😳 is that ... strawberry ... ?" and you're confused like ??? bro you just asked me to fuck you into next week why're you interested in the flavored lube

but. but listen. he would get so enthusiastic about it. at first it's just "maybe I can stand to eat them out just a little bit before ..." and then after you come the first time it devolves really, really quickly into the need to just. take care of you. and it stretches on until you've come three or four times, and you're still shaking, and he's just. completely gone in subspace

hmm ... george climbing up onto your lap when he's done with you, going in to give you a kiss, and he tastes like strawberry. and he ends up moaning right into your mouth because he's been so horny but so? understimulated?? that he outright jumps as soon as his dick grazes your thigh. it would only take a couple stuttery grinds before he's finishing on both of your stomachs

and he's just so cute when comes, or when he bites down on your shoulder to keep himself quiet. and it's your birthdays. so, you decide you'll give him a reason to cry. and he'll finally get put in his place! it's a win-win for both of you!!

istg every time I send you an ask I discover something new about myself. you. you have made a dreamteam simp out of me. I am but a shell of the man I once was. I think I should thank you? [👑]

hearts1ck

i say this nearly every time you send stuff in but...... by god you own my soul. all of it. this – i – first of all, the implications of masochist george losing his fucking mind when you’re rough with him? guhhhfjklgjgf. and ,..d,,f,,, ,, ,, george in pink lingerie. i. i . a... pink satin slip maybe or .... ohghfd; oh my god those. that cat panty/bra set. im ascending im losing my brain as i type this i cannot –

okay im back on earth. he’d get into that rhythm and settle like liquid while he gets to work on you, and his subspace face is so self-satisfied and nearly smug so he’s just having the time of his life,,, and he makes such a loud noise when his dick twitches against your thigh and maybe... JUST MAYBE he whimpers extra watery when you drag his hips to grind against where you’re wet and dripping/your spent cock as if he’s the one who’d get overstimulated by it. when he finally leans away, eyelids heavy, you gently fit your hand over his jaw and ask, “did you even ask? it’s one thing to come without permission, but not even caring to ask? georgie, i might just be offended,” and he whines “green”s against your neck before you even check-in

and because u made it abt both of our birthdays ,,,, spanks for each year we’ve been alive methinks ??? and then the scratch down his ass gets him hard again and he’s so embarrassed by it, ,,, , ,, ,, ,, ,, ,

also thank god you’ve joined the george boat. i’m so proud of myself for hopefully being part of the reason you got dragged over here HJFKDHSKD

#👑 anon #(my beloved) #keep #anon thoughts: george #redsick #SHAWTY WANT THE WHOLE CREW SHAWTY BAD

as soon as you said birthday spanks I decided I had to write more about this. and I was going to leave more snippets in your askbox like the fucking gremlin creature I am, but then my thoughts started. actually having structure? and then I started writing it. and I tried to do homework and write on study breaks only but. I just kept coming back to this. this is the polar opposite of writer's block. I think I'm cursed or something. so here I am rushing to finish this so that I may rest in peace!!

yes I've been writing nonstop since I sent you that ask. what of it. what the fuck of it.

when I said I discover something new about myself every time we interact, I. I'm serious. I think I might be insane or something. I'm way too sadistic. you'll see. what the fuck is this? what the fuck did I just write??

this would have done so much critical psychic damage if I had posted it on November 1st in real life, but mental illness says I can't let my horny thoughts rattle around in my brain for that long. so!! it's you guys's problem now xoxoxo

I'm not fucking proofreading this. love you though 💗

I did end up proofreading actually. oops! looks like posting at 23:00 isn't always a good idea.

