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harryhoney-bee · 3 years

Text

From Eden

Summary: Harry is the baker's son and fell in love with (Y/n), a lady. The only way they can spend time together is when they sneak out to the woods.

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex.

Tropes: 19th century!h / baker!h / forbidden love.

word count: 3K

“Harry, we need to be fast, or else my father will look for me,” Said (Y/n) while holding her lover’s hand, she was trying to get near the well-known willow, where she and Harry would share their, um, intimate moments, “Do you remember last time? I had to tell him I was picking flowers and-”

Harry turned her around suddenly, meeting her soft lips he was so fond of, his girl could be quite anxious sometimes, so he always found a way to make her body and mind relax.

“I know, my heart, don’t need to worry about that, just focus on not stumbling on those roots.” My heart, that’s what Harry always called her, reminding her that even though they may not always be together, she will be a piece of him forevermore.

The girl nodded, following her way to the deep forest. She and Harry knew this wasn’t ideal, but they could not find a better solution to be together, since they weren’t even supposed to address each other.

Harry was the baker’s son in their little village in the south of England, while (Y/n)’s father was one of the lords, he owned the village’s manor, therefore hers and Harry’s relationship was considered forbidden by all.

They could never let anyone know about them, or else her father would take her away from Harry, she was sure of it, therefore the forest was the best place, nobody ever came near it. When the couple got near the field, Harry took the shirt he was wearing, putting it down in the grass so (Y/n) could lay down without feeling itchy.

“Such a gentleman,” (Y/n) sat on his shirt, her purple dress contrasting with the green of nature around them, she looked at his naked torso up and down, his body was beautiful, he had some muscle from all the flour bags he had to carry.

“A gentleman for a lady,” He whispered, caressing her hair. She was always delightful to look at, always had been, “When I get enough pounds we will run away, alright? Gonna treat your property, you will never have to lay on the dirty ground again.”

“I appreciate you, my love, but we need to agree, it’s pleasant getting dirty sometimes,” His hand met her hips as he slowly laid her down, his finger working on her corset while his lips met her neck, her sweet noises making harry feel hornier as the seconds went by.

“I think you’re getting too bold, love,” He finally got the corset to loose, in a quick pace, he pushed the piece of clothing down her body, his eyes instantly meeting her breast, “What happened to my sweet (Y/n)?”

“Y-you happened,” She moaned, Harry’s tongue started to work on her nipple, her hands were holding his hair.

“Oh, so you are implying that I corrupted you? Because I think you always had a filthy mind, just needed a bit of stimulus.” The girl didn’t respond, the pleasure being too much.

Harry made his way down her body, getting on his knees in front of her, “Open your legs for me, wanna taste you.” The man smiled with pride at how quickly she followed his order, they came a long way until she finally felt comfortable enough to share her body with him and vice versa, growing up she never knew how much pleasure a person could feel, and then she met Harry.

He was always patient with her since the beginning of their relationship almost 1 year ago when he taught her everything he knew about sex, the education she had in the manor was mostly about sewing, reading, and writing, nothing about the human anatomy.

“Harry, can you do something, please?” She pleaded, she just needed him right now, the hot feeling on the lowest part of her body was growing.

With his two hands holding her thighs, the man did as she so politely asked him, going under the dress he removed her piece of underwear, giving a kiss on her skin, and began licking her most intimate part.

She always tasted so good, since the first day she allowed Harry to eat her out, as he liked to say, he was met by the most delicious flavor. Harry worked in a bakery, he had eaten a lot of delightful things during his life, but nothing was better than his girl, his lady.

She was already so wet for him, poor things must be missing him so much, but that's on Harry for being such a workaholic at the bakery.

His mouth was sucking on her most intimate part, he got one finger close to her needy hole, being met by her warm walls, he gently fingered her.

“Harry, I’m close, I-'' she was having trouble speaking as his tongue met her clit, she had found out about how amazing that part of her body was, Harry made sure to always take his time with her little button.

Harry popped his head off her gown, his chin wet by her wetness, “You are gonna cum soon? Go on, cum my sweet lady.” He came back to his place in between her thighs, getting ready for his love to release all she had on his face, one of his hands left her leg to grab her nipple, twitching it softly. He knew his love enjoyed a bit of pain.

(Y/n) couldn't hold anymore, the stimulation was too much for her body to handle, when harry started massaging the inside of her thighs she let go, the pleasure running through her body, her legs were shaking around harry's head.

The man took his finger from her, but he was still tasting his lover, but her sweet moans became too loud. Harry took his face off her body, quickly kissing her, making the girl stay quiet. They couldn't risk anybody hearing them, the church that ruled the village wasn't very fond of couples having intercourse before marriage.

“Hey angel, you know you need to be quiet, okay?” Harry said, kissing her cheeks, her breathing was heavy as she came down from her high, “How are you feeling? did it feel good?”

“Yes, I’m feeling all warm,” the girl mumbled, she timidly brought her hand to his trousers feeling the bulge of his hard member, she needed more of him, “Want more Harry, please?”

“Want what, love? Tell me,” he was teasing her, he wanted this as much as her, it had been days since they were intimate, she didn't know how he was holding on, “You want my cock? That's it?”

The way he was so blurt when it comes to sex always made (Y/n) feel wet, he had a dirty mouth and he knew how to use it, “Yes, I want it.”

“So spoiled, always get what you want, tell me how do you wanna do it?” He was rubbing himself on her dress, he loved how embarrassed she would get sometimes, he liked seeing how agitated she could get.

“Can I be up? please?”

Harry felt like he was gonna explode inside those fucking trousers, his sweet lady wanting him under her, ”Want to ride me? what a filthy girl you are, you want to rub yourself on me?”

When she didn’t answer he held her jaw, making her look at him “I’m talking to you angel, You want to rub your little button on me while I fill you?”

“Yes, can I?” her eyes didn’t leave his face, she loved how dominant he would be with her, she enjoyed how the power he held would make her feel so carefree, she didn't need to worry about anything if he was in control.

As an answer he held her waist and changed positions with her, she was placed right on his cock, the top of her dress was still resting on the lowest part of her sternum so Harry had free access to her breasts, she was indeed a heavenly sight.

“Go on my love, put me out.” The girl did so, pulling his trousers just enough so his cock could be free, it was hard with pre-cum already leaking.

(Y/n) held his member, making slow moments with her fist. Harry's mom indicated that he was enjoying it, making her feel more confident with herself. Normally she would prefer Harry on top, but today was different.

“This feels so good my love, but put me in or I might as well explode,” He whispered while taking one of her tits in his hand, squeezing it gently.

Harry’s request was all (Y/n) needed, she grabbed his cock and lifted herself off his hip, he helped her by holding the end of the dress to the side so she could see what she was doing, Harry slowly guided her down.

The couple couldn't help but moan when the head of his member made his way inside her. “Fuck, your cunt is so warm,”

“Harry, don't talk like that,” She said embarrassed, no matter how good his way of speaking made her feel, she still wasn't familiar with it, when she felt he was all the way inside her she stopped. She was so full.

“Why? Does it make you embarrassed?” He asked mockingly

The girl only nodded while rubbing her clit against his pubic bone, feeling his hair against her own skin

“Then why do I feel you clenching against me?” He held her dress even higher so he could see how he fit all of himself inside her, “Can you move, love? Or do you need more time?”

The answer came as a movement from her hip, (Y/n) lifted herself just to slam against his body over and over, Harry was helping her keep her pace.

The stretch from his cock made (Y/n) closer to her second release of the day, the slight burn from his girth was also making wonders to Harry's ego, he knew he was big, but feeling her walls embracing his cock made him smug.

"Tell me how much you are enjoying taking my cock," Harry demanded, bucking his hips to get even deeper.

If (Y/n) hadn't asked to ride him he would definitely be on top of her, thrusting into her body, but it was rare the moment where she wanted a bit more of control, and he was absolutely wrapped around her finger to ever deny her that.

(Y/n) used all of the strength of her body to answer the man beneath her, his curly brown hair looking so beautiful against his white shirt laid on the floor, "It feels so nice, I love your c-cock."

Harry felt like cumming the moment the words left her mouth, his hand pulled her hair, "It seems like my lady has a dirty mouth, is that what my cock does to you? Been calling you angel but you might as well be a little devil."

With a fast movement Harry moved both of them to the willow close to them, he was in a sitting position with his back against the willow while his love worked on his cock, the sudden movement not bothering her at all.

"You know I'm a gentleman, my love, so I need you to cum first, alright? Are you close?" Harry asked, his lips meeting her neck, he couldn’t wait for the day they would run away and he could leave as many marks as he wanted.

Her hips were grinding against his own, his cock going deeper and deeper with every thrust from her body, "I'm close, so so close, H"

"Yeah? Cum for me my love, want you to soak me," he brings her closer to his chest, holding her body as he rams into her.

"Harry I'm gonna cum, please I-," the girl didn't need to say that, Harry could already feel her walls getting tighter.

"I'm here baby, you can let go, but be quiet, angel," he said, kissing the side of her head.

(Y/n) felt her orgasm crashing her body, her legs holding Harry with a strength she didn't know she had, to suppress her voice she bit harry's shoulder, leaving her teeth marks on his skin.

The warm and cozy feeling in her body was quickly replaced by confusion when Harry took her off his lap, placing her on his shirt. With some tugs on his cock Harry cummed, ropes of cum landed on the grass while some of it rested on his lower belly.

His breath was heavy just like his lovers, who was sitting next to him. She promptly rested her head against his shoulder while his arm hugged her from the side, his curls caressing her skin.

As soon as Harry came to his senses, he looked at his lady, her hair all over the place, her mouth open, trying to catch her breath.

"How are you, my love? Feeling ok? Want me to go to the river and get you some water?" Harry asked, bringing her closer to him, she didn't like to be alone after sex.

"No, baby, I'm fine, I just want to stay here for a bit," her face was deeper in his shoulder, she always felt lightheaded and vulnerable when they were intimate like that, she really appreciated how Harry was caring to her.

The man didn't look better than her, his hair was wet from the sweat, his skin still had the marks she made.

"Let me get myself clean so we can cuddle," Harry said while getting himself tucked into his trousers. He politely asked her to sit on his other side so he could use his shirt to clean his belly, but before he could reach the shirt, (Y/n)'s hands were on it.

"You always clean me when we have a clean piece of cloth, so it's my turn now," she softly said to him, giving him a pack.

Harry just sat back and watched the fabric wiping his abdomen, he was shocked after realizing his mother never questioned why he would randomly want to wash his own shirts.

Whenever he went to the forest or to the village nearby (that would be the lies he would tell everybody when he was meeting (Y/n)) he normally would come back without a shirt.

He should probably start bringing pieces of fabric for himself too, not only for his girl. They were both messy things after their little moments together.

When she was done she put the dirty shirt to the side, cuddling into his body, her breasts were still out of her corset, if it wasn't so late Harry would spend the rest of the day cherishing them.

Fuck, he couldn’t think about that right now, (Y/n) needed to be home soon, or else her stupid father would send people after her.

"Let me fix your dress, my love, turn your back to me," his fingers were quick, pulling her dress in the right position on her collarbone while tying up her corset. When he was done he pulled her body to his, so she was sitting in between his thighs while his arms were around her.

"Can we stay and see the sunset?" she timidly asked, toying with his finger while he was giving her neck gentle pecks with his soft lips

"You know we can't, angel," he sighed, just a few more weeks, just a few more pounds until they could elope, he just needed to make sure they would have a good house, in a safe village, far away from her family.

The girl let her back completely fall into his chest, "I sold a little tapestry to one of the cooks, she was reluctant to buy something from me, so I lied to her saying I wanted a new perfume and father wouldn't give it to me, so I needed some pounds."

"Getting really into merchanting, I see," he smiled, putting his hands on her knees, "I'm also working before dawn, this way I can charm the widows that go to church at an obnoxious hour of the day to buy my carrot cakes."

"Charm the widows? I always knew you had a thing for old ladies," she teased

"You know you are the only lady I have eyes for, my heart. Now let's go back to the village," they were already risking it by being here out in the open, thank god for (Y/n)'s sister, the only one who knew about the relationship and would cover for them.

Harry helped her out of the ground. There were a few leaves on her hair, which he took one by one, so not a single person could tell she was even near the forest. Her dress, thankfully, wasn't dirty.

They started walking together, hands laced with one another. "I love your chest," (Y/n) said quietly, he was quite a thing to look at.

"I love yours too, love," he teased.

"I'm gonna travel later this week," Harry said changing the subject, "so you gotta be careful, I won't be able to meet you in our spots."

She stopped walking and turned to him, "travel where? It's the rainy season, Harry, it's not safe to travel now."

"I know, that's why I'm coming, fewer people in the path, it's less dangerous for anyone to find out I'm looking for a cottage to live with you."

"Well, I might as well go with you, I just need to pack and–"

"Don't be silly, love, no way I'm bringing you to a foreign village, that's too dangerous, we gotta wait a little more," Harry said gently, pulling her hand so they could continue walking. "I'm gonna go, see the place, find a house, see if the people who live nearby are good people and then I'll bring you."

"I still think it's dangerous to go alone, did you not hear what happened to Charles, the knight's son? He was murdered on his way to London."

"Good thing I'm not going to London," he said playfully, trying to calm her heart, the look she gave him showed she was everything but calm.

"Love, hey, look at me," Harry held her chin, making their eyes meet, "You don't need to worry about me, I promise I'm gonna take the safest path there is."

"I also can't let myself get killed, I couldn’t bear to live the afterlife without you, my angel." He quietly said. "We are gonna be fine, baby, don't worry.

From eden's masterspot here

If you guys enjoy it maybe this story could become a little series of blurbs? let me know what you think.

#harry styles #harry styles writing #harry styles au #harry styles smut #harry styles fanfic #harry styles blurb #harry styles fluff #baker!h #harry styles forbidden love #hs

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yourmidnightlover · 3 years

Text

the nickname

Summary: reader convinced spencer to let her take the reins in the bedroom... or does she?

TW: oral (male recieving), fingering, mention of overstimulation, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, riding, scratching, use of nicknames (princess, love, etc.), hints at sugar daddy!spencer, age gap (not specified but i’m thinking around 10-15 years). *let me know if i missed anything*

WC: 2,912

A/N: this hinted at sugar daddy!spencer (not really hinted so much as saying it outright). I also wrote this for @anxiousblanketqueen ‘s fic contest for her birthday! i believe it’s prompt number 21. i hope you enjoy :)

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you had been together for a while, now. maybe 13 months? you bet spencer could recall - more like knew he could.

you had met when you were one of his students. you're going to georgetown on an academic scholarship because no way in hell could you pay for the full tuition when you still couldn't afford it with the scholarships.

he took a liking to you - how could he not? you were a hard worker and proved yourself to be extremely determined. on top of the obvious intelligence, you had a beauty that radiated around you. and that beauty had a touch of... innocence. and maybe that innocent beauty is what initially attracted him to you, but he'd like to think it was just your personality as a whole.

you were never one of the students who would come to his office after hours for help you clearly didn't need. you would use your colored pens and highlighters to help organize your notes, so it took a while to pack everything up to leave.

one day, when there weren't any students lined up out his door, he went to your seat as you were cleaning up. you looked up, rather surprised that your inappropriate crush was standing right by you.

"uhm... hi," you smiled at him as you put your pencil pouch in your bag, breaking eye contact for the briefest of seconds before returning your attention back to him.

"hi. i was uhm..." he cleared his throat, "i was wondering if you had any questions? you never come to the office hours for questions and i was just... just making sure," he stuttered out.

"oh," you chuckled a light, airy laugh that spencer wished he had recorded so he could replay it over and over and over. "i don't have any questions. i guess that just means that you're a really good professor - very thorough," you stood up and flung the bag over your shoulder, still incredibly shorter than him.

"than-thank you," he smiled. "i'm happy to hear that you're actually getting something out of the lessons," you began walking out of the classroom, looking back to ensure that he was following you.

"yes, i truly do," you agreed. "i'm also pretty sure i'm one of the other people who isn't auditing the class," you added.

"correct, you are," he enthusiastically gestured, another laugh leaving your beautiful lips.

"i mean, you can't necessarily blame them for just taking the class," you chuckled as he held the door open for you, you gave him a subtle 'thank you.'

"what do you mean?" he asked in a soft tone.

"i mean you- you're..." you trailed off, gesturing to his entire body in hopes to convey what you meant. he just looked at you with a confused taste, letting you know you needed to elaborate. "you're very... attractive, professor reid."

"oh-that's very... thank you," he blushed as you halted by the bus stop.

"of course," you turned around, looking up to meet his eyes. "so... wait, what time is it?" you asked rather frantically.

"it's," he looked at his silver watch adorning his wrist, "6:27."

"shit," you swore for the first time in front of him, underneath your breath.

"wha-what is it?" he asked, perplexed as to why you would be so frustrated.

"the last bus leaves at 6:15 and i've missed it," you huffed out, trying to compose yourself before checking your bag and realizing, "i forgot my key and my roommate is at her girlfriend's house."

"is there anything i could do?" he asked concerned.

"no i can... i can just stay at the library. i should probably study up anyway," you tried to laugh it off although you knew it was pointless... he was a profiler for christ's sake.