November 1st

CW: explicit, anal (kind of vague), bondage (collar + leash), corruption, domspace (I think??), edging, handjob, humiliation, masochism, oral, praise, sadism, spanking, subspace, swearing. I call George a whore and a slut at least once. and also, George calls yellow at one point. this one kind of surprised me so just. Be Careful. I cannot believe I wrote this. I don't know where this came from.

format: one-shot

people: GeorgeNotFound

pronouns: he/him; I use the word "sir;" reader has male anatomy; I use the words "cock," "dick," and "head;" reader can ejaculate

—

dawn shines through drawn curtains, illuminating the tile floor and your robed figure reflecting off it. batter sizzles in the skillet as you flip the last pancake over. this side looks golden brown, like honeycomb or caramelized sugar. that delicious, freshly-baked fragrance mingles with scented candles. it's perfect, you smile. he's going to love it.

you lift the pancake with a spatula, stacking it on top of the others on his plate. you bring it to his seat at the table, along with the butter, the syrup, the honey, the jam…and you go to pour him a drink.

"hey baby," you greet warmly to the sleepyhead rubbing his eyes in the entryway, still clinging to a pillow. his hair's a mess, only wearing socks and a sweatshirt that reaches down past his thighs. you reckon he'd only just crawled out of bed.

"morning…" he yawns, stumbling past you to take his seat.

"milk?" you ask, he only nods. "did you sleep okay?"

he hums affirmatively. "I…can we…"

one track mind, you joke inwardly. but you don't blame him. "of course," you open the fridge.

you hear him pause. "…is it too early for that?"

"no, no!" you give him a lighthearted laugh. "I kind of expected it, to be honest…I want it, too."

he's silent under the noise of you rummaging through the fridge. "I—"

"sorry—it looks like all we have is strawberry milk. is that alright?"

"yeah…yeah, that's alright. I…actually…wanted to try something new." you shut the fridge, he's fidgeting in his seat.

"hit me with it," your expression is gentle. you pass his cup off to him, but he holds his hand over yours a little too long, looking up at you.

"fuck me like you hate me."

you don't know if it's hearing him swear, or the way he said it so calmly, or how he closed his eyes and swallowed hard before his tone could dip down into something lower. but like a match in an torrent of gasoline, suddenly you're burning up.

you only realize you're staring when he bites his lip and looks down. you start to say something, but the words don't form.

he laughs nonthreateningly, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. "is that a yes?"

you laugh with him. "I…yes, absolutely yes." you turn back around to make your own stack of pancakes. "you should eat first, though."

"what?" he teases. "will I need the energy?"

you smile. "yeah. I think you will." you can practically feel him open his mouth in protest, but he stays silent after that.

and it stays mostly silent while you cook your pancakes. you hear the clinking of his fork on his plate, but it isn't very disruptive. it sounds like he's hurrying to finish his food.

when you go back to the table with your own platter, he's already done eating. he's red down to his neck, fidgeting with the hem of his sweatshirt, looking at you expectantly. you spot a pair of tassels peeking out from under it, just below his hip bones. is that…

he pulls the hem up just a bit, holding your gaze. he smiles, apparently satisfied watching your face heat up.

"I—you should go…go get ready," you manage. he gets up before you even finish your sentence, only stopping to give you a quick kiss on the cheek.

except it isn't quick, when he slides his hand down to rest firmly on your collar, and leans in to trail kisses down your neck. "a-and leave that on," you stutter.

he pauses, just under your jaw. "leave what on?" he murmurs.

your breath catches, you shut your eyes. "whatever the fuck it is you're wearing under there."

he's hardly grazing your skin, but you can feel how hot he is next to you. it takes all of your willpower not to shiver.

he pulls back quickly, only his hand lingering. "I don't know what you're talking about." and just like that, he disappears into your bedroom.

you reach up a hand tentatively to your collar, hot to the touch. I'm in way too deep, you decide, and force yourself to take a bite of your food despite your nerves.

—

"that," you hiss. "that fucking outfit. that."

"oh, this?" he bites his lip, hooking his thumb in the keyhole. "this's just what I went to bed in last night."