"the library? y/n, this might seem a bit inappropriate but i have a spare room you could stay in until your roommate gets back," he offered kindly.

so, you took him up on his offer.

you slept in his spare room after he got you both takeout. you laughed and talked for what seemed like meer minutes but turned out to be until 1 a.m. you talked about string theory and the leonard euler's paradox. he gave you interesting facts about tortoises and achilles.

that little hangout session turned into countless hangouts over the span of three months. and then he asked you out on a real date once you finished at the top of his class - and not just because you were his favorite.

the first time with spencer was... beyond delightful. he was captivating with the way he worked against and for your body. it was almost as if he felt like his sole purpose on earth was to please you. he was eager, yet patient with the way his tongue flicked and sucked at your skin.

he was such a dominant personality in the bedroom, which was extremely appreciated since you didn't have much experience in that arena. but now that you were more versed in that world, you wanted to experiment a bit more.

casually, he began to pay for your things. it wasn't so head-on at first. it would be paying for your groceries, or buying all of your college books for you. but then it got a bit bigger. when your roommate couldn't give you the necessary half of the rent that was due and was beginning to be a nuisance, spencer quite literally let you move into his place. he would pay for your car's repairs and bought you jewelry consistently.

one time, as a joke, you called him your sugar daddy - mostly because that's how he acted. he just didn't like the term. he felt as though it made your relationship together seem one-sided when you were, in fact, very in love with the man. you came to realize it also made you seem like a gold digger, which you weren't - even though the money is a nice plus. so, you relented and didn't say that again.

spencer never really had much time off now that he was working back at the bau and traveling but now, you had him to yourself for a whole week. you had been planning this since he told you when he'd be off.

step 1: look sexy - you always looked sexy to him, but feeling sexy would also be a plus.

step 2: surprise him while looking sexy - absolutely devious.

step 3: seduce him - when doesn't he want you? exactly.

it was foolproof.

you had gotten the text 15 minutes ago that spencer was on his way back to his place, wanting you to meet him there once he had settled in. little did he know that you were in a sexy little white number - the white reminded him of your innocence which really got him going - lying in wait for him in a pair of heels. you sat in one of his reading chairs, deciding to pick up a book until he got home.

when you heard the jingling of keys coming from the other side of the door, you assumed your position. the chair was turned toward the door, you sitting pretty with one leg crossed over the other.

spencer walked through the door, hanging his coat and briefcase up before finally noticing you. his eyebrows shot up, looking your body up and down hungrily.

"wow," he smiled a wicked grin as he slowly made his way to where you were sitting. you stood up, heels clicking as they hit the floor and walked closer to him.

"i wanna try something," you placed your hands on his chest, pushing him back slightly until he was forced to sit down on the couch.

"and what would that be, princess?" he asked, hands stroking your hair that was cascading down your back.

"i..." you bent down to whisper in his ear, "i want to be in charge tonight," you placed a soft kiss below his earlobe, feeling his body shudder subtly at the proposition.

"are you sure you can handle that?" he chuckled, hands roaming to your waist and grinding your hips down on his.

you almost gave up. almost. you grasped his hands, placing them on the arm of the couch before getting close to his face. your lips were almost touching before you whispered, "no touching today, pretty boy."

you felt his hips rut up against your core, you chuckled at his eagerness. you decided to throw him a bone and ground down, hard, against his hips. the groan he let out was low and enticing, nearly enough to allow you to give him whatever he wanted.

"bedroom," you whispered against his neck before getting off of his lap, allowing him to scurry to the room. "take off your clothes while you're at it!" you giggled under your breath as you heard his clothes shuffling, telling you that he was obeying your request.

you waited a couple of minutes until you went into the room, wanting to have him go a bit insane like he normally did to you. when you walked in, he was laying on his back on the bed, just like you wanted. his cock was already red and leaky, prominent as it bounced on his tummy.

"good boy, spence," you giggled, walking over to him and straddling his legs.

once you were settled, you pressed a chaste kiss to his lips before trailing them down his torso, leaving the occasional hickey scattered on his chest. traveling kisses down his happy trail, you traced the vein on his dick and watched it twitch up and hit his stomach once again you giggled at the reaction.

"now i understand why you like so much responsiveness," you chuckled as you pressed a soft, barely-there kiss to the tip of his cock, he hissed once again from the contact.

you slowly took his cock in your mouth, agonizingly slow, and flattened your tongue at the base. one you got him as far down you could manage, you began bobbing your head just as slow. his hands flew to your hair, trying to force you to go faster until you swatted them away.

"should i tie those up?" you threatened, your hand working at his member as you spoke.

"are you fucking kidding me?" he swore, clearly agitated by your antics.

"no," you squeezed his dick for punctuation, the way he grunted made the wetness pool in your underwear. "i'm not kidding you."

you took him in your mouth once more, bobbing your head far more vigorously than before this time, just to spite him. hollowing your cheeks, you swallowed around him and began gagging around his dick before coming back up for air.

"fuck," he whispered underneath his breath, not wanting to let you know just how much of an effect you had on him.

you smiled to yourself and continued your antics until he was spilling all down your throat. you didn't stop there, you came back up and let your hand continue pumping his member slowly.

"shit," he hissed from the stimulation.

"shhh," you put your free finger up to his lips.

you gave his dick a few more strokes, curses leaving his lips delightfully before you drew your hands up his body once more before straddling his lap. after moving your panties to the side and slicking his cock with your arousal, you ground against him leisurely, trying to tease him a bit more. you unclasped your bra, throwing it somewhere in the room. finally, you reached between the two of you and lined him up with your entrance.

"are you sure you can do this?" spencer asked, not to entice you, but to make sure you were alright.

"there's a first for everything," you chuckled, knowing you had never been on top before.

you had never been on top before - you'd like to blame your lack of experience. you knew it might be hard to keep up the pace, but you were determined to make not only yourself but also make spencer feel good. that's all you've ever wanted. that's what you're meant to do - make him feel good. so no matter what it took, you'd make it happen.

you slowly lowered yourself onto his dick, being wary of how much bigger he felt from the new angle.

"shit," you whispered, your hands resting on his chest in attempt to ground yourself. "oh god..." you trailed off, feeling your dominant personality fade away as the pleasure overtook you.

"keep going, princess," he spurred you on, his hands finding your waist and rubbing gentle circles on your skin. "you've got it."

so you rose on your knees until only his tip was inside of you for you to lower yourself once more. you whimpered from the feeling of him re-entering your body, your pussy clenching around him as if he were an intruder.

"doing so good for me," he grasped your waist a bit tighter so he could help you rise and fall on his cock. "fuck, it's so good."

"d-doctor, i-" you stuttered, the persona nearly entirely gone and nowhere to be seen as he continued to move you up and down.

when you learn forward, your face hovering over spencer's chest, he took the opportunity to wrap his arms entirely around your waist. before you knew it, he was slamming his length into your pussy over and over and over and over again.

"oh! oh my god," you moaned, your voice reaching a higher octave as he drilled into your body in the most pleasurable way imaginable. "don't stop! don't stop! ple-please!" you screamed out, your hands wrapping around his torso and squeezing his body to ensure that he was there - present.

"i won't, princess. just let go. let go for me," he pressed a kiss to the top of your head so sweetly in contrast to how he was fucking you.

"i'm cumming! oh god, i'm cumming, spencer!" you cried out as you released the tension from inside of you.

only spencer wasn't done yet, so he took himself out of you, and he placed you on your back before reentering you. he moved in and out of you at a godly pace, trying to get himself to his climax before you would become too overwhelmed from the overstimulation.

"spen- spencer," you scratched at his back, surely leaving red marks for him to ogle once you were through. "i-i'm close," you sucked lightly at his earlobe before he moved his hand between the two of you, circling the little bundle of nerves at your crest.

"my little insatiable bunny, huh?" he smiled as you whimpered into his ear, nearing your second release. "loves my cock a bit too much, huh?"

"please! fuck!" you shouted out as you came on his dick, pulling at his hair. the clenching and fluttering of your pussy finally sending him over the edge, his hot release flooding your insides.

"fuck," he groaned into your ear as he carried the two of you through your releases. "good job, princess," he pressed a kiss to your neck as you stroked his hair, playing with it as you were still coming down.

"i'm sorry," you frowned once he pulled out, finally making eye contact as he lay down beside you.

"what for?" he asked incredulously.

"i just... i wanted to make you proud and i couldn't even finish without your help," you explained in a whiney manner, not allowing yourself to meet his beautiful eyes.

"hey," he grasped your chin to force you to make eye contact. "i love it when i have to help you reach that high. that's not something to be embarrassed or upset about."

"i know but i wanted to ride you and i couldn't even do that," you rolled your eyes.

"it takes time to get used to doing that," he chuckled. "and besides, riding someone on the bed is never a good way to begin. the couch is always better - that way you have the back of it to hold onto."

"really? so it's not that i'm just terrible at being a top?" your eyes widened with hope, he smiled at your eagerness.

"i think you could be a switch but it needs a bit of work, my love," he brushed your hair behind your ear before seeing your disappointed gaze and adding, "but i'll bet that with enough practice i could start calling you my little bunny, yea?"

"really?" you perked up at the proposition. "i want you to call me that."

"well then, i guess we better start practicing," he grinned before leaning in and giving you a sloppy kiss, his hands flying to your waist as he stood the both of you up to go to the couch.

needless to say, with spencer's guidance you were able to master the art of riding him. and you got that special little nickname, too.

taglist:

@averyhotchner

@greenprisca

@muffin-cup

@emilyprentisslittlewhore

@spenxerslut

if you’d like to be added to the taglist, please don’t hesitate to message me or leave a comment saying so!

#jtr23 #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #sugar daddy!spencer #spencer smut #spencer reid fluff #professor reid

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helloprettybb · 3 years

Text

slip of the tongue

i love bucky with all my heart. that’s it.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

description: bucky doesn’t really like you. but a night alone and a stab wound may change his opinion.

warnings: violence, bad description of action scene, heated kissing??? not smut but implied

word count: 1.9k

Bucky hates you. It isn’t difficult seeing as you’re Stark’s daughter and every quality in the man is tenfold in you. You’re crazy smart and you aren’t afraid to show it. Perhaps your worst attribute is your arrogance since it’s justified most of the time. Bucky hates how you’re always right and the stupid smirk on your face when you outwit or outtalk someone.

He knows you can tell and that’s the worst part. It seems you do everything in your power to irk him even more. Like trying to talk to him every time he enters the room or asking for every excruciating detail for any minor event. You get on his nerves and nothing could change that.

The team left for a mission this morning so it’s just you and Bucky at the Compound. After doing nothing all day, Bucky decides to go for an afternoon run. He doesn’t listen to music, as he enjoys the sounds of the city between the mindless chatter and the speeding cars, it reminds him of his youth.

Towards the end of his run, Bucky starts toward the Compound when his ears pick up a yell. Going towards the noise, he spots three men assaulting a woman. She tries her best to hold them off, but she is greatly outnumbered and outmatched by the three, burly men.

Bucky springs into action and grabs the man whose hands are around the woman’s throat. Yanking him off easily, Bucky shoves the man to the ground with a force that was probably harder than necessary, but he doesn’t feel an ounce of remorse as he moves his attention to the two other attackers. He grabs the second man, who is slightly shorter than the first and punches him square in the jaw. He releases the woman and stumbles back. The third man lands a few punches on him, but they barely phase Bucky. While fighting off the last man, Bucky doesn’t notice the first guy get up. He also fails to notice the shiny knife in his hand before it’s too late. The man stabs Bucky in the side. Now Bucky’s pissed as he pushes the third man into the wall. He turns toward the man with the knife and knocks him out cold.

He looks around and realizes the woman must have run away. “Good.” he thinks, but only for a minute as he remembers that he got fucking stabbed. He groans as he applies pressure to the wound.

Bucky makes it back to the Compound, but the pain is getting worse. Stumbling inside, he heads for the labs to look for a medkit. But of course, since it’s his lucky day, you’re there, too. You’re probably finishing the project that you were talking about for the past few weeks - something about particles accelerating, but Bucky didn’t care enough to ask. He hopes he can slip by unnoticed, but the gaping hole in his side draws attention to him.

Your head snaps up from your work and you see Bucky hobble by. “Heya Buck,” you start in your usual playful manner. But when you look at the state he’s in, your attitude changes immediately, “What the fuck happened?”

“It’s nothing.” he grumbles. You look down and see that he’s holding his side. His sweatshirt and fingers are covered in blood.

“Bullshit.” you say. Moving around the lab, you quickly find the medkit. “Sit down.”

“I don’t need your-”

“Shut up and sit down.” you interrupt. Bucky’s protests stop as he sits down on one of the stools. You pull up a chair and open the kit.

“Y’know this will probably heal by tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but it can’t heal if you bleed to death.” you retort. While the injury most likely won’t kill him, your point still stands. “Can I?” you motion to his hand. He removes his hand and you quickly pull his sweatshirt up to treat the wound. Luckily it’s a shallow stab wound and the gauze you put on is enough to stop him from bleeding out. As you continue to apply the gauze, you have to force yourself to not get distracted by his defined abs and focus all your attention on the wound. Your fingers trace over his stomach and he jumps slightly.

“Sorry,” you mutter. Your hands must be freezing from being down in the lab for so long. Once you finish applying the gauze, you say, “There, all done.” You look up at Bucky and are unable to read his expression. It causes you both to fall into an awkward silence. “So,” you say to clear the air, “How’d this happen?”

“Some guys were attacking this woman. Didn’t know one of them had a knife.” He responds gruffly. You nod in understanding.

You finish patching him up and say, “If you need anything like extra bandages or a beer, just come to me.” Bucky simply nods, unsure what to make of that proposition. He begins to leave awkwardly and almost makes it out of the lab before something in him makes him turn back.

He pops his head in and says, “You said something about beer?”

Bucky doesn’t know what time it is and he doesn’t care. He’s on his fourth beer, but he can’t get drunk so it doesn’t really matter. It’s funny because one beer turned into two and then three and now he’s found himself in a full-on conversation with you. And the most surprising part is that it’s delightful.

Behind your arrogance and quick judgments, you’re really funny. He knew you were smart, that wasn’t a surprise, but talking to you more changed his opinion of you.

“So, Buck.” Usually, that nickname didn’t get to him but a healing stab wound and a couple of beers will change anyone’s perception.

“What?” he asks.

“Got any lucky girl?” He scoffs at that and you look shocked. “What? It was simply a question.”

“It wasn’t the question, doll.” Since when did he call you doll? Just a slip of the tongue, he supposes. “It was the fact that I’d even have someone.” he says honestly.

“What do you mean? You’re a good-looking guy, just over one hundred. Any girl would be lucky to have you.” Bucky rolls his eyes and laughs. Damn, you’re growing on him.

“I’m serious!” you exclaim. Your left arm is on the couch and your hand is leaning against your hand. He realizes this is the closest you’ve been besides before when you were tending to his stab wound. “You’re a catch, Buck. What stops all the ladies from falling all over you?”

He rolls his eyes at you again whether at your persistence or wording. “I’m a bad guy, doll.” There it is again.

“That’s not true,” you scoff. Taking a sip from your beer, you casually add, “Besides, I’ve always had a thing for the bad ones,” Bucky raises an eyebrow at that. “Come on, Buck. I’ve liked you for a pretty long time. I thought I made it quite obvious.”

“By annoying the hell outta me?” He jokes.

“Hey, I was just trying to talk to you. Although I know I can come across as….”

“Annoying.” he says back. You give him a look that makes him laugh and soon a smile spreads across your face.

“I actually do care about you. But, I know you don’t feel the same way, so I’m happy just being friends.” Bucky thinks it over for a moment. Just this morning he was thinking about how you bothered the hell out of him. Actually, the more that he thinks about it, he realizes that he never really hated you. Did Bucky like you all along? He’s about to reply when the elevator doors open.

“Oh, you’re back?” you turn to greet the team.

“Hey, what are you doing up so late with Bucky?” Your dad eyes the two of you suspiciously.

You catch onto what he’s implying and assure him, “We’re just hanging out. In fact, I was just heading to my room. See you tomorrow.” You say a quick goodbye and leave before anyone could say anything.

They all turn to Bucky, ready to attack him with questions. “I’m going to head up, too.” Bucky quickly exits. He catches up to you, although he definitely didn’t mean to. Curse his long legs.

“Oh, hey,” you say as he enters the sleeping quarters.

“Hey,” he says. Fuck it, mind as well try it. “So, about the friend thing.”

You wince, “You don’t want to be friends.” You seem a little hurt by it, “I get it, you don’t really like me. It’s not like I can force you, too. And especially after I basically confessed to liking you as more than a friend, I could see how a potential friendship wouldn’t sound too appealing.” You’ve never looked this uneasy. He’s used to seeing you so confident and assured, but this was new.

Bucky lets you finish rambling before he replies, “No, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Oh.” He laughs a little, finally shutting you up. He moves closer, but you stay still. You both can tell what’s about to happen, yet neither is making a motion to stop it.

“I like you. As more than a friend.” You look like you’re trying to play it cool and contain your excitement, but Bucky sees you bite your lip like you’re trying to stop your smile from spreading.

“So…” You start like you’re thinking long and hard about what you’re about to say, “Can I kiss you?” You’re adorable. Bucky takes one last step and pulls you into a kiss.

Your lips are soft against his. Beyond the taste of beer, Bucky picks up some… he swipes his tongue over your bottom lip… cherry lipgloss. He’ll never get sick of the taste of cherries. He thought it’d be a sweet, innocent kiss but when you grab at his back, trying to hold him as close as possible, he knows it’s anything but. You kiss him hungrily as if your life depends on it and Bucky eagerly accepts. He muffles your moans and gasps and thinks about how nice those sounds will be echoed in his bedroom.

Bucky moves you so that your back is against the wall. You moan as his hands trail down your sides and onto your ass. His hands go under your thighs and you jump so that you can wrap your legs around his waist. Bucky catches you and pins you between himself and the wall.

Your hands go up to his hair and play with a few strands before pulling lightly. He groans at that, separating from your lips and throwing his head back. With his neck exposed, you trail kisses up and down his throat. Sucking and biting occasionally and making Bucky go crazy.

Two can play at that game, he thinks. He reconnects your lips to kiss you again and starts grinding his hips into you. Your hands go to his back and start scratching against his shirt.

Before this could go any further, Bucky pulls away and asks, “My room?”

And you smile, “Fuck yeah.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes imagine #marvel #marvel x reader #marvel imagines

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yutahoes · 3 years

Text

Father’s Day

A simple and late Father’s Day AU for my most favorite Yuta of all. This picture just screams dad! Yuta. And this is written in a whim so please tell me if something is wrong with this.

pairing : dad! Yuta Nakamoto x mom! Y/N, Shiho, Shinichi

genre : fluff, light smut (Sorry. 😥 but minors can read the first part, just don’t read after the mark)

word count : 1.4k words

warnings : slight boob play(?)

disclaimer : I don’t know anything about lactation or if this was possible but it’s for fiction purposes, so please let this little mistake slip. Again, minors can read the first part and stop on the mark.

Yuta stopped the ignition of the car then took out his keys before taking the duffel bag on the passenger seat and exiting his car while looking at their house. It’s quiet. Weird. Normally, he would hear Shiho’s squeal that her dad is home or his wife telling Shiho to open the door. Sometimes, Shin will add to the mix while crying. So this scenario, with all the lights from the inside closed is new.