"fuck you. we both know that isn't true."

he tugs gently on his top, pulling it a little to the side. "what's the big deal? can't I wear something special for my birthday?"

"it's special, all right," and you leave it at that, opting instead to slot between his legs where he sits waiting on the edge of the bed. you bring up a hand to cup his jaw, brushing your thumb across his cheek. you'll never get enough of the way he looks at you, like you're intoxicating.

…? you frown.

"is something…missing?" he perks up instantly at "missing."

"what…?" he chooses his words carefully.

"the collar—your collar. where is it?" you turn away to start going through your bedside table, but the way his lips quirk up into a sly smile isn't lost on you.

that's lube…that's a vibrator…where the fuck is it…? "w-what collar?" he stumbles over his words.

your mind jumps to say, the collar that came with that outfit, or I know you know what I'm talking about, but you won't give him the satisfaction. you decide to speak a little darker, only a firm "George." you hear him swallow.

"w-well," his voice is shaky, "you only told me to leave on whatever I was wearing under my shirt. and…I wasn't wearing that collar at breakfast…s-so technically…"

you stop looking immediately. you turn to take him in, legs crossed, stance confident, but expression showing uncertainty. you can see the regret on his face. "get up." he takes a shallow breath. "get up."

"I'm—"

"don't I'm sorry me," you snap. "you look for your fucking collar on your own."

he slips off the bed, looking ashamed, but starts digging through the drawer all the same. "I really am sorry," he murmurs. you take his place sitting on the bed. he finds what he's looking for rather quickly: a simple white leather collar with a bell, and a leash. he hands them off to you shyly. "um, here…"

"good boy," you praise. "kneel."

he shuts his eyes and does as he's told. you can see the bliss wash over his face just at being ordered around. his lips part a little as he lets out a heavy breath. if only I knew what this would do to him, you muse, I'd have done this ages ago.

you fasten the collar, revelling in how he shivers at the gentle sensation of cold leather hanging around his neck. you leave it a little bit loose, but still comfortable, and hook the leash in its place. he sits obediently still on his knees, looking deep in thought.

"Oh, I know what I'm gonna do to you," you bait. "how old are you today?"

"mmm. twenty-five." he looks down.

you smile, holding tight onto the leash. "I'm gonna edge you. twenty-five times."

he flinches away immediately, yet hums in pleasant surprise when the leash snaps taught. the bell jingles stiffly. "no way. that's way too much."

"I think you should've thought about that before you wore that to breakfast," you decide, tugging a little. he's caught off-guard and stumbles forward, stopping himself by leaving a clumsy pair of kisses on the inside of your thigh. the metal and leather feel refreshingly cool against your feverish skin. "we've got all day, baby."

you expect to hear some kind of protest, you're crazy. or a playful taunt, I'm better off doing this by myself. but he knits his brows and openly moans at the thought. "all day…" he repeats.

he looks up at you, almost pleading, and you can hear the resignation in his voice when he whispers "alright."

"get up here," you command. "on top of me." as he climbs up into your lap, a little too eagerly, you add, "and take your dick out."

you shrug your robe off your shoulders while he's working on his panties, and without thinking, you ask, "color?"

he stops, leaving his head poking cutely over the waistband. he looks up at you again. "…what?"

"um…color," you explain. "like, how are you doing? is this okay? I don't actually want to hurt you. uhhh…green means good, yellow means slow down, and red means stop."

he stifles a laugh. "you're such a nerd. I'm okay."