Did something happen? His eyes widened in surprise. Wait, nothing bad happened right?

Quickly, with his heart beating wildly against his chest, he opened the door and heard a loud popping sound that made him plop to the ground. He could see the living room lights opened, Y/N near the lights while Shin was seated on his high chair, rubbing his eyes at the sudden light. Shiho was holding a small popper, staring at him. “What are you doing on the floor, daddy?”

He glanced at his wife but she just stared at him in confusion. “You just surprised me. I thought…” He stopped then shook his head, eyeing the banner with Shiho’s handwriting saying ‘Happy Father’s Day’ in Japanese and the food on the small center table. “What’s this? “

Shiho cleared her throat before opening a piece of paper and reading the words written inside, “Chichinohi omedetou, daddy! (Happy Father’s Day, daddy!)” Yuta chuckled when she continued, “Kazukuno tameni itsumo ganbatte kurete arigatou. (Thank you for working so hard always for our family)” He smiled at her broken yet improving Japanese. The younger breathed hard before looking up from the paper then at the older girl, “Mommy, help. This is so long.”

Yuta laughed as Y/N chuckled while walking to where Shiho is. “No worries.” He said while standing up, kissing the top of the younger’s head then his wife before carrying the mumbling Shin in his arms. “Did mommy teach you that, baby?” She nodded then sat beside her dad on the couch. Y/N disappeared to the kitchen while he read the contents of the paper Shiho was reading earlier. “You’re getting better at Japanese.”

“Arigatou gozaimasu, otou-san. (Thank you, daddy.)” She reappeared with a large plate of fried rice, crab meat fried rice to be exact. “I helped mommy cook that.” She pointed at the food just as she placed takoyaki next to the rice. “And that too.”

Yuta was astounded. This was all his favorite food. “Mommy can’t cook.” He teased and the older just grinned at him.

“We called obaasan and she helped us. She even told me what to say.” Yuta smiled. Of course. Why isn’t he surprised? “Do you like our present daddy?”

Shin kept on mumbling ‘papa’ while smiling at him, making Yuta nod. “This is the best Father’s Day ever.” Once again, he kissed Shiho’s head when she squealed in delight. “But you don’t have to do this, it’s lots of work. Every day for me is Father’s Day.” The younger girl looked at him in confusion. “I became a father because of you and Shin so seeing you everyday is already a present.” He crushed both kids in a hug that made the two children giggle.

Y/N stared at him in admiration and he winked when her eyes caught his. "Mommy, the cake." Shiho reminded that made her quickly sprang up from her seated position on the floor and disappeared to the kitchen again.

"Mommy made the cake as well?"

Shiho laughed. "We bought it in the store."

The meal was so good and Yuta was happy that both Shiho and Shin liked the foods he also loved, especially the green tea cake. He volunteered in washing dishes while Y/N tuck the kids to sleep. Once done, he entered the room where Y/N is calming down the crying Shin. “Do you need help?” She shook her head, opening the top buttons of her blouse to give Shin his food. “I’ll get some shower first.” The girl nodded before focusing on the younger child in her arms.

Once done, he saw her just placing Shin in the crib beside their bed. He was wiping his wet hair with a towel then sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her on his lap. “What?” She asked but Yuta just shook his head. Y/N stood up then sat back on his lap, her body facing his. She took the towel and started wiping his hair. “Busy?”

“Just some preparations.” He held her waist, watching as she focused on her task. “Thank you for the celebration.” She smiled. “The food was great. Better than last year’s.”

She let go of the towel then held his shoulders. “That’s good. I have to be better since you’re the best dad ever.” He pulled her closer by the waist then gave her a kiss on the cheek. “What was it? Kazukuno…” He didn’t let her finish and just leaned in to kiss her.

There’s something in him that stirs up when she speaks his native language. He remembered when he introduced her to his parents and she was struggling to speak Japanese but he knew back then that he wanted her to be the mother of his future children. “Thank you, Y/N.” She gave him a confused look. “I wouldn’t enjoy being a dad if it wasn’t for you. This day wouldn’t even mean so much to me without you. Thank you for giving me Shiho and Shin.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him that his head was nuzzled on her chest. “You are the best daddy ever, I hope you know that.”

---------------- (minors can stop reading until here, I’m sorry) ----------------

Yuta smirked when she let go of the hug. It’s funny that she’s calling him daddy once again. “Why is your blouse wet?” He asked in worry, noticing the wet spot on her chest. She explained that it was the milk and that she just needed to pump it so it won’t hurt. “Does it happen often? This is the first time I saw this.”

“Shin must be full so he didn’t drink all the milk and just slept.” She shook her head. “I’ll just get the breast pump…”

But he prevented her from standing up, “I hope Shin wouldn’t hate me if I share his food.” The look of confusion on her face was quickly replaced with surprise when he started unbuttoning her blouse. Yuta’s eyes were focused on her breasts that is wet with milk before kissing the side of her right breast. “I miss this.”

A moan escaped her lips when his tongue darted out and swiped against her nipples. His mouth suckled on her breast, tongue licking the nipple. His hand trailed on her back, the other fondling her left breast. His tongue circled and lapped at her swollen nipple. She could even feel the milk flowing from the breast, to her nipple, to her husband’s mouth. Y/N’s fingers thread on Yuta’s hair, her other hand holding his shoulder as she gasps at the arousing sensation.

Yuta smiled against her breast, feeling her body tense up at the pleasure. Why haven’t they done this before? She tastes so sweet and he’s suddenly jealous that his son is enjoying this sweetness from her everyday. He moved to the other breast, fondling the other he just dried up. Why are breasts so soft? It feels like they will melt in his hand.

“Mommy!” Both of them froze when Shiho opened the door. “I can’t sleep.” She then stopped. “What are you doing?”

Y/N turned her head to the side to look at her, careful not to turn her body to face the door. “I’m just hugging daddy.” She tried to push Yuta but his mouth is still latched on her breast, eager to get all the milk from her left breast. “Daddy will be there to sing you to sleep.”

She rubbed her eyes, muttering an okay before leaving the room and closing the door gently. A heavy breath escaped her lips followed by a squeal when Yuta lightly bit on the nipple. Y/N lightly slapped his shoulder when he let go of her breasts after kissing each of them. “I’ll throw your breast pump and hope that Shin can share some milk with me.” Again, a slap followed by a laughing fit. “I’ll tuck Shiho to sleep and continue this.”

She glanced at her breasts, lightly squeezing them. “I think I’m all out of milk.”

Yuta lightly carried her gently to bed, kissing her lips before standing up. “Milk isn’t the only thing I can suck from you.” She gasped in surprise as he chuckled, winking at her before opening the door to the room, “Wait for daddy, hmm?”

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

Hi Yuta, if you’re reading this I’m ready to conceive your Shiho Nakamoto and celebrate with you next year. 🤣🤣

#yuta smut #yuta nakamoto smut #nakamoto yuta smut #yuta fluff #yuta nakamoto fluff #nakamoto yuta fluff #dad yuta

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live-the-fangirl-life · 3 years

Text

The Taste of Your Lips

Aelin Galathynius x Rowan Whitethorn - Surprise Kisses

Who enjoys kissing Rowan more? Aelin, or Fleetfoot?

Written for Rowaelin Month 2021. Day 11: Surprise Kisses

Masterlist | Read on Ao3 | Rowaelin Month Masterlist

Warnings: Language, Light NSFW

855 words

*******

Rowan was lying in bed, his head propped up on the mound of pillows Aelin insisted they own. He'd long ago begrudgingly admitted that they made the room look nice, even if the sheer number of pillows always seemed to mock him whenever he had to remake the bed. Right now, however, the pillows were serving the wonderful purpose of being cloud-like cushioning as Aelin lay on top of him.

She had one leg on either side of his hips, effectively straddling him as she leaned forward to press her chest against his while she wove her fingers through his hair, pulling deliciously whenever his hands roamed somewhere she liked.

Rowan wasn’t sure how long they’d been like that, all he knew was the taste of Aelin’s mouth, the feel of her body pressed into his, and the sound of her soft moans as he palmed her ass.

He loved lazy mornings like this, just relishing in the presence of each other.

There were times when they’d stumble into their room, barely able to shut the door before their clothes littered the floor and Rowan was pushing into her, savoring the moan Aelin never failed to let out at his first sheathing.

There were times when they’d tease each other so thoroughly while out in public—little touches and looks that worked the other up so much they had to sneak away to a secluded closet, or corner, or that one time when they’d joined the mile-high club, much to Aelin’s delight. And his.

There were times when they would look into the other’s eyes with such love and trust that no words were needed. Those nights could last hours, with slow, deliberate strokes that sent them both careening over the edge into bliss together.

Rowan loved all of those instances. But something about this, about simply lying together without a care, kissing languidly—lazily—was something he truly loved. It always reminded him that he and Aelin had all the time in the world.

He couldn’t even remember what they’d been doing before this.

Her tongue glided back into his mouth, curling around his, and causing him to groan and flex his fingers against the soft swell of her ass.

“Aelin,” he murmured into her mouth and he thought he could feel her smiling.

Her kisses became more insistent, more sloppy.

“Rowan,” he heard her say.

He didn’t think he felt her lips form his name, but he was too focused on the feel of her body beneath his hands.

“Fireheart,” he moaned again as he felt her weight press even further into him as her tongue began flicking in his mouth.

“Rowan.” her voice was sharper this time.

Rowan’s hands froze because he knew that he hadn’t felt her lips move from his despite hearing her call his name.

“Rowan!”

With a jolt, his eyes flew open, and instantly sought out the voice of his fiancé. The woman was leaning against the doorframe, her bright turquoise and golden eyes looking far too amused.

Wait. The doorframe?

Rowan felt a tongue lick up his face and he sputtered as he looked down to see Fleetfoot laying on top of him.

“What the—”

He was interrupted as Fleetfoot continued to pepper kisses over his face.

“Argh! Get off,” he grumbled, carefully pushing the dog off of him and onto the ground so he could roll over and scrub a hand down his face, trying his best to wipe away the slobber.

“You know, Buzzard,” Aelin teased, “I feel like I should be offended that you thought a dog’s slobbery kisses were mine.”

Rowan groaned, he knew Aelin wasn’t to let this go easily. She would laugh and remember it for blackmail the next time they were arguing over a movie. Or she’d outright tell their friends and enjoy the flustered, embarrassed look on his face, knowing all the while he'd be planning how to get her back for it. Thoroughly.

“Aelin, please—”

She threw her head back and laughed. “When I heard you moaning my name I really didn’t expect you to be cheating on me with Fleetfoot.” She gasped mockingly.

Rowan dropped back onto the bed, refusing to meet her eyes as he felt his face heat.

“Oh don’t be too embarrassed,” she smirked, walking over to him, “it sounded like a very good dream.”

He leveled a glare at her when he saw the amused twinkle still in her eyes. “Not funny, Aelin.”

Rowan was startled as Aelin suddenly moved to straddle him, just as dream-Aelin had been. His hands instantly found her waist as she leaned forwards to whisper into his ear, “Why don’t you show me?”

All his embarrassment dissipated and he tightened his grip, pulling her flush against him, savoring the way her breath hitched at the sudden movement. Smirking, he brought his mouth a hairsbreadth away from hers.

“It’d be my pleasure.”

She winked. "Hopefully it'll be mine."

He chuckled darkly at the squeal she let out as he flipped them over to hover above her. He smirked before dipping his head and begun bringing his dream to life.

*****

Taglist:

@acourtofsnakes @allthebooksunderthemoon @astra-ad-mare @becarefuloflove @bisexual-genderfluid-loki @booklover41802 @charlizeed @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks @danibutterr @doubt-less @emily-gsh @enormousbooklover @foughtconquered @fromthelibraryofemilyj @hakunamatatazz @i-have-but-one-brain-cell @in-love-with-caramel-macchiato @jorjy-jo @lemonade-coolattas @mariamuses @mayhemories @midsizewitch @miserablesmusings @morganofthewildfire @nehemikkele @rowaelinismyotp @rowansfirebringer @sayosdreams @sheharahu @sleeping-and-books @stardelia @story-scribbler @superspiritfestival @surielandiareendgame @swankii-art-teacher @tomtenadia @westofmoon @whimsicallyreading @moodymelanist @angelic-voice-1997 @realbookloverproblems @gracie-rosee @julemmaes @yesdreamblog @the-regal-warrior @rowanaelinn @thestoriesyoutell @autumnbabylon @sunflowermoonshinewrites @maastrash

#rowaelin #rowaelinmonth #aelin #rowan #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #aelin x rowan #rowan x aelin #aelin and rowan #rowan and aelin #aelin galathynius x rowan whitethorn #rowaelin fluff #rowaelin fic #fleetfoot #throne of glass #tog

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lovenona · 2 years

Text

lotus eater

synopsis; heaven always tasted bitter against the roof of your mouth. or – part eight of the odyssey, a pirate! jujutsu kaisen cinematic universe

contains; a rather depressing reunion, depictions of blood + violence + death, reader has many injuries, flashbacks and contemplations of Life, many mentions of alcohol, there is a slimy gross drunk man that briefly bullies reader, the weather sucks, bad vibes as per the usual, can we get everyone a therapist i'm begging

word count; 15.0k

it was a cold summer that year. the winter chill never left, not really, and so the frost stayed into springtime, and the sugar never grew the way it was supposed to, and everything was wet with rain.

in town, merchants’ carts and housewives’ carriages sank like stones in the muddy streets while shopkeepers failed to keep the mess away. no one could escape the summer cesspool. the wet sand and the mud took up residence on everyone’s floors, in everyone’s boots, on everyone’s clothes. at the pubs, the ground blanketed in a layer of dirt, the air thick with the smell of stagnant water, sailors mourned the sorry state of their shirtsleeves over pints of beer and ale.

no one knew where to wander that year. the merchants worried they’d lose their fortune without any crops to sell and the sailors thought they’d never find another job. it was slow going, that tension between coming and leaving, building and decaying. the shopkeepers salvaged what they could and prayed for the rest. maybe next year, the hopeful said. until then, we can live off of last year’s grain.

the printing master lived in perpetual fear that his paper would mold. there could be no escaping it during a summer like that, when the freezing rain dripped in through the ceiling and summer warmth never came to dry it. that summer you spent every morning and every night checking and rechecking the supply. you opened boxes and rubbed the blank pages beneath your ink-stained fingertips to ensure they were still decent. the household was obsessed with it, with the sanctity of the paper and the press, the insurmountable quest to keep the mud off the floor.

he never seemed bothered by it, though. whenever you saw toji on the street he seemed as sullen as ever, his only good sweater sporting a hole in the sleeve, his boots so dirty you never could remember what color they were supposed to be. when the mist drifted in off the tide in the early afternoon he never cursed and went indoors. he just kept moving, from odd job to odd job, cleaning horse shit like the weather never mattered. perhaps it was because he didn’t notice it. perhaps it was because he was only ever cared about the moment he’d leave.

but that was life, then, at the edge of the world. you lingered beside the press and brought the finished products to the harbor. on breezy summer nights you found a home in the raucous hum of the pub and convinced yourself you liked the taste of ale. you remember how toji always used to laugh at you when you scrunched your nose in distaste, his shoulder pressed against your shoulder, his body rumbling with delight.

on sunnier days you finished your work early to wander by the sea. with the last of your allowance you found the old woman near the harbor, her humble shop weathered by rain, her usual wares diminished by the unwelcome chill. her fruit was always too bitter. still, you bought it anyway, because she never minded gifting it all to you.

“you like to listen,” the woman croaked, mouth wide with her missing teeth, “and that, i think, is payment enough.”

she always told you a story in exchange for her food. sometimes it was her days as a girl, when the world was smaller and no one dared look too far beyond the horizon. sometimes it was about her first lover, who she swore fought the cursed gods of the sea before dysentery finally dragged him under. she had been here forever, the old woman always said, and she remembered when the universe did not always look like this port.

you would listen, you would thank her, and then you would all but stumble towards the beach. toji was already waiting for you, seated lazily on the sand, his eyes half-closed as if in slumber. he never cared if the sand was still muddy or if the water was too cold. whenever you were with him, you didn’t either: like toji, you cared only if the sun was out, if the summer breeze was blowing, if you could really pretend you were anywhere else.

“sorry i’m late,” you said, breathless, waving the basket in your hand as you threw yourself down beside him. “she kept talking to me about the time a boar tried to eat her father.”

toji rolled his eyes, but he shifted closer until your shoulders kissed when he snatched the basket from your hand. “i don’t know why you keep amusing her. her fruit tastes like shit.” from within the basket he summoned what you thought might have been an apple, once, before it adopted a strange and unusual color and a distinctly uncomfortable smell.

“and yet you keep eating it.” you took his apple and a dull kitchen knife from the basket and mindlessly sliced the sad fruit into pieces. when toji eyed them, you offered, and with the same greedy impatience of the dogs behind the butcher toji tossed a few slices in his mouth.

“i’m not going to say no,” toji retorted. “just know that it’s fucking bad.”

you laughed then, playfully, resting your head on his shoulder while you ate. the sun flickered brightly against the sea, but you felt none of its warmth. when toji dipped his feet into the water, you did too, and you did not wince when the ocean froze your ankles. it was silent between you save for the sad apples and the current and the wind. you liked the summer when it was like this, when you could pretend it was beautiful. you liked when it was you and him against the world on your back.

(buccaneers, was it? a future fit for kings? a fortune built on loneliness, on strength, on needing? oh, yes, that’s right: they would write stories of him, the beast of the high seas, stories composed for you like rare and delicate gifts. and you, ever the clown, could bring yourself to believe that there was pleasure in existence, that with the caress of calloused fingers on your skin, you could be reborn, over and over again.)

“oh, look,” you broke the silence gently. “there’s boats today.”

out on the horizon, nestled like ducklings in the waves, lived a family of small sailboats, their white sails hopeful and proud against the mid-afternoon sky. they circled each other slowly, children at play, timeless and cool and unburdened. at such a great distance you could not see the sailors directing them, and so the boats themselves took on a godlike quality, as if they themselves were their own deities on the water.

you studied them quietly, your eyes wide, eager to memorize the course of their movements. the fruitbasket sat forgotten on the sand, and you would have forgotten toji had you not been so enamored by the sheer feeling of his body beside yours, of the steadiness of his breathing, of the warmth of his heart.

“well, would you look at that,” toji mumbled diligently in reply, but he was never so delighted as you. still, his gaze followed the sails, studied the way the light reflected off them, a light which gave them the impression of being carefully manmade clouds. he bit into another apple and licked his lips to savor the taste.

“what do you think they’re doing?” you never tore your eyes away. you tried to picture it for yourself, like always, but you liked it better when toji found the words. you always wanted him to tell you, because life sounded better on the lips of someone else.

he shrugged, rolling the half-eaten apple between his fingers. “fishing, probably. they’re small. boats like that can’t go much further or they’ll get pulled out by the current and never come home.”

you let him wrap his arm loosely around your shoulder and rest his cheek against your head. he smelled like toji, like lightning and firelight, like facing danger without worry. you pretended it did not hurt you a little when he held you like this. you pretended you were not memorizing the very weight of his head for the day when you would not feel it.

“i’d like that,” you said as the brisk summer wind ripped a hole in the tide. a seagull dove elegantly across the water and cried as it flew away. the seaweed gathered dispassionately at your ankles, but you lacked the resolve to push it back. instead it stayed, slimy chains and slimy weights, kissing your toes with the same insistence that it kissed his.

toji hummed. “what, fishing or being stranded forever at sea?”

you huffed indignantly into his shoulder, but you held him closer all the same. out on the water, amidst the blue sky and the hearty gale, the sailboats quietly circled each other again. it was as if they wanted to tell you something important but simply never knew how. it was as if they were writing a letter that no longer needed you to know the language.

“you know what i mean,” you said, your cheek pressed against the rough knit of toji’s sweater. you know we’d never want to stay at a place that’s not home.

he sighed, that bitter sigh you and he knew all too well, the one that said more than he ever could with words. it was the sigh that followed you both into the evening and napped beneath the table at the pub. it was the sigh that could only be angry, could never be still. it was the sound that broke beneath the weight of the world but always begged for more.

a few heavy clouds began to gather on the horizon. the boats would come back to the harbor soon, swiftly, before it began to rain.

“yeah,” toji conceded, “i know.”

but now the rain falls eagerly, thick and unrelenting. it does not hesitate to soak through your clothes and cling to your skin. it falls into your eyes, and even when you try to brush the raindrops away, the wind blows them back to you. the waves sob against the coastline; behind you, the trees bend obediently in the gale. you wonder if their branches will snap. you hope you do not stick around long enough to find out.

your tongue catches between your teeth. you stare across the empty space to the place where he stands, unencumbered and cool as always. he does not seem to mind that the rain has soaked him to the bone. he looks only at you, his once-emerald eyes tainted onyx by nightfall. he looks at you expectantly and still you do not know what to say. what can you? your hands twitch helplessly at your side and you let yourself fall prey to the vision.

“hello?” toji tilts his head, casually waving an arm to catch your attention. “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

the statement shoves you back to your senses. you frown, heart flailing, and try to remap the scar on his lip and the playful nature of his eyes. you’ve never seen this shirt of his. when did he get a sword? has he somehow gotten taller, or are you merely shrinking? has he ever looked at you like that before?

“i–” you pause, the statement caught in your throat. should you cry? throw your arms around him and beg to be forgiven for a sin you didn’t commit? what is the guidebook for meeting an ex-lover after murder? whatever you thought you might say, it dies as you ramble, “what – what are you doing? how did you get here?”

toji shrugs with the same fluid, composed, infuriating ease. “the same way you did, i presume. by water.” his lips curl into a halfhearted smirk when he nods his head towards the howling, untamable sea. it might have been humorous, once, but it chills you now in ways you cannot name. he meets your gaze again, and your lungs deflate beneath the pressure. did you always remember him this way?

toji steps forward. you drink it in, all of it, the familiar gait and the wet hair plastered to his forehead, the muddy boots and the unfamiliar sword tucked safely into his belt. he is so painfully similar and yet he is not the same at all. your head buzzes and your rational mind threatens to burst. you do not know what to do with him, with this, so you watch lamely as he approaches, your feet rooted firmly to the sand, boots sinking slowly with the rain.

“you’re bleeding,” toji observes suddenly. you note the new crease in his brow when he says it. you look down to find thatindeed, toji, i am, thank you for noticing, the wound on your abdomen dripping precariously down onto the stones and the weeds. you don’t have to investigate much further to know that it is everywhere, that even with the rain soaking you through you will never be able to hide the stains of your victory and your failure.

to match toji’s uneasy cool you shrug nonchalantly, but the action awakens some new and unwelcome pain in your arm. “oh. yeah. i, uh,” you lose your thoughts and struggle to find them. your forehead begins to ache. “i got into some trouble.”

toji’s expression contorts with concern. his gaze flickers between your tired eyes and your bloody fingers as he assesses the wounds he cannot see. he reaches out worriedly, flexes his fingers and opens his mouth as if to say something useful, but he pauses on that precipice, words empty, actions dead; in another moment, with great perturbation, he retreats back into his shell. instead, without meeting your eyes, he says, “come on. let’s get out of the rain.”

you, bleeding, unsure of what else to do, nod warily and follow. your feet slide against the wet stones, and it takes every bit of your determination not to fall over again. ahead of you, toji calmly leads the way down the beach. he doesn’t complain when his boots sink into the muddy sand or when the rain drips down his matted hair and nestles under the collar of his shirt. you watch the way his muscles flex and the way his back moves, the way his sword sways ever so elegantly at his belt.

(did he always walk like that? so lost in your fantasies, you could never quite remember. there are many things about fushiguro toji you find you did not know.)

the wind hurls frigid cold into your ears and threatens to blow you away. shivering, you wrap your arms around yourself to staunch the bleeding and give yourself the semblance of warmth. with commendable focus you trace toji’s nonexistent shadow as you wander through the sand. your teeth chatter violently, and you wonder pathetically whether it’s actually going to be the shitty weather that finally ends you.

as if he could read your thoughts, toji calls, “it’s not that far from here, promise. it’s outside the barrier, so we shouldn’t be able to hear the ghosts.”

you cannot quite identify the strange feeling that grows in your ribcage. it twists, much like a fog or a poison, and threatens to purge whatever you had eaten for dinner a thousand years ago in the dark. you know it is going to consume you, but there is nothing you can do about it. you say nothing, your tongue trapped, your bones aching, and continue to walk in his footsteps.

(toji, you would say, perhaps, if you had the words for it, if you didn’t have the fear, how do you–)

“here we are,” toji announces too proudly. “i told you it wasn’t far away.” he gestures to his left, towards what looks to be a giant boulder nonchalantly nestled beneath a few dying trees, comfortably far from the broiling surf. time or determination or both once hollowed out the inside, and it exists now as a sort of makeshift cave, a little house just large enough to shelter you both from the rain.

“there should be some dry wood in here,” toji reassures, more to himself than to any other, crouching down and crawling into his sad excuse for a haven. you watch him haphazardly search for said wood before he organizes it into an even sadder little pile. the rain falls in painful sheets on your back, but still you pause as he kneels over the wood, as he digs for old matches in his pockets.

how long ago did you store that in here? you want to ask, but you don’t know if you would ever get a real answer.

“are you coming in, or are you planning on standing out there?” toji glances up briefly, expectant, waiting. you nearly shudder beneath his gaze. too quickly for comfort, you obediently crawl into the cave and sit back against the cool stone walls, all too aware of the way toji blatantly shuffles away when you try to sit beside him. you close your eyes, your breathing uneven. outside, the wind cries furiously. inside, toji’s wet hands try to light the fire.

(but he was always like that, you know: always so impatient when he wanted you to listen.)

“hey,” toji said, a little too abrasive to be flirtatious, “are you going to open this, or should i just let myself get eaten?”

you never moved so fast in your life. the printing master had gone to bed early, sure, but when toji wanted something, he was loud. you prayed furiously that his aggressive knocking hadn’t woken up the entire household and raced out of bed to pull open the window. the evening breeze slunk in like an array of seductive tendrils and there toji stood, a canvas bag thrown over his shoulder, his emerald eyes much too lit up with mirth.

“what the fuck?” you hissed, but still you took the bag and helped guide toji through your bedroom window with dreadfully gentle hands. “do you want me to get fired?”

“you worry too much,” toji fluidly brushed away your hatred. “i’m sure you saw those fucks down a whole bottle of shitty whisky before they finally passed out in bed.” he stood up, brushed the wrinkles from his shirt, and grinned at you with that crooked smile that he knew would always win. you hated when he smiled like that, all playful and amused, because it lit you up like a firework and turned you into a fool.

like now, for instance, as you stood awkwardly with a man much too large to fit properly into your room.

you sighed as a last-ditch effort to regain your composure. “fine. but at least take your shoes off. i spent hours trying to get all the mud out of here.”

“yeah, yeah,” toji rolled his eyes but listened all the same. he flung his muddy boots into the corner with infuriating nonchalance and made a home for himself on your floor, resting his back against your bed and spreading his limbs as if hewere not the unexpected visitor. you watched him with his eyes closed, the scar on his lip and the midnight shine in his hair, and committed him all to memory.

“i’ve got to get out of here. imagine staying in a place where the most exciting thing to happen to anyone is that the floor is fucking clean. how do people live like this?” he cracked open an eye to watch you, still standing by the window, still holding the bag in your hand, curious as to why you hadn’t yet joined him.

(we didn’t, you know. we pretended.)

you melted beneath that look of his, but instead you quipped: “there’ll be dirt on everyone’s funeral clothes after we all die of boredom.”

he smiled. that undid you. toji gestured seductively to the ground beside him as he said, “i’ll have failed if i don’t get buried somewhere better than this shithole.”

“me too.” you fell neatly into his side, his arm wrapped around your shoulder, your thigh against his thigh, as if you were never quite whole until you were together. “the view here is terrible.”

“this view?” toji leaned in, lips ghosting against your cheekbone, his free hand dancing dangerously along the hem of your nightshirt. “really? terrible?”

“toji,” you warned, but you let him do it anyway, run his lips from your cheek until they reached the corner of your mouth, let him turn your face towards his until he could capture you properly in a kiss. you always let him. there was no way you could stop. you could never do anything when his tongue was electric, when it built you and broke you, when brought you to the edge of heaven and back again.

you only pulled away when you couldn’t hold your breath anymore, and even then, toji’s mouth followed you relentlessly, pressing a sloppy kiss against your jawline until he could finally pretend he’d had enough.

you breathed in ragged turns, your heartbeat loud in your ears, your lips parted with a look of eternal surprise. you were still staring at toji’s scar when he reached over to take his bag from you, his hair mussed, his expression ecstatic. you were still thinking about the flavor of his tongue when he pulled out the bottle of rum, the label smudged from his haste. you knew better than to ask how he got it. toji was always borrowing things like that, always letting his hands wander until something precious went missing.

(outside, the summer wind swirled on, and from somewhere off in the distance echoed the sorrowful lamentations of a boar. you hoped everyone in the world was sleeping. you thought it would make toji’s actions more romantic that way.)

you studied the bottle with an air of distaste, but you couldn’t help the blissful, helpless smile on your face when you said, “and just where did you get this one?”

“i was unloading cargo this morning, thank you,” toji retorted, his fingers dexterously removing the cork without trouble. “consider this my salary.” since they’d never pay me anyway.

“how considerate of you,” you said, but your compliment carried no weight as you watched toji tilt his head back to drink, his face tinted blue by the moonlight filtering into the room. there were still remnants of the sea and the harbor on his shirt, and his body was warm, and his hair was beautiful. you didn’t realize that you hadn’t blinked once until toji waved the bottle before your eyes and invited you to have a taste.

the bottle tasted like toji and like rum, like the shitty alcohol from the storage deck on a nameless ship and the tumultuous thunder on toji’s lips. it burned when you swallowed; you closed your eyes when they watered. all the while you felt toji’s gaze on you, far too perceptive and far too sweet, trying to read your mind without asking.

(you always pretended you didn’t notice when toji memorized you that way. it would feel better later, you told yourself, if you could convince yourself that he had never paid attention at all.)

“fuck, that’s strong,” you said instead of i wish you’d look at me forever.

but i was looking, you know. toji chuckled and brushed his thumb gently across the excess at the corner of your mouth. “exactly.”

you fell into an easy silence after that, distant echoes emanating from the breeze outside, from the boar in the woods, from the slosh of the bottle as you solemnly passed it back and forth. it did not take you long to grow dizzy and eager from the taste of toji and fermented sugar. your mind was slick and smooth, your limbs like water, your heart like air. you fell further and further into toji until he was lifting the bottle to your lips himself, until he was tossing it away to kiss you. you could never be sure where he ended and where you began, just like you could never be sure where time started and where it stopped.

“and how’s that old fuck of a printing master?” toji was saying, his eyes bright with an artificial confidence. you felt his breath on your neck and could not remember the rest of the conversation.

“first of all, he’s sleeping in the other room,” you reminded him, “and second of all, he’s fine. he just gambles too much.”

but toji was never convinced. you could feel it in the way his body tensed, in the way he controlled his breathing to keep himself together. he wasn’t looking at you, but somewhere at the wall behind you, absent of anything save one measly print of a boat you found in the trash bin and decided to keep.

“yeah? and has he let you do anything yet? write a story or something? teach you how to publish and trade?”

“well, no,” you admitted, “he hasn’t advanced me further, but the stories i read are still good.” so at least there’s that. you wouldn’t look toji in the eyes because you knew it was shameful. you knew your life was inescapable and disappointing and boring as sin. you knew that, you knew it, but in front of fushiguro toji you were always ashamed to make it true.

and as usual, toji would not relent. “stories? you mean the garbage he prints, all of that boring shit we already know? those stories?”

your downfall was in your hesitation. you never could rest easy without defending your case. “well, i mean, on sundays he prints that section about life overseas–”

toji scoffed diligently, razor-sharp. “by the time you actually hear about any of that, it already happened months ago. it’s hardly a story at all.”

the room was too stifling for you both when you replied, “i know. but at least i get to hear it.”

together you sat in an untamable quiet. it swept through the stale air in the room, through the walls with no pictures, into the yard outside. the world was so small, it could wander from one end of town to the other in just under a minute. the port was a fence that caged you, but you could not afford to pay for the exit. you did not know what hurt you more, then: that you could not make it happen or that some already-defeated part of you did not even wish to.

toji turned his head and pressed his lips to your jaw in a silent apology for whatever he might have said that you did not want to hear. you accepted it, as you always did, and let your eyes flutter shut at the feeling.

“for me, at least,” toji whispered huskily against your skin, “i don’t think i’ll ever be satisfied unless i can see all that shit for myself.”

you, against your better judgement, tilted your head to give toji better access. he took it gladly, pressing kiss after kiss at your jawline until he planted a generous garden at your pulse. you savored it, that immediacy, that feeling, terrified you would suddenly wake up from the most pleasurable dream.

“i know,” you agreed, your voice a little too breathless for your liking, “but i don’t know how to leave. my parents left me behind, so i can’t ask them, and i’ve got no salary, so i can’t just pay my way out like everyone else. the only way i’d be able to go is if–”

“if some kindly old pirate let you stow away on board their ship?” toji moved from his home at your neck to meet your eyes. he was smiling when he leaned in, all dangerous and composed, his fingers like hot coals at the edge of your shirt. “a possibility. but you don’t strike me as the type for that.”

indignant, you turned away. your face warmed, held in perpetuity over a burning fire, and you clenched your fists to dull the pain spreading through your chest. not the type, you scoffed. sure, what toji said was true, you told yourself, but still: could you not lie to yourselves, if only for an instant? you studied the cracks in the floorboards and pretended there was no one seated beside you.

“i know,” you hissed quietly under your breath, but the words carried no venom. “i know.”

you felt him lean in and press a kiss to the back of your neck, his chest warm against your body, his arms ensnaring you insistently in his touch. even with your displeasure you could not deny him. he pressed a chaste kiss to the sacred place beneath your ear, and you bit your tongue to stifle a sigh.

“that’s not what i meant,” toji said in lieu of i’m sorry. “only because i see you as the captain, not the person who follows behind.”

you turned back to face him in an instant. “you’re lying.” you could not find any humor in his statement.

toji’s fingers pressed lovingly into your hip as he grinned at your confusion. “never. i don’t care who it is, your goddamn sukuna or whoever-the-fuck, you’re too smart to be in their shadows. i’ll vouch for that forever it i have to.”

your face was much too hot, and the butterflies in your belly were much to potent for your liking. you could not help but bashfully look away, turn your gaze to study some empty space over toji’s ear, and pretend that his words weren’t the closest thing to heaven you’d ever come. you could still feel those confident eyes on your face, on your lips, and you wondered what you would do with yourself the day he finally looked away.

were you supposed to say that? was i supposed to believe you?

“i’m not sure about that one,” you said, finally, “but i appreciate your faith in my nonexistent abilities.”

toji’s hand encased yours, warm and calloused and inviting, as he guided it across the space between you to his hips, to his thigh, to the annoyingly pleasurable landscape between his legs. he was grinning with the expression he knew would always win against you. you were silently collapsing into ashes and stars.

“hey,” he said, his lips close enough to brush against yours when he spoke, his hand guiding you further, further, “you’ve always had big dreams, haven’t you?”

“toji!” but you could not help it: you followed him into the fire.

it doesn’t take toji very long to light his matches. you watch his calloused hands coax smoke and flame with an enviously casual ease. the fire blankets you both in its orange glow, strange against the indigo night, and crackles to life with a fistful of warmth. despite your desire to lie down and perish, you hunch greedily over it, holding your hands above the flames in the hopes it will cure you that way.

you are much too aware of toji’s body on the other side of the cave. once he deems the fire sufficient he flattens himself against the wall and splays his limbs out to dry. he is careful not to touch you. you do not know why he runs away with such determination. you do not even know if you should look at him anymore, and so you study the flames and wipe the blood from your rain-soaked fingers.

(were you always so far? is it the other?)