"alright." you blush a little. "we can stop whenever you need to. this is for you…" you think of something horribly unsexy to say. "…birthday boy."

now he's really laughing, with his whole body. you think the way it makes his collar jingle is cute. "oh my god. shut up. just shut up," his expression turns serious, and he drops to a whisper, "and fuck me."

that got you hot again. you pull him by the leash into a kiss, you bite his lip, you eat him up. and you grab the both of you together with your other hand, you moan in tandem. you can feel how you took him by surprise in the way he twitches under your thumb, the way he leans into you with his whole body. you part from the kiss and he leans back on his heels, panting hard, holding on to your shoulders for support. you can feel him shaking a little.

when you move your hand all the way up the first time, you squeeze both of your heads gently, and he practically falls into you. muffled in the crook of your neck, he begs, "god, do that again."

so you do. again. and again. what was a string of stuttered breaths turns into a single broken moan as you jerk the both of you off. when you think you're getting close, you let go of yourself to focus all your attention on him.

"fuck, sir," he whines—hahaha, that sir made your cock leak a little. he shut his eyes tight. "I-I-I think—I think I'm—"

just like that, you stop, and he goes slack, practically laying on you. but he doesn't grind back, or even move to touch himself. that won't last very long.

you let him come back down, knowing edging takes a lot out of you; maybe even more so than actually coming does. slowly but surely, his breathing steadies. you rub between his shoulderblades affectionately, still trying to ground yourself, too.

once you've found your voice again, you question, "are you gonna count for me?"

he makes a sound against your skin, somewhere between excitement and fear. "…o-one." you revel in how fucked-out he sounds already.

"one what?" you prod.

he seems at a loss, like he's forgotten himself, what he said. after a minute or two of pondering, he catches on. "…sir."

it's your turn to moan. your dick jumps at the honorific, still mostly untouched against your stomach. "good boy." and you dive back in. twenty-four to go.

—

it's noon. you're working on nineteen. and your partner's getting much more…expressive. he's started biting his hand to keep himself quiet, but he's still…

"I-I—oh fuck, I'm—fuck, I-I'm—I'm—" he whimpers through his teeth. and he yelps, whole body shaking, bell jingling incessantly, when he comes all over your hand and stomach.

you take your hand off him immediately, and this time he does try to reach down, ride through it, but you grab both his wrists to stop him. he grinds down uselessly against your thigh and your dick. although you're still hard, and only a hairline trigger away from coming yourself, it doesn't stop you from keeping this brat in line. you only bite your lip and close your eyes.

he leans his forehead against yours, moving in to give you a kiss, but you push him away.

"did you never learn how to fucking count?" you growl.

he winces. "I-I-I-I'm…I'm sorry—"

you scowl at your hand, covered in come. "here, slut," you raise it up to his lips. "clean this off for me."

he tears up a little, but takes your fingers into his mouth all the same. pretty quickly, though, he spits them back out.

"it doesn't taste good…" he complains.

"oh? oh, it doesn't?" you mock. "but it felt good, when you came without my permission, like a cheap fucking whore."

a couple of tears spill over, roll down his cheeks, yet he says nothing, only moving back in to lap his come off your hand. you can see it in his expression that he's not very happy about it, but he doesn't protest further.

"is this good enough, sir?" he asks, when it seems that he's gotten it all. it looks clean enough, you agree. you grab him by the chin, hooking your thumb in his mouth. you don't even have to tell him to suck.

"you come without my approval again, and it's over. you can go back to playing minecraft—or what-the-fuck-ever—with your friends for your birthday. do you want to sleep on the couch, Georgie?"

if he wasn't crying before, he's definitely crying now. he doesn't shake his head, but he circles your fingertip with his tongue enthusiastically, as if to say, I'll be good, I'll be good this time, looking up at you doe-eyed.

"bend over for me," you demand. "across my lap."

he does so immediately. he slips a little bit while he's changing positions, you hear the bell ring, and he scrambles to correct himself. he settles with his ankles crossed and his head in his hands, propping himself up on his elbows. you feel a little bad, you admit, but you won't budge; he has a safeword, you trust that he'll use it.

"let's try that again," your tone softens. "I want you to count for me, okay?"

he nods.

you pull his panties to the side, pause briefly, and bring down your hand with a satisfying smack.