“it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” you jerk and nearly smash your head against the cave’s roof when toji’s unfamiliar voice breaks the silence. you look up at him. his expression is unreadable, his face cloaked in shadow, but his question carries with it a sort of painfully tender ache.

awhile, he says, but a lifetime. because you and i are no longer the same; because you and i could have never seen it coming. does he count the days in sunsets or in the movement of the tides? how long have you mourned for a fruit that could not sustain you?

you look back towards the campfire. “four or five years at least, but it was hard to tell without a calendar.”

silence drowns you both again. you pretend to examine the dried blood under your fingernails and will your clothes to dry before you gather the courage to steal another glance at toji. he is watching you with that bottomless complexity, the force of his mind hidden beneath his dark eyes. so much to tell him still, once upon a time; but now, here, sorrowful, everything you ever wanted to say burns like saltwater in your throat.

so, finally, as a half-assed effort to dispel the tension, you gesture to the pitiful island of tengen’s nest as you say, “i see you’ve been around since then.”

(everywhere, even, if i had to guess: but i was never there with you, and you liked it that way.)

toji shrugs. he gazes out towards the dark waves hurling themselves against the shore, to the wet sand and the unfavorable wind that calmly tears large branches from trees. it’s the sort of storm that won’t let up until morning, that would never dream of listening to prayers for relief. it is the sort of weather in which no self-respecting sailor would ever make a voyage. whenever they did, you would not find the wreckage or the bodies for days.

“i guess so,” toji answers, finally. “but i could say the same for you.” he raises an eyebrow at your dreary state, at your bloody clothes. you resist the urge to curl in on yourself and pretend that you do not exist. “never thought i’d catch you stumbling out of a place like tengen’s nest.”

you do not know if you like the way that name slips off his lips. something obscene constricts your insides and, despite your desire to scream it, to mourn it all with all your might, you hold your breath. you do not want to acknowledge it yet. you take toji’s lead and dance around the question when you say, unfeelingly, “i had a debt to pay.”

the fire casts a warm glow on the sand. it would have been beautiful, once, a lifetime ago, but now you are merely attempting to drown yourself in the hypnotic wood and embers when toji asks, “so? did you kill the guy?”

you freeze. you look up, frowning intensely, but toji’s expression is as plain as ever, eyes regarding you with nothing more than a passing curiosity. how, you want to ask, but you know better. when, you think, but you do not want to know. why, the world begs, but that is the worst of them all. instead, you give in, hold yourself over the fire, and respond, “no, but someone else did.”

toji nods. “i see.” he does not offer a second question. he is vacant of every story, every conversation, weathered away and eroded by mystery until only the bones remain. you miss the sound of his voice and yet you cannot bear to hear it. the rain pours; the storm rumbles on.

you cannot deny the ice that festers in your lungs. despite the fire’s tepid heat, you shiver, caught between the thing you wanted and the thing you know. despite the proximity you are so far away, fighting the tide against years of distance, against leagues of time. with your own shallow strength you cannot drag yourself and proteus out of this torrid shadow.

outside, the rain falls sideways, and you cannot see the horizon.

on the other side of the cave, toji clears his throat. “so how’d you finally get out?”

you shrug noncommittally beneath the weight of the question. through death and through sulfur. “just like you said. i had to wait for some kindly old pirate to take pity on me.” you try to smile, but it reeks of banal humor and sour pity. the joke falls short, like everything else. there is no use in hiding the flames on the backs of your eyelids.

“sukuna?” you do not miss the way toji’s eyes darken a thousand degrees, or the way his voice drops with gravity, or the way his body turns to stone. as much as he attempts to hide it, the displeasure breeds a palpable unease in the little room, not unlike the nights in which the hungry boars did not scream before they struck.

you bite your bleeding lip and taste the iron. the wicked night, it follows you, but you brush it aside with wounded fingers. “how’d you know?”

toji raises an eyebrow. you catch a harrowing glimpse of the story inside him, of the anger and the interest and the comfort, before he swallows them all up and renders himself devoid of incriminating feeling. he does not speak until he is empty again. you wonder where he learned this. you do not want to find out.

another lackluster shrug, but it prickles your spine. “lucky guess.” but you are not appeased by this and some older part of him must know it. you keep your eyes trained on his impossible face, staring into what you hope might be his soul, until toji adds, “well, you always said you liked him.”

you always said. but the cynical air with which toji speaks warns you not to push it further. you always said, but you do not know if he is ready to hear about the adventures, about the midnight dreams, about the promise you made that you hope will not crumble. you do not know if that unusually troubled expression wishes to hear about what it is like to live in his shadow. you are not sure if the new toji wants to hear you at all.

so you do not tell him, whether from fear or from compassion, you could not say. you hum some kind of reply that you do not know the meaning of. you wonder why you have not yet stopped shivering.

(and has he always been seated so far away? can toji hear you on the other side of the fire, can he recognize your eyes? what do you do with an insurmountable barrier: cry? scream? smoke it out? you were ready for murder but you were not ready to see him like this, not now, not ever. but still you stay; you would always stay. it is your weakness and your vice.)

“so, toji,” you begin again, your voice delicate, as if scared to brush a dandelion, “what about you? where have you been since you left?”

toji does not answer right away. he does not know quite what to say when he considers his recollections and carefully decides what to tell you. you watch him shuffle through his discarded memories and practice the echoes of different words on his lips. you watch him struggle against himself and give you nothing at all.

“i’ve been around,” toji responds eventually, elusively. his careless expression has not changed. “left home, did a couple of projects with some merchant ships, but they never paid me much money for it. after awhile i quit trying to play nice and got caught up with a few fucked-up pirates and now,” he gestures to the rain outside, “i’m here.”

so much to tell you, still. you try not to cry when you press, “and megumi? what about him? where does he fit into all of this?”

for the first time all evening, toji is surprised. raw shock overrides his expressionless face and molds him into the perfect model for discomfort, for panic, for fear. you do not miss the way his breathing hitches or his fists clench. you do not miss the caged and wild animal hiding behind those dark and tragic eyes.

“megumi...” toji echoes, his voice strained against invisible strings. there is a poem he writes, but he does not recite it. “oh, megumi. i met his mother on a whim when i went to shore once. couldn’t tell you the town. i wanted to stay, but the money ran out, so i left again.” he looks unusually distraught when he adds, “i still haven’t been able to make it back.”

(he was a blessing until he became my curse; until i lost it all because i couldn’t carry it with me, until the moon rose and the moment died.)

he studies the invisible sea, disturbed by his own admission. you observe him, tight-lipped, unsure whether you’ll make him cry or scream if you continue. so you, experienced, hold your tongue, the subsequent pain manifesting in your stomach, and wait for the silence to choke you. you know the questions but you cannot voice them. outside the barrier, the noise is too loud.

“and you?” toji changes the topic, throwing the interrogation back in your direction. “what have you been up to with your favorite overlord sukuna?” somehow, the question is not so kind when he says it. he pronounces sukuna’s name with dissension, with distrust, as if the mere word alone put a thorn in his side. he is not looking for what you did or what you know; he searches for something else, deeper, more profane, like a lover with a vengeance.

“oh, you know,” you echo, trying to shake the sensation of some unwelcome spider crawling up your spine. “we’ve just been around, seeing different ships and islands, taking treasure, the like.” the lie is poison. “i think i met a family member of yours along the way – a zenin? she looked just like you. why didn’t you ever mention them?”

(why did you return to them when you left? with a child? with her? why did you pretend it meant nothing to you?

bastard son of a faraway family? did you mean it when you said it?)

toji readjusts himself to sit in a more comfortable position. his eyes look unlit, murderous even, filled with a lifetime of childhood anecdotes he would burn at the stake if given the chance. “they never saw me as real family. i left when i was young, and i didn’t want anyone to know. fushiguro was just a flower that used to grow by the house, that’s all. i wanted my own name or nothing.”

“but you still left your only son with them?”

toji does not look at you when he replies, “his mother died, and with no money left there was nowhere else to bring him.”

you swallow your sharp tongue when you recognize the ancient pain in his eyes. indeed, terrified of the funeral, you fall back into the sound of the fire and the rain, the roar of the waves against the shore and the eager crackle of burning wood and embers. you dig your boots into the sand and breathe slowly in a feeble attempt to hinder the spread of your migraine. you close your eyes and lean back against the wall and will your bleeding to stop.

(the mother died: and he is alone now, so truly and utterly alone. no wonder the light finally died in those fiery green eyes.)

you had hoped, once, that you might meet under different circumstances, that you would simply float back together and share stories for a lifetime. you should have known there was someone else always waiting. you should have known that time would suffocate you both until you had nothing left to say to each other.

you should have known it all sooner. but you did not expect it, and it kills you the way the waves corrode the shore.

you attempt to shift your body to appease the irritable pain in your awkwardly bent legs and the growling ache in your back; but to do so awakens each and every wound you had gathered in battle, reminds you of all the places the blonde prince had dared to touch. against your will, you curse, wincing, holding a trembling hand against your torso. for a moment you see red: for a moment you wish you could see nothing.

on the other side of the fire, toji fixes burning green eyes onto your palm splayed across your bloody shirt. he wakes up briefly, ignoring the flames as he leans in closer to assess the damage in the subpar golden light. you watch those green eyes grow colder, angrier, as they put two and two together, as they realize what your injury might mean.

“fuck, hold on, that’s a lot worse than i thought. why the fuck didn’t you say anything? did you plan on just dying here?” but you can do nothing but look back at him, your lip quivering, your blood congealed with heartache and pain. even against your better judgement you are ready to open your arms to him the way you always used to. you see it, just barely, his hands fluttering weakly, palms desperate to touch.

you shiver when he asks, brutally, his sword sharpened against the world, “who did this to you?”

you could never remember for certain. despite the evening chill, it was still unbearably humid in the pub. nothing would stay dry, and so fingertips remained sticky with whisky and sweat, and a layer of musk hung tightly on everyone’s clothes, and the tables smelled like wet wood and dissatisfaction. with the failed crops and the unstable deals still prescient in the august summer, hope quickly fell through. unemployed sailors flocked to the pubs but they still could not find a reprieve against nature. so they sat, their destitution as bitter as their smiles, and waited for a moment to surrender.

the one-eyed pirate pretended not to notice. he clutched his beer enthusiastically, his body leaning over the table to be heard among the disheartened din. he was telling you about sukuna that night, about sukuna and the story he’d heard from someone else who swore he knew another captain that had met the god, but no one was entirely listening. it was difficult when every other table was grumbling, when everyone else knew they didn’t have enough money to pay for their women or their meal.

“but that’s what he said,” the one-eyed pirate nodded solemnly. “said he knew a captain who wasn’t afraid to strike a deal with sukuna. looked him right in the eye and nearly shot the king to death when he didn’t uphold his end of the bargain.”

beside you, toji wasn’t listening. his body was warm beside yours, his hand resting lazily on your thigh under the table, but his mind was elsewhere, perhaps out the door, perhaps on the horizon. you knew he only listened to the one-eyed pirate’s stories to appease you, but you liked the comfort of him anyway, the knowing looks you shared when drunk men embarrassed themselves, the kisses he pressed to the back of your neck when no one else paid attention.

“they didn’t shoot him,” the second pirate quipped. “they used a sword.”

“yeah, yeah,” the one-eyed pirate dismissed him. “no one cares about the details.”

you noticed toji’s cup, which often doubled as yours, was empty. in the hopes that maybe something else would revive him, you stood up, stating, “i’m headed back to the bar. anyone else want something?”

“another beer, if you can.” the one-eyed pirate held out his empty mug with a thankful grin. “i need to clear my throat before the next story. it’s hard work, you know.”

you rolled your eyes, and, taking the cup, turned to a quiet and disinterested toji. “any preferences?”

he shrugged, but you felt the sweetness when he added, “whatever’s cheapest.”

ungluing yourself from toji’s side, you weaved through the tightly-woven collection of mismatched tables, sagging chairs, and uncomfortably sweaty bodies to reach the bar on the back wall. the bar never carried options other than whatever came by on trading ships, but you liked to pretend it did, liked to pretend that you had a choice between shit beverage one and shit beverage four. you always asked even when you knew what the answer would be. you all pretended you could develop a taste for the poison, whatever it was.

the heat of the crowded room clung to your back and your cheekbones. it covered you in a layer of ash or film, the sort of discomfort you’d never be able to scrub away in the bathtub. you blinked it out of your eyes, tried to shake it from your skin, but that oppressive feeling could never really go away. it was the stillness of summer, the knowing that death bloomed even in the peak of the season.

and then, clutching the cups without looking quite where you were going, you ran into the man.

you knew him without actually knowing him. his name did not matter. it had always eluded you, like one of those casually unimportant things, but you had frequently seen him bumbling around with women and drinks at this end of the port. the rumors said that he was insatiably angry. the cold summer meant that he had not had a good job in a long, long time, and so he was very bitter, and very afraid.

“watch where the fuck you’re going,” he spat before he saw who he was speaking to. they were slurred words, unsteady, flavored with one too many pints of ale and self loathing. he tried to shove you before he recognized you, but his hand stayed steady on your shoulder, his grip tightening once he realized he’d found good prey.

“god, you–” he began, swaying on his feet, expression rancid, “it’s you–you fucking, useless shit, don’t do fucking shit around here and just, just–” he paused, too enraged to find the words– “take our drinks and our food without even working for them–” you tried to wrestle your way out from under his drunken grip, but to no avail– “just sit on his fucking dick all day, why don’t you, what’s his fucking name, fushi–”

the punch came before either of you were ready. toji’s fist emerged from somewhere behind your ear and then he was in front of you, pulling you out from beneath an unwanted hand, and glaring without mercy as the nameless sailor tried to staunch the blood leaking from his nose.

“pull that shit again and see what happens.” toji was rough, unbeatable, and there was no playful taunt in his voice that time. the bar was, to your chagrin, deathly silent. you felt one too many pairs of eyes on you, eager, finally, for the tension in the air to manifest. no one ever looked away when fushiguro toji came to fight.

the other sailor wiped the blood off his chin. he sized toji up, pure muscle and victory, as if he had never heard of the goliath you currently stood behind.

“yeah?” he spat. he looked over toji’s shoulder to you, with your forgotten mugs and your lumpy sweater. “like i said, why don’t you just go home and sit on his–”

he never finished the sentence. you watched, as if in a dream or a myth, as toji threw another punch, and another, each one more precise than the last, each one accompanied with the sickening crack of cartilage and bone. there was blood, but no one could be sure where it came from. there was a bitter grunt as the sailor caught toji under one eye and another groan as toji caused the sailor to lose his teeth. together they were ares unending, the culmination of the mud and the stillness, the remnants of troy blowing over the doorstep. you were not sure it would stop.

it took five sailors and the barman to pull toji and the other man off each other. both heaving heavily, a fresh layer of sweat stuck to toji’s shirt while the blood would not come off the sailor’s. there were murmurs and sighs but you could not hear them. whatever the one-eyed pirate was telling you became water in your ears. he pulled the cups gently from your hands, but you were not empty for long, because you were soon holding toji by his arm and leading him towards the door before you knew otherwise.

(you never found out what had happened to the other man. a few days later he sailed away on the first ship he found and never came home again.)

the others gossiped inside. outside the pub it was quiet save for the occasional burst of laughter or the artificial mewl emanating from the brothel nearby. a light summer breeze wandered down the street and disappeared behind the buildings, the sort of wind that felt like heaven on your sweaty skin until you overstayed your welcome. everything languished beneath that grey-evening glow. the sun had long died behind the ocean and the stars were still too nervous behind the clouds. across the street sat the harbor, all of the docks empty save for one, their lamplights burning in vain for a nonexistent visitor.

toji was sullen and silent. you did not know where to take him, so you went to the harbor. at that hour, there was no one left to protect the waves. the lamps, mere glorified torches with petite little flames, burned at regular intervals along the dock so that sailors would know where the land ended and the sea began. on such a still evening, the water was an endless black mirror, the lamps reflecting against its surface like a galaxy of lonely fires.

you sat toji down at the end of an empty dock. you hoped, blindly, that the sound of the tide might bring him back to you. you worried somewhat that he had not spoken since you gently escorted him from the pub. he stared down at the ocean, at the place where the shadow of his foot met the slippery reflection of the fires, and said nothing. shoulder to shoulder, you watched the tired waves sway in and out and back again. nothing stirred beneath them.

“you didn’t have to do that, you know. he was piss-drunk anyways.” your voice sounded strange in the quiet; too loud, almost, to be welcome near the sea.

toji grunted. “of course i did.” he did not look up.

you wondered, momentarily, if you should push toji into the water. clenching your jaw, you continued, “contrary to popular belief, i can defend myself against drunk assholes–”

“i know that,” toji interrupted, which silenced you. you did not know this vigor in his voice, this urgency that overtook him, as if he were fighting for words on borrowed time. “that’s not the point. i don’t care. i’ll fight anyone who has the fucking balls to look at you wrong. nobody fucks with you while i’m here.”

(this is not the script, though. this was not the line you were supposed to say. say something else, anything else. make me hate you. i beg you, make me look away. but he couldn’t. he would never.)

“nobody?” you echoed, half-heartedly playful. you had to ignore his admission. you had to pretend that toji wasn’t deadly serious, like he would not have happily murdered that sailor for placing a sweaty hand on your shoulder and that he would never have lived to regret it. it was the truth that hurt more than the threat in his statement.

toji wouldn’t relent, and that scared you. “no one.”

you pressed in close against his shoulder, the way you always did when you thought you could change the subject. he did not look at you, but you traced his profile, the powerful curve of his nose, the silvery scar on his lip. this was not the script: but you would bring him back and make him recite it. “okay. let’s say, i don’t know, sukuna is real and he actually shows up and tries to kill me or something. what then? you’d really fight him?”

“of course.” the answer came to toji as easily as breathing. “i’d kill him if i had to.”

you paused, your eyes trying to catch his eyes, your lungs deflated, your insides akin to something like molten fire. still not your lines: and yet, i think i… “wait. really?”

he looked at you then, called out from his reverie by the disbelief in your voice, the delicate fear that someone actually saw you when you did not see yourself. you were terrified of it, even when you prayed each night that his tender eyes would reach you. you wanted him and you did not. you knew that the moment it ended, everything you told yourself wouldn’t matter; but still you craved it, this brutal thing other people called love.

and now, with the fire reflecting bravely off toji’s determined eyes, you could not do anything but accept it. you could have devoured him whole, and he would have let you.

“yes,” toji repeated. held still in his gaze, you drowned. “i’d fight anything that tried to hurt you. i’d fight them and i’d win.”

life caught in your chest. you were looking at him, and he was looking at you, and you could not breathe for fear that you would wake from some inescapable paradise. in his eyes, you saw yourself and the heat, the violence and the affirmation. he’d fight them and win. he always did; you simply could not comprehend that someone would care enough to try.

(but how can you? you nearly asked. when both of us want to run away? but you said nothing. you trusted his meaning.)

“okay now. it’s your turn.” toji’s hand lazily crept up your knee. the solemnity was slipping from him, evaporating from the bruise forming under his eye and cascading into the black sea below. you could see his old self beneath the exterior, the one that grinned too easily and wickedly and always tore off your clothes like his entire life depended on it.

“excuse me?”

“it’s your turn. come on. i kindly fuck you senseless and you can’t even swear undying loyalty to me?”

“toji, you arrogant fuck–” you shoved him, but you could not wipe the amused laughter from your face or stop your cheeks from burning incessantly. you tried in vain to hide the embarrassment deteriorating your entire body and soul, but it was no use; toji was already your victor.

“you can’t die anyway,” you protested instead of do not talk about our sex life in the fucking harbor, you idiot, did you not just get in a fight over this? “you’re toji. who’s the one convinced he’s going to become a famous sea captain? ‘challenge the strongest and win?’ ‘old man of the sea?’ ring a bell?”

toji rolled his eyes. he leaned into you, his face dolled up with mock-seriousness, as if you and he were engaged in the most important conversation of your lives. he smelled like saltwater and lightning. he was looking at you, but you were looking at his lips. it was the sort of thing you could never forget.

“okay, fine,” toji conceded boldly. he tilted your chin back to meet his sultry gaze. “sure. i’ll take that. but let’s pretend for a moment that i don’t. what if, by some fucked up design, the world finally gets me? what then?”

you could have lived forever in those eyes, eager and waiting, drowning in hubris and lamplight, callous and certain. when toji looked at you it was like the whole world sat at your fingertips. it was like the universe would bend for him wherever he went. you did not know what it was that he saw in you, but you figured that whatever it was, it must have meant something great. you had never seen eyes quite like toji’s. you knew when he left you would never see anything like it again.

the dark waves were eerily still beneath you. behind you, along the empty docks and the lonely harbor, the lamps blinked sleepily in the evening breeze. the port and its familial collection of pubs, brothels, trading posts, and dirty houses breathed insistently in the darkness, as if, even on such a silent night, the island refused to fall asleep.

something howled in the distance; a bird called back in reply.

you bit your lip before you said, softly, with the tender care of one setting the type, “well, in that case, i guess i’d fight the world in your honor.”

“who did this to you?” toji repeats, agitated. his fists are electric, as if the culprit were hiding behind you and toji only needed to strike. his green eyes speak of nothing but fury, irises swimming with violence, desperate for a fact. tell me now, he’s crying, and i will end the world that broke you. he sees nothing but the enemy and the blood on your hands. he is the strongest; he will finish them.

but he can’t, and you know it.

“it doesn’t matter. he’s dead now anyways.” you try to appease him, gently, fighting back the urge to brush a piece of stray hair from his eyes. “he’s dead. we killed him. it’s okay now.”

the revelation seems to soften’s toji’s rage. his eyes darken again, onyx irises blending back into the purple dark of the shadowy cave; and with a great sigh, retreating back into himself, toji says, “still, it looks bad. we should go back to my ship – i can help you.”

“your ship?” your question spills into the cave before you realize you’ve spoken.

“i told you i came by sea, didn’t i?” toji rustles uncomfortably and sits back on his heels. his humor is strained, predetermined, as if it was a joke he repeated that someone else thought was funny. “i’ve got a rowboat planted further down the shore that we can use to take back.”

a scorched wave hurls itself against the beach. something like a large tree or a skeleton blows across the sand and disappears out of sight. torrential rain drowns the island, pummels the water, shields the sky. it is as if, over the course of one brutal evening, the storm itself hoped to wipe tengen’s nest clean off the map.

so you say, as kindly as you can: “i’m not sure we should go out there.” we actually should not, for multiple reasons, but hey, you were never an expert at arguing with fushiguro toji.

“it’s fine,” toji repeats with that feverishly humored voice that is not his own. “trust me, yeah? i can get us there. we’ll bandage you up.”

we should not, you want to say, there are others to wait for, but something about the dark cesspool in toji’s eyes keeps you rooted to the floor. you cannot leave him. you do not wish to. you must follow him to the end, wherever he goes, chained to his body’s shadow, because you would rather die than lose fushiguro toji in bloom.

(you left me, once, but even now i will not go. you were looking for me: and i ask you to search no longer.)

“okay,” you say, nausea growing tenfold. “okay.” but you do not know if it is meant as an agreement or a comfort. toji smiles without teeth and, in one fluid movement, gets up and exits the cave. he disappears immediately into the rain, cloaked by a storm determined to forget you existed.

you watch the campfire for a moment longer before throwing a pile of sand over the wood to douse the flames. the shadows that had waited patiently outside crawl back into the little cave and nestle back into their rightful corners. you remain paused, entranced by the lingering smoke and the dying embers. it is so dark now; but outside, the night is darker still.

you move, slowly, carefully, so as not to anger your wounds any further, brace yourself, and step back into the rain.

you would have thought the weather to be quite fitting for the occasion were the wind not blowing pointed raindrops directly into your eyes. you hold out your hands to block it, but everything seeps through, the cold water and the gale, destroying whatever bit of warmth toji’s campfire had given you. the storm asks to throw you off the edge of the world. you resist the urge to shiver and squint your eyes in vain to find the man of the hour on the beach.

you can only see the space right in front of you; had the waves not been so large and so loud, you’re convinced you would have walked right into them. there is nothing but water and wind, apocalyptic daydreams and retribution. you stand lamely, your boots sinking pathetically into the muddy sand, and wait for some great gust of wind to find the courage to blow you away.

“come on,” toji calls, but you still can’t see him. it is the half-humored ghost, the revenant, who speaks to you instead. “let’s go before you catch a cold.”

(and you? and you?)

you find his silhouette a short ways down the beach, imposing and impassable even against the melodramatic woes of nature. toji stands proudly in the furious tide and holds a rather pathetic rowboat calmly in the surf. you watch the boat sway, raindrops trailing down your cheeks like a litany of freezing tears. you do not sit inside it.

(can you? will you? will you face history? will you face the moment to come?)

toji, cool and well-intentioned, grows impatient. he glances between you and the still-empty boat and back again before he quips with failed friendliness, “you’re coming, right? or will we just stand here forever?”

you cannot answer that question. your words are frozen. he does not understand. he was not there in the autumn or any of the months that came after. he does not know what it was like when the summer chill left and there were a few fleeting days of golden bliss before winter moved in. everyone had rejoiced then. it was the warmest weekend in months. even the printing master and his wife took the days off to wander down the beach and hunt boars in the woods. sailors cried and filled the pubs with their stolen money. those were beautiful days, before winter. so many people fell in love.

but that was the thing. he never came knocking. you waited up that night, and the night after, and there was no call at your window, and no lover at the pub. whenever you turned a corner it was empty. it took you hours to bring yourself to buy that damned fish and, because you were late, the printing master never let you try it. it wouldn’t have mattered, anyways. nothing you ate made you whole.

you used to collect stories like butterflies and press them against the discarded paper beneath your bed. you memorized them carefully, practicing your intonation and your emphasis, always ready for his arrival. but then dinner would come and go and you would not have a visitor. and then, clutching the unspoken words to your chest, you would remember.

there was only your set of footprints on the beach and only your eyes making up myths about the waves. when you turned around in the hopes that the thing out of the corner of your eye was a body, no one was waiting. there never would be. every call of your name was an illusion, a story you told yourself to keep your heart from caving in.

he was not your great lover, you insisted. you always knew you were lying.

the worst was when they looked at you with such pity when they thought you wouldn’t notice. at the pub, the empty seat beside you stood like an omen: here lied the one who took his money and ran. he brought nothing with him but left everything behind. he would never know the way the one-eyed pirate always looked like he might mourn for you, poor thing, the one who could never follow. when he told his stories there was a sort of delicacy in them, as if he knew his words were the only thing that still held you together.

but then he left, too, and you were alone.

but that is how it always was at sea. just passing through faces on your way to somewhere else. you were used to the transience, watching time pass in changes and transformations; in the arrival of a ship and its departure; in the cycle of the sun, with its blood-red light illuminating the harbor. he placed his loyalty at your feet, but in the end, only your stagnation was constant. you never advanced in your practice beneath the printing master. you wavered outside bars and brothels, but someone or something never came home.

you learned to live with it, eventually. you had to in places like that. when you bought those bitter apples, you fed the extras to the waves. sometimes you told your shadow about the sailboats moving in circles or the gulls that loomed overhead, but it was never a terribly good listener. when you went to bed, you learned how to sleep better when the other side was empty.

but he never would have known any of it; not how you wept, or how you hated yourself for weeping, or how you told yourself stories with the sole comfort that they still might come true. he would never have seen you learn to stand by yourself again. he never would have seen the way you tried to convince yourself you didn’t need a future at all.

that empty space became a weapon, once, until you went and lost it.

“are you okay?” toji asks again. you wish you could tear apart his concern, his lightheartedness, his ease. “don’t worry about the weather. i’m a good sailor, i promise.”

(he doesn’t know. how could he? about all the weeks you wanted to die because he did not take you with him and did not want to come home?)

“yes,” you say, empty. “sorry.” but you are not sorry, and you are not shaking from the cold. with movements beyond understanding you heave yourself defeatedly into the soggy boat, and in the next instant, toji pushes you both out to sea.

you watch, sickened, as the coastline disappears behind a curtain of rain. water collects in the bottom of the vessel, but no one pays it any mind. the boat rocks dangerously against the knife-sharp waves when they drench your face and your clothes. you perish; toji does not care. he dips his oars into the water and out again, methodically, distantly, locked in an unforgivable trance. if the boat threatens to capsize, toji wordlessly rights it again. he keeps his gaze trained on the space behind you; you watch the last threads of safety disappear beyond his shoulder.

your grip the rowboat so tightly you reckon you might break your fingers. it sways like a pendulum, a powerless victim of the iron sea, and you close your eyes as another wave crashes over the side and melts through your bones.

“it’s not too far from here,” you think toji calls, but it’s hard to discern the sound of his voice from the screech of the wind and the roar of the rainfall.

you watch the rhythmic motion of his arms to ground yourself. you are scared to look into those dampened eyes because you are no longer sure what you will find there. you brace yourself sorrowfully as another ghastly wave says good evening to your boat. had you not spent the better part of a year on the water, you would have thrown up everything you had over the side; but you, harder, wiser, know better now. these days, the sickness stems from a different source.

“so you have your own ship now?” you yell over the storm to distract yourself from the encroaching fear of your impending doom.

despite his intense focus, toji rigidly shakes his head. “no, it’s not mine. i’m not the captain.”

“what?” but you always said differently. you were the old man of the sea for me. you would make a name for yourself, own the water, wrap your stories around yourself like a comfortable scarf. you were the strongest; there was nowhere you wouldn’t go, nothing you wouldn’t capture, to make sure the legends bowed at your feet. but you say none of it, your reservoirs empty, your body shivering and cold. you do not ask him why his aspirations were wrong or why he ever decided he could settle. you bite the dream; it tastes sour. “i always imagined that you owned your own ship.”

toji smiles ruefully, the sort of heartbroken grin that one achieves only after their back has been broken by time. “me too. but reality always hits a lot different than myth, you know.”

you say nothing. the sound of rain piercing the water amplifies until you hear nothing else, until you know nothing else. you cannot see anything beyond the edge of the boat. for all you know, tengen’s nest finally sank into the sea. somewhere off in the distance, you catch the distant rumble of thunder as it reverberates across the waves.

you ignore the uncomfortable, sliming, slithering feeling of your wet clothes on your back. everything slides away from you; your blood mixes with rain, your hands find no purchase. you are dissolving, disappearing, a ghost without tangibility and a love without a partner. if you let go of the boat you would simply die in fragments the way petals fall from flowers when they are tired of being in bloom.

(and him? and you? and the silent space between it?)

“so,” you yell over the rain, ignoring the ice that clenches your chest and asks you to stop breathing, “if you’re not in charge, then who’s your captain?”

toji does not respond. he does not even bother to look at you. he rows faithfully, oars cutting the petulant waves, continuing straight ahead as if he hadn’t even heard you. he keeps his head down and his expression hidden. there is nothing that could stop him from reaching his vessel; not you, not tengen, not dying.

you frown and lean forward. perhaps he will answer to a different question. “what does your ship look like?”

but there is still no reply. another stony wave cracks and dissolves against the side of your frozen face. you know he can hear you; that he is listening; that he knows. but his silence tortures you. his resistance to your curiosity tells you more than any story could ever reveal. still you writhe in agony, a prisoner to the emptiness, caught on the other side of a barrier you cannot shake loose.

“who is your captain?” you repeat, calmly, but you are terrified to cross the threshold.

toji doesn’t look at you when he assures you, calmly, rehearsed, “don’t worry about it. there’s medicine on board, and i’ll get you dry clothes. sit back and rest, okay? i’d feel bad if those wounds got any worse before we get there.”

but that’s not what i wanted, and you know it, and you know you aren’t listening. your migraine intensifies the more you look at him, but you no longer possess the courage to ask the question and you do not have the strength to hear the answer. to pursue the thread might break the silence that sits between peace and reality. are you ready? toji rows the boat through the storm and you inhale smoke and saltwater, heartbreak and helpless desperation.

i’m not dead yet, you see, i may not even be bleeding, you want to comfort him, but your words would mean nothing. you’re not even sure if toji would hear them. still, the longer you watch him sail and the more the water gathers in the bottom of the boat, you cannot help it. you blurt, against your better judgement: “are you sure about this?”

“why wouldn’t i be sure?” the response is indignant, grasping at straws, huffed by lips that aren’t his own. you think there’s a visceral fear in toji’s eyes that you’re going to jump overboard and leave the whole mission behind. he pauses for only an instant.

(but why would he fear it, when he never did before? how do you leave home and then refuse it in another?)

toji sounds too imploring when he asks, “don’t you trust me?”

that’s not it and it never was. you do not appreciate the accusation on his lips, but you say nothing about it. you bite your lip as water trails down your cheeks and kisses your teeth. “i just–” you pause. how to go about it? “you know, i just wonder if we should…look for my friends instead? i lost them back on the island…if we could find them, they’d be able to help us – and if everyone’s held their word, sukuna should be there for us too…”

but, just as you expected, toji nearly loses his shit. one of the oars threatens to snap beneath his fury. he turns into stone, eyes stormy and morose and troubled, a pair of haunted narcissus pools. he breathes fire between clenched teeth and holds himself like a dying animal still feral for life in a cage. the name is poison to him. you had to make sure.

“absolutely not,” toji insists with newfound aggression. there is no room in his answer to argue; he is a man prepared to kill. “we are not going to that fucking bastard, absolutely fucking not, no, not after all this time, i’d rather capsize this fucking boat–”

“toji,” you prod gently, “but don’t you want to see your son again?”

the world stops. there is no wind, no wave, no rain, not anymore; though it cuts you and assails you, you no longer notice. toji’s oars lie limp in his hands. he stares at you, emerald eyes vacant and empty, as if you had just summoned a ghost. you do not know if he wants to cry with you or kill you or both all at once. you watch toji wrestle with the other thing and you watch him tell himself not to crack.

toji says, quite slowly, the words dangerous to him, “what do you mean?”

there is no hope in being soft. being silent never got you anywhere. “why else did you come to tengen’s nest, if not for me or for him?”

vacancy and restraint melts into genuine confusion. “what?”

you see red. you see the bodies on the floor, all of them, everyone between you and the blonde man’s surrender. you see hot sand on the beach, tears you did not shed, lives you could not beg for. you see yourself in the looking-glass, tattered and bloody and forlorn, the weight of the future still too heavy on your shoulders. there is all of it: every moment you bled through since you decided not to stop.

but he would not have known that, either, not the fear or the dying. he never would have known the self you gave up just to be seated in his boat. still, you cannot help it: you barely keep yourself from crying.

“megumi, your goddamn son, was in tengen’s nest. that’s why i came here. to save him, not you, not anyone. i’d been chasing your kid for fucking months until i finally found you.” you fight the hot sickness bubbling in your stomach when you push yourself over the edge. the words, loud and raw and wet and angry, roll off your tongue before you can stop them. “why, toji? why did you leave him? where the fuck did you go?”

it is always difficult to fathom the look of a man whose entire world has collapsed before him, who watches the universe he knew bleed out on the floorboards with no hope of resurrection. only by sheer miracle does toji prevent the rowboat from completely turning over as another great wave smashes against the side. neither of you care about it. his body is moving the oars, but his mind is trembling, trapped in another place, grasping for a memory he previously could not reach.

fushiguro toji frays at the seams, unravels limb by limb until there will soon be nothing left of him. there is a great fear and a great uncertainty in his onyx-emerald eyes. you have never seen toji look so defeated or so afraid. he is barely in control of his voice when he protests, “no, no. that wasn’t him. megumi’s dead. that’s what they told me. you saw someone else, that’s all.” he rows on with impassioned vigor, pulled forward by some pair of invisible strings, called forth by a siren you cannot even begin to hear.

nothing can stop it, now. still, even as the destination approaches behind you, you call out to toji, unsure as to whether you are blinking away raindrops or tears, “but toji, i saw him just a few hours ago. he looks just like you. he has your eyes.”

you see the sorrow clearly; you watch the thing that fights you, the toji that must refuse everything you tell him if he has any resolve left to survive. he is strong but not strong enough to deny the truth which ails him. although he sails onward he looks confused, lost, his face drenched with the apprehension of one wandering through an unintelligible fog without direction. you do not know how to guide him. you hope your insistence will be enough.