"ohhhhhh—" he moans, jolting a little. "—holy shit, did you just spank me?"

your stomach drops, you go to rub him gently where you just hit him. "is that okay—?"

"it's hot, it's so hot, fuck," he shifts in your lap. "um, sorry…one."

seriously, something about hearing him swear awakens something in you, every time. you're fired up. you spank him again.

"mmm—two…" is he…? "three…"

you pause to massage his ass again, and to speak. "you're…you're hard again, aren't you?"

you didn't even spank him yet, but he lets out a moan. "fuck, I—I just. I want you. I want this. so, so much."

you wonder if this is actually the same George who was fidgeting with his pillow in the dining room this morning.

"you're so bad, getting turned on by something like this," you tease. he only moans in response.

"four—five—six—seven…" he chokes out. "it's starting to sting…"

you take a break, kneading the skin where your angry red handprint is starting to take shape.

"eight…nine…but god, it hurts so good…" he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "ten…"

at ten, you linger for a moment, holding a handful of his ass. "does it?"

"yes—yesyesyes," he buries his face in the pillow, and shivers. "fuck, eleven…twelve…"

you pull his panties down to his knees, and switch sides. he lifts his hips up, so I can reach him better, you guess. you don't miss the telltale glint of a butt plug, but you'll get to that later.

"thirteen—fourteen—fifteen—sixteen," he moans between slaps. he's gripping the pillowcase so hard his knuckles are white.

in this new position, the way he jumps with every hit makes his cock brush against yours just right. fuck, you're still hard from earlier. this time you're the one who whimpers.

"seventeen, eighteen," he pauses, breathless. you pull gently on his leash, he arches his back and moans, "n-nineteen." his bell jingles.

he grinds down, just for a moment, and the friction is delicious. you're a little dizzy, you think you might've thrust back. you both sigh at the feeling.

"…t-twenty…see? I-I can count…I'm a good boy…I'm good for you…aren't I?"

"you are," you murmur, but you aren't sure he hears you. "you're so good…"

"twenty-one—twenty-two…I-I feel like I haven't done anything right today…twenty-three…"

"…George…?" you hear a muffled sob.

"twenty-four…" he mumbles.

"George?" you start to get concerned. he just keeps crying. "hey…" you whisper. you gently prompt him to turn him over; the pillow's a little wet. you pull the panties off all the way, and get him out of the bra, which had a little stray come on it. you help him sit up in your lap, and pull him into a hug.

"am I really just a whore…?" he asks brokenly.

"you've been so good for me, baby. you've done everything I've asked." you wipe his tears away with your thumb. "are you okay?"

"but I—" he coughs. "—I came too soon, I came without your permission…"

you kiss his hair, and hold him to your chest. "you've been so patient. I'm proud of you."

he finally wraps his arms around you. "I-I'm sorry."

"nonsense," you reassure. "your comfort takes priority. are you okay? color?"

"I…" he searches for the words. "I dunno. yellow? I…that hurt, I think. being…degraded?"

you comb through his hair with your fingers. "I understand. thank you for telling me. I love you."

—

you stay like that for a minute. you grab him a snack and a drink, but for the most part, you just enjoy each other's company, tangled-up together. you don't bother putting your clothes back on.

it's later in the evening. you're straddling him, peppering his shoulders with kisses, and he's giggling underneath you. he turns over to give you a short and sweet kiss.

"baby?" he says, looking expectantly.

"what is it?" you sit back on your heels.

he hesitates. "…I wanna keep going. from earlier."

you're serious again. "are you sure you're okay?" you grab his hand, bringing it up to kiss his fingertips. "I don't want to hurt you."

"I'm alright," he assures. "I remember you promising me an all-day thing, though."

you blush, a little surprised by his forwardness. "of course. I think…I…" you laugh. "I wanna fuck you."