“that can’t–” toji repeats. for once, he sounds uncharacteristically unsure. “no. they told me–” but whatever he was going to say dies in his throat. he wants to say it, his eyes illuminated with something like violence, but nothing emerges when he opens his mouth. instead, eyes dark, he clears his throat and announces, “we’re here.”

you know better than to look too closely at the ship. toji silently sails alongside it, and, with easy and familiar movements, connects your drowning sailboat to the unintelligible system of ropes and pulleys some stranger let down so that you could be lifted back up to the deck.

silence falls, the sort of silence that permeates a room before a killer dismembers their prey. it tastes like blood and it chokes you. there is no hope in waiting now, in dreaming. the headache ravages your whole body the further you climb, spreading eagerly through your bloodstream until it nestles behind your eyes. you follow toji all the same. you are beholden to a flower you used to claim as your own and a memory of a life you could not escape. they will all understand, later. there was no way you could outrun it.

you wait until the boat is halfway to the deck before you speak again. toji fidgets across from you, his mouth moving silently in words you do not understand. he looks between his hands and the rainswept horizon and massive ship by your side. he is unreadable and beyond you; you wish you could take his hand.

“toji,” you repeat softly, the way lovers once did, “what did they tell you?”

he does not answer. the boat arrives at the deck. to your discomfort, there is no one standing where there should have been another sailor handling the pulleys and the ropes. there is no one in the watchtower and no light emanating from the captain’s quarters. the entire deck is empty, slick and shiny with a thick layer of rain. overhead, thunder rumbles lazily, as if it were only just now stretching its limbs and saying good morning to the night. other than the growl, you find nothing but a deadly quiet.

unwillingly, knowingly, you follow toji out of the rowboat. the deck sways gently beneath your feet, rocking like a child to the sordid rhythm of the waves. a bright flash of lightning illuminates the massive black sails overhead before they disappear into clammy darkness again. you struggle to tear your eyes away from them as you follow toji across the floor.

“who told you, toji?” you try again to no avail. he is beyond you, body and soul. toji does not even acknowledge your presence, but whispers agitatedly to himself, his hands shaking violently as he opens a nondescript door and begins to descend a narrow staircase.

inside, even footsteps do not echo off the walls. the air stagnates in a silence so great, an emptiness so vast, that sound does not survive and natural light does not enter. there is no awareness of the body and no respect for the mind. there is no past and no future in the hell outside of time.

the wind pushes the door shut behind you and you are left in total darkness save for a handful of dimly lit ruby lamps. beneath their tepid burgundy glow, you cannot see the stairs; when you hold out a hand in front of you, you can barely count your fingers. ahead, toji’s broad shoulders just barely brush against the narrow walls as he descends, tense, rotten. you do not even know if he remembers you anymore.

“toji,” you try again, your voice firmer in the confined space. you sound damned against the walls. “who is your captain? what did they tell you?”

“you don’t understand,” toji spits, but he is talking at you, not to you. his words are disjointed, rough around the edges, spoken through an echo and reverberated back again. he continues to descend, bypassing the equally vacant sleeping quarters and dropping further, further, into the pit. you do not know how far you follow him. it is only after a lifetime that the staircase finally throws you out at the very bottom of the vessel.

although you can hardly see shit in the lamps’ wine-red glow, judging by the multitudes of crates and unopened boxes crowded against the walls, you think it’s the storage room, no medicine in sight. toji wanders between piles of unmarked boxes but does not touch them. he has not touched anything all evening, and you think you know why.

you watch him meditatively before you try, “toji–”

“no.” toji’s eyes are wild, dilated, haunted. “that couldn’t have been him. you’re lying. he said that sukuna killed me and that megumi died not long after.” he steps towards you and away again, unteady on his feet. a layer of sweat bleeds through his soaked clothes. “he killed me, and megumi’s dead, and now he’s going to get you too. that’s what the captain said– that’s why –” his hands are shaking. he cannot even begin to open his mouth, to form the sentence. he chokes on his own misery. “i had to find you– to bring you here, to stop you– no, he said, to save you…”

he does not look like himself. he is, trembling, aching, collapsing, the automaton that threatens to snap in opposition to the laws of physics. the red lamps cruelly highlight toji’s incoherently forsaken face; his eyes are green and dark and bloody, his body beyond his control, his consciousness melting. he does not see you or the ship or any of it anymore. you do not know where toji is, what he sees, but he repeats it to himself like a mantra: he’s dead, he killed me, he’s dead. that’s why, you see, that’s why he said i had to claim my vengeance–

he’s dead, but he’s not, he killed me, but he couldn’t. there was a world beyond you both, once, one with a diamond treasure and a future. you remember often the times when you dreamed. those were beautiful reveries, of walks on the beach, of making love beneath the stars, of holding someone with the same grace that they held you. sometimes, in those narcotic fantasies, you swore your love with a passion that could have swallowed any star.

you cannot wish for it, not anymore, not when there lies the space between you with a silence beyond measure. there stands fushiguro toji, hollowed, quaking, and you will dream of him no longer. you reach out and grab his arm, your icy fingers digging into his wet shirtsleeves, your palm pressed firmly against once-familiar skin.

be still, you beg, be still: for i am your anchor, and i will bring you home.

beneath your touch, like a glass under too much pressure, a curse fractures. you feel it slither through you before it leaves the room, that foul thing which shrivels inside him. the longer you hold him, the more toji empties. his emerald eyes widen with the sort of dismay of one awakening from a nightmare, and, for the first time in years, you find toji, the old pink scar and the determination, the reckless nature before a fall.

(proteus, you had whispered, once, when you played the fool. you’re almost proteus.

old man of the sea, he had repeated, once, when he was whole. has a nice ring to it.)

you know him, you know. there was never a time you could escape it. there was never a time you would not have followed the strongest to see where he goes. you know the price, though. the lotus always tasted bitter against the roof of your mouth.

“toji,” you repeat, “who is your captain?”

toji opens his mouth to answer, to recognize you for the first time, to reclaim the self he once thought he had lost: and then, with the turn of the hours, with the culling of time, the arrival of the suitor smothers you both from upstairs.

#toji x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #tw blood #tw violence #tw sad #the odyssey!

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1025cherrystreet · 3 years

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funeral

y/n attends a funeral and feels hopeless after losing her best friend until she meets her late bsf's cousin Harry.

a/n: this is for @harrystylescherry Playlist Fic Challenge!!! this is inspired by the song Funeral by Phoebe Bridgers. i used the name Phoebe in the story but i wasn't picturing Phoebe Bridgers when I was writing that character, i just liked the name and decided to go with it! but, y'all can picture her however y'all like lol. i went from loving this story to hating it, but i hope y'all like it! any feedback is appreciated!! <3

**despite it being surrounded by depressing matters, it's actually a cute and fluffy story lol! just wanted to point that out because i, myself, kinda avoid reading sad stories

warnings: a LOT of talk about death and dying and funerals, mentions depression/depressive episode?, mentions drugs and alcohol, swearing. i'm ceo of rushing the ending, soz <3 (also, gave up on proofreading lmao)

word count: 8k+ (this is the longest piece i've ever written lol)

Y/N has this dream. Where she's screaming underwater while her friends are waving at her from the shore. She's desperately calling for them, hoping and waiting for them to help, but, seemingly, her friends can't hear... and can't help. Submerged beneath the thrashing waters, her wails fall silent; her familiars deaf to her pleads. The more she struggles to get to the surface for air, the deeper she sinks. Her friends just waving at her as she drifts to the bottom. Every time she jolts awake from these dreams in a sweat stained bed and sticky clothes, she decides to brush it off. Not wanting to think about the problems she needs to face or what she needs to work on. Always concluding that she doesn't need anyone to tell her what it means or overanalyze her life through misplaced visions. Deciding to not believe assumptions made from vague, painful pictures.

As the familiar sinking feeling in her chest starts yet again, Y/N snaps her eyes up at the casket as the sound of her best friend's mother releasing a heart wrenching sob catches her focus.

The contrast of the white roses that lay on top of Phoebe's mahogany stained casket almost glow in the evening light, seeming like a mock to such a somber evening. The way the living looks so effervescent and bright, casting shadows on the less fortunate. The dead never celebrated in such light but rather mourned in dim grief and sadness.

Y/N doesn't like funerals, and not just because her best friend of 10 years is the recipient of this one. She's never cared for them. Believing they're just an excuse to get over the one they are to be honoring, they carry a stigma that everyone in attendance has to cry or you're seen as heartless, while the people who were never close to the deceased are presumed fake for showing emotion. Y/N thinks they're a big joke... with a cruel, cruel punchline.

The sound of despondent music playing and cries ring throughout the cemetery as Phoebe's casket is lowered six feet into the ground. The unchecked emotions start to boil inside of Y/N. Anger boiling deep inside of her quickly reaching its point, anger that stems from betrayal, that stems from hurt, that stems from...loss. She quietly scoffs, shaking her head with a stone cold look, before quickly getting up and walking away from the ceremony as her late friend's uncle, Bill, wraps up his poor excuse of a eulogy.

Phoebe wouldn't have wanted this. She wouldn't have wanted people to cry over her casket, stuck laying in a padded box while people who don't even know the real her, speak of her existence like they were the best of friends. They weren't. She was. Y/N was her best friend. These people don't... didn't know her like Y/N does. It's all bullshit.

In Y/N's quick pace away from the tent around the damp open ground, she spots a bigger gravestone with a stone bench built into it and takes a seat.

She inhales deeply, taking a moment to herself to look up at the sky. The clouds that overcast part of the blue sky drifting farther away from the graveyard as the sun starts making its way to set. She breathes in, the delightful scent of honeysuckle and dewy grass filling her nose before it's tainted by fumes of petrol from the road just on the other side of the cemetery gates behind her. It's so unfair; why of all people did Phoebe have to-

"It's all a joke," A deep accent says to her left.

She almost jumps out of her seat when she turns to the man who took the empty spot next to her. Jesus Christ, where the fuck did he come from? she thinks to herself. He had brown curly hair and green eyes (well, thinking green from what she can gather staring at the side of his face), wearing a black suit with a black button up shirt underneath. Rings clad his fingers and the sunset gleam shines off his cross necklace. She stares wide-eyed at him for a few moments before shaking her head to get out of her daze.

"Huh?" She says when she realizes he had spoken before.

"It's all a big joke," He repeats himself, the British accent more noticeable this time around. His head faced towards the funeral, having not spared a glance at her once this whole time.

She settles back into her seat, shifting her gaze to match his with the group of mourning people in the distance.

"Yeah." Y/N sighs in agreement.

The two of them sit in silence for a moment before Y/N decides to speak. Thinking to herself that if anyone would listen to her thoughts, a man who's also ditching the shitty eulogy would be her best bet.

"They all talk about her as if she was God." She chuckles humorlessly.

He scoffs with a small smirk, "Far from it."

Another wave of silence crashes over them, before Y/N breaks it once again.

"She would've hated this," She whispers, "People she barely even knows crying over her like they had any significance in her life. She probably only talked to five people here. She didn't even like her uncle." She laughs, referencing the man who gave the half-assed eulogy about how Phoebe being such an innocent, bright young girl.

"They're grieving her loss instead of celebrating her life, it's all fucked," He clears his throat before continuing, "Funerals are for the living."

"I hate funerals..." She says in reply.

Glancing at the boy beside her when she hears him digging through his jacket pocket, pulling out a flask. He takes a sip, and another, before gesturing it to her. Not overthinking it too much, she takes the cool metal bottle and takes a big gulp. Tasting the burn of vodka in her throat and mint from what she supposes is the mysterious strangers mouth.

Handing the flask back she says, "She would've wanted a party. Something where everyone was having fun in her honor, not some substandard funeral full of random people and careless words."

This time he's the one who chuckles humorlessly, "Yeah, she would've wanted everyone t'take shots and dress up in fancy clothes n' wreak havoc on this fucking town,"

Y/N smiles at this because Phoebe really would. Phoebe was the type of person who everyone wanted to be friends with, but also who everyone was scared of. She was mysterious and intimidating (a bit like the man next to her, Y/N thinks). Phoebe was a master at persuasion and could get almost anyone to go on crazy fucking adventures with her. One of Y/N's favorite memories with Phoebe was when they dressed up in wedding dresses they had gotten from a second-hand store and walked down the street yelling random things at strangers, taking turns drinking tequila from a metal water bottle.

"She really was something else, huh?" Y/N says a bit somberly, reminiscing on her late best friend.

"Definitely, a know-it-all," He laughs, bringing the flask up to his mouth.

"Oh, of course, she always thought she was right." She smirks.

"I mean, most of the time she was." He shrugs.

"Yeah, how did she always know everything?" The two of you laugh, taking turns drinking from the flask.

He shakes his head in disbelief, silence settling over the pair again.

"How did you know her?" He asks, still staring at the gathering of people in the distance.

"...She was my best friend," Y/N responds quietly, still staring out at the sunset.

He hums in return, "You?" She asks as she hands the flask over.

"Her cousin." His rough voice speaks out.

"You're Harry?" She says, less as a question and more in disbelief. Phoebe always mentioned her cousin Harry from England, always telling Y/N of stories they had together getting into reckless shit.

She turns her head to look at him just as he does, "And you're Y/N."

He offers a soft, knowing smile, both having heard countless stories of one another from Phoebe. He leans back and extends his arm on the top of the bench behind her, feeling the warmth of his body radiate off of him.

"I wonder what she'd say to me now. Sitting on a random gravestone in our hometown, drinking out of her cousin's flask, ditching what's supposed to be her remembrance." Y/N says, leaning back on the bench too.

"She would've said, 'quit y'crying, it's a sign of the times' and then would drag your arse t'the nearest pub." He laughs.

She joins in on the soft laughter, shaking her head because she knows that's exactly what she would've said. Phoebe was such a joy to be around, her presence unmatched.

"You know, she always talked about wanting to leave a legacy behind. Most of the time, I just laughed at her, thinking it was just another bizarre thing to come out of her mouth. But, she was always saying she wanted to be remembered as some enigma when she dies..." Y/N recalls the many memories of her and Phoebe staying up til 4am talking. Chills suddenly covering her body, not only from the cool Winter air but because of how Phoebe had talked about her death and now she's actually...dead.

She turns her head to look at Harry and he has a bittersweet smile on his face.

"I think she's accomplished that quite well, hasn't she?" He replies.

"How?" She questions softly with furrowed brows.

"Well, f'starters, her funeral is full of people who never even knew her, or frankly even cared about her, while two emotionless people just got up and stormed away from it t'drink vodka out of a flask on some random person's gravestone." He laughs before tacking on, "Trust me, the people over there are wondering who the hell she was and who she knew, right about now."

She turns her head from the (quite pretty, she thinks) boy to her left, looking at the wake, only to be met with a few people staring back at them.

"Well, I'll be damned," She scoffs. "Of course, the bitch did it." A smile bright on her face, probably the only real grin she's pulled since Phoebe's passing. Her best friends wishes coming true makes her heart warm just a tad, a relief to how cold losing her best friend made it.

"Always able t'make her life seem like an episode of Pretty Little Liars." He says shaking his head with a knowing smirk.

This comment makes Y/N laugh quite loudly, drawing a few — what she could only think were glares — back at her. Wiping a stray tear from her face that fell due to her laughing. The sweet sound coming from her lips only tacking on Harry to join her.

"Oh my god, she practically lived in an indie movie, always the role of the mysterious main character!" She chuckled out, creases forming at the corners of her eyes that Harry has taken a liking to.

As both of their laughter slowly dies out, another silence comes over them; only this time it's almost deafening. It's like the weight of the matter finally settled in.

Harry lets out a deep sigh, staring out at the never ending field of stone. Flowers accompany very few of the many graves; some wilted, some looking fresh, some long gone by now. Name placards littering the ground, all of these lost and forgotten people just decomposing underneath them. People coming and going to visit, only to be forgotten as time goes by, memories fading from their loved ones' mind. He wonders if he could ever forget Phoebe. No, I could never, he thinks to himself. He could never forget the only person that ever truly believed in him and embraced him for being himself.

Deciding he doesn't want to give anymore thought to the painful insight that one day he might forget Phoebe, he asks Y/N something instead.

"Y'wanna get out of here? M'starvin'."

The quiet girl next to him looks his way, his green eyes meeting her's that shine in the last few minutes of orange sunlight. Her eyes are so pretty, he tries to mentally shake that thought out of his head. He can't be hitting on his late cousin's best friend at her funeral, for fuck's sake.

Y/N only nods in response, gathering her bag and phone before standing from the bench. Harry towers over her when he gets up and the observation of how tall her his makes Y/N feel all giddy inside for some reason. Placing the flask back in his suit jacket pocket, he leads the way to a small restaurant nearby. She walks beside him the whole way there, the two of them just quietly observing everything around them.

***

The crisp, cool air passes through, goosebumps creeping up their arms as they sit in the outside seating of a small restaurant. Comfortable silence wraps them up and spits them out as their minds explore all the vast depths of their troubled minds, giving them time for their treacherous thoughts to eat at their sanity bit by bit.

"Phoebe told me once," Y/N cleared her throat, trying to get rid of the scratchy feeling from not using it. Harry's green eyes moved to her from his observance of the lonely street they're next to as she spoke softly. "She told me the only time she truly felt alive was when she made decisions that were reckless and spontaneous. She said living her life precariously was the only reason for her happiness, claiming that the perfect life is just an illusion. That dreaming of labor should not be the goal, but instead becoming your authentic self and living with no regrets..."

Harry stays quiet, reflection in his eyes as he stares at her from across the table, chewing the food in his mouth. Y/N plays around with the food on her plate with her fork and waits for his acknowledgment (although, she doesn't even know if he would say or do anything -- she doesn't know why she decided to tell him that)

"I mean, she's right, righ'? I never understood when people would ask what your 'dream job' is from a young age. No one's dream is t'work everyday 'til they die. They have to, t'make a living and survive, but what's the point in living if you aren't enjoyin' it. But, if y'workin' all the time, how do you make the time to really live?" He says, furrowing his brows as he talks.

Y/N takes in his words. The moonlight and street lamps casting a soft glow on his face, his carved features looking even more beautiful at night.

"Yeah... I guess, I guess I just envy how she viewed life, ya know?" She states, looking at the cars drive by as she tries to explain how she feels. "Always saying things to make you rethink your existence and purpose..." She looks back at Harry and whispers, "...She talked about life so much like she knew she was going to die."

"Well, we're all gonna die eventually." Harry rests his arms on the table with a quiet sigh, his features passive, but his mind is thinking of how he just wants to hug her and tell her everything is going to be alright.