"yeah?" he smiles, leaning up close. "show me how much."

you hold his jaw while you kiss him, biting his bottom lip between your teeth. he tastes like the coffee and cream you made him earlier. you feel his breath hitch. he reaches up to hold your shoulders.

you pull back. "hey, blow me first."

"what? why?" he giggled.

"it's been a couple hours, I'm not hard anymore," you coax. "I thought you liked taking orders?"

he cringed. "but come tastes gross!"

you slid off him and hopped off the bed, opening the drawer. "suit yourself. you get to watch me jack off, then."

"fine by me, I think you look good when you masturbate."

"ohhh, I forget, you're too blissed-out to pay attention to how I look when you're getting fucking owned."

"I am not!"

"you are too!" he sticks his tongue out at you.

you open the lid, pouring a little on your hand, a little on your cock. it's translucent pink, seems a little fragrant. you give yourself a couple of strokes with a sigh.

he's quiet for a second, then, shyly, "um…is that…strawberry flavored…?"

you bite your lip. "I thought you weren't gonna give me head?"

"I was just curious." it's a weak lie, but you say nothing.

your eyes are shut, but you can feel him moving around a bit on the bed, you hear his bell ring a couple times. you feel a hand on your thigh, so you decide to peek. and holy shit.

your partner's made his way to the floor, on his knees between your legs, holding his leash in his mouth, his fucking mouth, what the fuck. his thumb's rubbing circles on the inside of your thigh. the half-lidded look he's giving you should be criminal.

"you—I thought you said you wouldn't…" you can't find the words. you reach out and take the leash from his mouth. you see your hand shake in front of you.

"I'm just watching…" he whispers, looking up at you, mesmerized.

you're only able to get a couple of pumps in before he's joining you, hand over yours as you get yourself off. just the extra sensation of somebody else's touch is enough to make you bite back a moan.

"fuck—!" you jolt when he licks a stripe up the underside. he mouths over the head, jerking you off on his own now. you move to grip the sheets in one hand, his leash in the other. and you come without warning. you see it end up on his hand and your stomach before you shut your eyes tight.

he's quiet while you're coming down, just helping you ride it out, giving you kisses on your thighs. when you look back down at him, he's got two of his fingertips in his mouth, licking them clean. he stands up abruptly, it startles you a little. you see his bell ring. and he grabs you by the hips and leans down to your midriff.

"…I don't think I cleaned you off all the way earlier…" he breathes, and he starts to lap up the mess of his and your come that's been on you since this afternoon.

what the fuck. why is this so hot? why is he so hot? all too soon, your spent cock twitches in interest at your lover. he cups it with a hand, smiling against your tummy. you're so sensitive it hurts. you think you mean to say something, but nothing comes out.

"hmm…?" he bites his lip. "you still want some more?" all you can do is whine. at this point, you don't know if it's in protest or invitation.

you don't get the chance to find out either, because fuck, he's really going down on you now. you don't know what the fuck he's doing with his tongue, or where his gag reflex went, but at this rate you're gonna come again.

"George—George, baby, I—slow down, I-I'm—" you plead. his leash slips out of your hand, you tip your head back.

he swallows.

—

the last thing you remember is coming harder than you ever have in your life. you think you held him by his hair. you might've fucked his mouth a little. he's never let you come in his mouth before…fuck…

it's nighttime now. he's riding your thigh, got one of his legs slotted between yours. the friction between his knee and your overstimulated cock feels embarrassingly good. you're so dizzy, all you can articulate is a loud moan. you don't sound at all like you remember. his bell keeps ringing and ringing and ringing as he grinds against you.

he leans down, one arm holding your hip, the other keeping himself propped up. he bites your shoulder, hard, hard enough to bruise. he comes on both of your stomachs.

"George," you beg. you're losing your voice.

"mmmmmmsir," he slurs. "fuck me."

"George, I…" you don't know what you're saying. the end of your sentence turns into a whimper.

"you need me to get you hard again? you need me to rile you up?" he turns to kiss your jaw, feeling around for your dick. "like this?"

"George," you sound urgent, until he squeezes right around the head, and you forget what you were saying. you're pretty fucking close to forgetting who you are entirely.

he sits up on top of you, grinning. "love the way you say my name, sir."

that name. all it takes is the way he says that fucking name and you're ready to go again. you flip the two of you over, so that you're towering over him instead. "you still didn't. fucking. ask me. if you could come."

he giggles, a little crazed. he hooks his arms around his knees, hugging them to his chest.. "so what? so what? you gonna fuck me 'till I behave?"

"yes," you reach down, "I think I will." and you pull out the butt plug he (probably forgot he) had in all day.

"fuck—" he sobs. you watch his dick bob. precome drips into a pool on his stomach. "—green—green—so fucking green."

you're still sensitive from coming twice—you're pretty sure he is too. you lean down to give him a kiss, you moan into each other's mouths. he tastes like strawberries and his and your come. it is a little gross, you admit. but he's so tight and so fucking cute that you can't bring yourself to care. you part, and there's a line of salvia connecting the two of you.

"wait—" you say, but it comes out like a growl. "roll over."

he gets on his hands and knees, reaching back and spreading himself open for you. fuck.

you fuck him like that, holding the leash tight, loving the way he arches his back into the bed. the bell on his collar jingles incessantly.

you spank him, one last time.

"th-that's twenty-f-five—oh, fuck, sir," he growls, clinging on to the blankets for dear life.

you pin one of his hands in place and reach down to touch him. he starts laughing again.

"mmmmmmay I please come, sir? I—fuck—I'm so close, soclosesoclose," his breath stutters, you can hear the breaks in his voice. he buries his face in the blankets.

I'm close, you think, but the words don't make it out. "you're so good—you're so fucking good—come for me—fuck, come for me."

—

you're a mess. there's some drying solution of come and lube on your stomach. not to mention whatever the fuck's going on with your hair. your robe is discarded haphazardly on the floor. you think you've got a hickey, but you can't remember where.

actually, you're both a mess. he's also covered in come, sweat, and lube. he's got a red ring around his neck where you pulled him by the leash a little too hard. he's just covered in bruises. he clings to your arm, still fast asleep. you both passed out pretty quickly after…whatever that was, but you got back up a couple hours later. it doesn't look like he did, though.

actually, your whole bedroom is a mess. a blanket or two ended up discarded on the floor. there's an empty bottle of edible lube somewhere around here. your kitty lingerie set, still dirty, somehow ended up hanging in the closet. the first time you woke up you were both cuddling with a butt plug that you misplaced in the heat of the moment.

you don't think you've ever seen him like that. you can't even put it into words. you've never spanked him. he's never called you sir. you've never come in his mouth. he's never…begged for you like that before. you've never been so exhausted after coming that you both just, just fainted.

you feel lightheaded, and dead tired. you know you both must have gotten back up and gone at it at least a couple more times, but it's blurry, you can't remember. all you know is your vibrator's missing, and you feel…unusually empty, like you do the morning-after getting railed a little too hard.

last night…what the fuck happened last night?

you contemplate getting up, slipping your arm out of his embrace, pulling the covers back up around him, leaving to make breakfast. you're kind of disgusting, several hours after sex without cleaning up properly. you want to get yourselves some washcloths, maybe take shower together, or run him a bath. you know he's gotta be way more sore than you are.

you catch yourself staring, lost in thought; he just looks too cute when he's very clearly roughed up, but still sleeping soundly. and with the way he wanted…the way he needed you yesterday, you don't think he would want to wake up alone.

maybe it's okay if we sleep in a little longer.

you stroke his hair and whisper, "happy birthday, baby boy."

—

edited 14 March 2021

#limeade-zest #georgenotfound x reader #george x reader #george davidson x reader

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