"Yeah, but she just...she talked about it like she knew all the answers. She knew exactly what to say, when to say it. Sometimes, I feel like she was telling everyone around her how to live in complete happiness because she knew she didn't have much of her own, despite convincing everyone she was carefree and unbothered." Y/N shrugs and watches as they fall into a short silence.

"...I miss her." Harry breathes out after a moment, reaching his hand across the table to hold hers. Her skin is soft against his as he rubs his thumb against her hand in an attempt to comfort both of them.

Her eyes soaking in his softened expression, her cherry tinted lips whispering, "Me too."

They eat the rest of their dinner in silence, the only sounds reverberating from the road with the occasional car or pedestrian. Harry pays for the food, but not without many protests from Y/N.

As the two walk side by side down the street, back to the cemetery to pick up their cars, Y/N suddenly falls anxious. She doesn't want to be alone tonight, scared of being alone with her thoughts when she goes back to stay in her childhood home. Her parents, still living in the house they lived in since her youth, had to drive up to another town for a few nights to stay with her cousins because they planned to go there before the news broke about Phoebe. Leaving Y/N alone in the empty house since there wasn't room for her at her cousins.

The black cemetery gates coming into view, eeriness and gloom becoming more apparent when the sun is down, Y/N and Harry can see their two cars sitting idly on the side of the road. Y/N fidgets with her fingers as they grow close to departure.

"D-do you, maybe, wanna hang out for a little while longer?" She turns to face him, looking up at him nervously. "I just don't want to be alone right now." She rushes out when he doesn't respond.

"Yeah, I didn't really want t'go home alone right now either." He offers a sliver of a smile before unlocking his car, grabbing two brown paper bags that look to hold bottles, and gesturing his head, "C'mon, we'll pick up my car later. Let's go celebrate Pheebz, yeah?" He grins.

She smiles at him, unlocking her own car and waiting for him to get in, putting on a playlist full of Phoebe's favorite songs. She drives through her hometown, memories stirring up of her and her best friend smoking weed in the park the summer before graduation and jumping in the lake naked in the middle of winter. The two end up at her house sitting in her abandoned driveway, both unbuckling but neither making the move to get out of the parked car, the engine still running as they sit listening to the melodies playing from the speaker.

Harry suddenly pulls out two bottles from the brown paper bags at his feet, one of vodka and the other tequila.

"Pick y'poison." He says with a smirk.

She picks the vodka and Harry mutters, "Good choice, tequila is more m'speed."

"Weren't you drinking vodka at the funeral?" She laughs, unscrewing the cap.

"Yeah, figured I'd drink Phoebe's favorite since it was her party." He chuckles.

"To Phoebe." Y/N says, sorrow lacing her voice as she turns in her seat to face Harry.

"To living your life precariously." He says before the two of them take a big gulp of the sharp liquid, starting what will only be the beginning of a long night.

***

Light shines through the white curtains, the room glowing bright in the soft, yellow sunlight. The white comforter tangled up in bodies as birds chirp in the morning tranquility. Y/N's eyes flutter open, immediately feeling sweaty and clammy. The headache that sets in reminds her of the amount of alcohol she consumed last night. Waking up in her childhood bed after blacking out in the backseat of her car the night before doing very little for her sanity.

As she lays in bed, groggy, she needs to pee. She moves to get up and walk to the bathroom connected to her room, only to freeze when an arm wraps around her and pulls her closer. Warm breathes pant at the back of her neck, unintelligible murmurs coming from the person behind her. Her eyes widen, realizing Harry is the one she is snuggling with in the early morning (afternoon?) light. Despite needing to pee really badly, she finds herself only melting into his touch. She can't remember the last time someone held her like this, can't remember the last time she felt this content. In fact, she thinks the last time she cuddled with someone was with Phoebe when she slept over in her room at their apartment... Well, just Y/N's apartment now.

Y/N and Phoebe would have movie nights in Y/N's room and in the midst of the fun, they would grow tired. Phoebe would never want to leave the comfort of Y/N's warm bed, so she always asked, sleepover?, with a wide grin. To which Y/N never refused and the two would put on The Notebook and fall asleep spooning one another. The first time it happened, when they were children having sleepovers, she tensed a bit; thinking it weird for her friend to cuddle her because no one had ever done that. But, as the years went by and their friendship grew stronger, knowing that despite both of them being bisexual it wasn't an act of intimacy, but one of platonic comfort.

So, Y/N figured (in her touch deprived mind) that this was just an act of friendly, platonic intimacy...nothing else. After coming to that conclusion, she let herself relax into his touch, his warm embrace nodding her off to sleep once again.

What wakes her up the second time is the sound of a gravelly voice groaning. The arm around her waist squeezes tightly before the body it's attached to tenses up. Harry tries to take in the position they're in -- his arm snuggling her close to his bare chest and legs intertwined with hers -- but his hangover headache clouds his mind too much to think about it. Only registering that he's never felt this comfortable with someone before, never felt someone so warm and cozy. He's cuddled lots of girls (and guys), has spent many mornings waking up in someones hold or holding someone in his, but they've never been as addicting as her. Never being so relaxing, so soft. He's about to just say, fuck it, and fall back asleep as to spend as much time with her in his clutch, but Y/N had stirred awake from his groaning and she really has to pee!

She slowly turns in his arms, their legs shifting apart, and is met with probably the cutest sight she's ever seen. His eyes are glassy and the green of his irises shine in the soft light. His lips pink and his face holding a hesitant look, like he thinks she might yell at him for accidentally ending up in his arms throughout the night, but she can also sense the underlying feeling of content reading on his face. The way his eyes soften when they meet hers and the way his hand involuntarily squeezes at her side. The serene feeling almost tangible as her childhood room becomes their own little world. All the responsibilities and pain of the outside fall ceased at the door decorated with heights of a growing Y/N.

"G'morning," His gravelly voice going straight to her heart, melting it at the beautiful sound.

"Good morning," She says in a raspy whisper, her throat dry from the alcohol and singing at the top of her lungs the night before.

She takes the quiet moment to look at his body, her gaze drifting from tattoo to tattoo, not realizing how many he has. She knew he had some from the ones on his hands yesterday, but she didn't know he had so many. His long sleeve button up had covered the view of the ones adorning his arms, but she looks at them now in awe, thinking how pretty they are.

She's about to tell him how much she likes the butterfly tattoo on his chest, when her bladder has other plans.

"I'm sorry, but I really have to pee," She bashfully smiles as she looks at him.

"Oh, m'sorry. Probably should've told ya' I'm a cuddler." He gives a small smile with embarrassment soaking his words, thinking he's made her uncomfortable.

"No need to apologize," Her eyes light up at his out of character shyness, "I am too, I just really have to go to the bathroom." The harmonious sound of her giggles soothing every worry in Harry's body.

He playfully sighs, "Fine, I guess I'll let y'go piss."

A smirk pulls at his lips as she rolls her eyes and gets up, but he can see the corners of her lips turn up.

She goes to the bathroom, doing her business and washing her hands. She takes the time to brush her teeth and wash her face, cringing when she looks in the mirror. She feels gross that she looked like this when Harry woke up with the resemblance of an angel.

When she's finished, she walks out back into her room, excited to get back into the warm bed (and hopefully cuddle with Harry some more, but she would never admit that out loud), but she's met with abandoned sheets and panic consumes her. Did he leave? Did I make him uncomfortable by waking up in his arms? He was the one to cuddle me and he joked about it! But maybe he was just trying to be nice so he could escape? Her mind starts to race a mile a minute of anxious thoughts before they're all suddenly wiped away at the smell of coffee wafting in from the open doorway.

She throws on a sweatshirt and socks and makes her way down the stairs of the familiar, yet foreign after spending so long away from home, house. Her sock clad feet pad on the hardwood floors as she walks into the kitchen, spotting Harry silently staring at a spot on the wall with a cup of coffee in his hand (he's using the same pink and green mug with a little ceramic pig sitting on the top of the handle that Phoebe would use every time she'd sleepover in high school).

She walks in quietly, coming up behind him and grabbing a cup of coffee for herself, noticing the two pain killers next to the pot (which made her heart swell if she's honest). He had heard her coming down the stairs, but despite her presence his focus is still on the spot on the wall. Taking a sip of her pick-me-up and swallowing the pills, she takes up space next to Harry, following his eyes that stare intently at a picture frame hanging up and her eyes immediately soften.

"That was freshman year," Y/N spoke delicately, staring at the picture herself, "We had both been asked to prom by these senior guys. I was ecstatic because no one had ever shown any liking to me, but Phoebe had played it cool, of course." Harry lets out a quiet breathy laugh because of course Phoebe didn't care.

"We spent weeks planning out how prom night would be. Imagining how the senior parties would be like and if the boys would kiss us by the end of the night or not. She came over at 9am the morning of the dance and we spent all day getting ready and laughing with each other. She had even done my makeup all pretty and I helped her get into her dress. I remember I laughed when she decided she was going to wear converse under her dress, and she almost convinced me to do it too because she said 'you're not gonna be the one laughing when we're at all the after parties and your feet are killing you'." A genuine smile forms on Y/N's face as she reminisces on the cherished moment.

"But, two hours before the dance, our dates cancelled on us and told us they were going with these senior girls." Harry scoffs bitterly, understanding how cruel teenage boys are.

"I remember I was so upset because the one time I thought someone actually liked me or thought I was pretty enough to go to prom with, had just made me a second choice..." She recalls to Harry, who is now looking at the side of her face as she looks at the picture of Phoebe carrying Y/N on her back, piggy-back style, in long prom dresses, dirty white converse peaking out from under both girls' dresses.

"So, she grabbed me by the arms and looked me in the eyes and said 'Y/N L/N, we are deserving of the love we wish for. No senior boys are going to make us doubt that. We are not little freshmen girls who can be seen as cheap thrills and easy hookups. We are women, who demand respect and complete infatuation.' Then she took the tickets that the boys had pre-purchased for us, took my hand, and dragged me to that dance. We had been each other's date and made prom our bitch. She even got us into a party afterward...And we had one hell of a night."

She smiles fondly at the sweet memory. Harry's eyes flutter between the picture and the beautiful girl next to him. How could she ever think of herself as a second choice?, is all he can wonder to himself.

Letting his gaze fall to the picture one last time, he mumbles, "Well, those boys missed out on the best thing t'ever happen t'them."

He doesn't catch Y/N's blush that creeps up on her cheeks as he turns around, taking a sip from his little pig mug.

She shakes her head as to get out of the crushing haze she falls into, turning and walking to the countertop, leaning against it as Harry stands in front of her on the other side.

"Thank you. F'letting me stay the night, last night." He speaks up.

Y/N notices how he's still lacking a shirt, making her mouth dry up just a little at the sight of how fit he is. The tattoos stretching across his tan skin so perfectly, the black ink creating such a beautiful contrast on his body. He catches onto the not-so-subtle gawking and smirks.

"Uh, yeah. It's really no problem. There's no way I'd have let you drive home intoxicated and it was the least I could do after I made you practically spend the day with me." She blushes.

"Y'didn't make me," He shakes his head gently with a smile.

Y/N doesn't know to feel about how her cheeks heat up at his remark, shyly looking away as the teasing gleam in his eyes might make her combust.

"O-okay. Good to know." She squeaks out, the action only fueling Harry's ego and playful mood.

"I should go get m'car from the cemetery before it gets towed," He says almost disappointedly, like he doesn't want to leave yet. If she's being honest, she doesn't want him to leave yet either.

"Yeah, that wouldn't be good. I'll give you a ride." She says, shaking off the saddened feeling of his departure.

"Oh, you don't have t'do tha'." He shakes his head but Y/N quickly shoots him down.

"Nonsense, I'll take you. It's no big deal."

He smiles at her objection, nodding, and going upstairs to grab the rest of his clothes, feeling uncomfortable in his dress pants from the funeral that he had put back on when he got up this morning, not wanting to make Y/N feel weird by staying in only his boxers.

***

Vodka Lover: hey... are you up?

She chews on the skin around her thumb, a nervous habit that Phoebe had always teased her about, as she sends the text to Harry (having exchanged numbers when she had dropped him off at his car at the cemetery). Phoebe had always said, 'You're not gonna have any thumb left to chew, babes, if you keep at it'. To which Y/N just rolled her eyes, but in the deafening silence of 4am, she wishes she cherished those moments with her best friend more. Wishing she didn't take for granted in those little encounters of Phoebe's care and concern with her well-being. Y/N would give anything to be able to spend one more minute with her.

Butterfly Boy: yeah, everything okay?

Vodka Lover: um, can i call you?

Suddenly, breaking the bitter quiet with a ringtone, her phone she holds in her palm lights up with Harry's contact. A tear falls from her face onto the screen and she has to wipe it away before she presses accept.

"Y/N?" Harry's deep voice rings out, laced in worry, from the other line.

She chokes out a sob, not being able to hold it back anymore. The floodgate of her emotions she has been trying to keep at bay suddenly burst. Salty tears fall onto the blue fluffy blanket from her senior year she's wrapped up in.

"Hey, hey, s'everythin' okay? What's wrong?" Harry says, more alert now that he hears her in such a fragile and frantic state.

Y/N just cries harder, desperately trying to catch her breath, she feels like she's suffocating.

"Hey, love, just breathe. Just breathe, Y/N." He tries to coax her down in a soothing voice.

A raggedy breath is heard on Harry's side, making the worry dissipate just a little now that he knows she's breathing. Harry sits up in his bed, calling out to Y/N, repeatedly telling her to just keep breathing. He can't get to what's wrong if she hyperventilates.

He was laying restless in his bed when she had texted, lost in thoughts of life and replaying memories with his cousin. Trying to grasp everything she's ever told him before, hoping that by watching the moments he spent with her like a film reel in his mind would help him not forget them.

"Love, can y'tell me what's got you so upset? Please," He asks softly when she calms down enough where her breathing is regular and not sporadic inhales gasping for air.

"I-I-I miss her," She cries out into the phone, the thought of embarrassing herself by breaking down to Harry not on her mind; the only thought she has is how empty she feels.

"I know, I know, love. I miss her, too," He sighs out sadly, wishing he could take away her pain, hating the way her voice quivers with every word. "Do you want t'talk about it?"

She wipes the tears that sting her eyes and cascade down her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. The one she wore when Harry slept over, smelling a little like him still from the car ride to his car that day, three days ago.

They had been texting each other and talking every day since then, usually about light topics like asking how their day's were or what they were doing. However, tonight (or early morning), everything felt like it was crashing down on her. Y/N's strong front she had put up since the funeral for Phoebe's family finally collapsed, and she's found herself stuck under the rubble. She was trying so hard to keep it in because she shouldn't be feeling sorry for herself when someone's kid is dead.

She had bored herself to tears, not knowing what to do. The only thing that seemed right was to call Harry.

"Talk to me, babe." He begs her, running a hand through his disheveled curls.

"I-" She sniffles, "I feel like I'm fucking drowning,"

He hates how defeated her voice sounds and he wishes he could just be there to hug her and tell her everything's going to be okay, eventually.

"It-it feels like my whole life is in ruins. Harry, I miss her." Her face scrunches up again as she starts to sob, "Sh-She was my best friend, I d-did everything with her. How am I s-supposed to do this without her? How am I supposed t-to live without her?"

"Oh, darling. I know, but you will..and you can." He frowns, racking his brain for the right thing to tell her, "You got t'live so you can experience all those ways of life she always talked about. Y'haven't experienced all those feelings Pheebz would mention when she would live her life precariously. Don't y'want to know how she felt when she would talk of such a beautiful life she lived, yeah?"

He hears a hiccup and a quiet, albeit breathy, yeah, from the other side of the call.

"You are so strong, Y/N. I don't know how y'made it this far without breaking down..." He tells her whole-heartedly.

"D-don't know how you haven't either," She gets out, realizing how selfish she's probably being, bothering Harry with her grief when he has his own to deal with.

"Honestly," He breathes out through a somber smile, "The only reason I haven't is because I have you, love."

Y/N's heart swells tenfold, she thinks. She didn't realize Harry needed her just as much as she needed him.

"...I'm sorry for calling you, I know it's late." She says through sniffles when she notices the time.

"There's no reason to apologize. It's okay, love. It's okay to hurt or be angry or upset. No one expects you to be perfect all the time." He pauses, listening to her breathing.

"Ya know, one day, it won't hurt this much. One day, you'll be able t'look back at this moment and it won't break y'heart as much as it does now. You're just in the thick of it right now, pretty girl. But, the light's coming soon, I promise." He continues and Y/N feels her heart beat faster at the pet name.

"You promise?" Her voice barely above a whisper and Harry thinks his heart just broke at the sound.

"Promise." He says, wiping the stray tears rolling down his cheeks, "Phoebe wouldn't want y'to be this upset. She would want you to keep living your life and find out the ways to how she was so in love with it. If not for yourself, love, then for her...F'me."

She nods, despite knowing he can't see. Silence falls over the pair, only the sound of bated breaths assuring the other one is there.

"One summer," He speaks up, "One summer, my family had come t'visit them, partly because of the lake near her house. It was after we had moved t'the States from Cheshire, and Phoebe and I would go walk to the little pond near the park,"

"The one near Hope?" She asks quietly if they had gone to the park she had always played at as a little girl.

"Mhm. We would walk there in the blistering sun and when we got there she tried to convince me how fairies were real." He said in a calm voice.

He hears an airy puff of breath escape her mouth, which he takes as a small giggle -- making him want to continue his story as it's helping her cheer up, and because he'd probably do anything to hear her that sound from her.

"Yeah, fairies. She told me that they live at the pond and t'see them, I would have to find a pretty flower and then jump in the water with it in only m'underwear." He breathes out a laugh.

Y/N gasps, trying to keep quiet but fails when she lets out a loud laugh.

"Oh my, did you do it?" She asks bewildered, laying down so her head rests against the pillow.

"So, I told Phoebe 'no way', yeah? But, then she said she can't just tell me about them and not follow through with seeing them. Convinced me that it would bring bad luck." He scoffs, remembering the memory vividly.

"Bad luck, indeed." She giggles and it brings the dimple out on Harry's face.

"Yeah, so of course, me being like 8 or sum', I stripped down to m'pants in the middle of the day and jumped in the water." He smiles when he hears her laughing, even if it's at his expense. "Y'laughing, but I think I got ringworm after tha'!"

"I can't believe she got you to do that! I wish I'd been there." Y/N says, out of breath from laughing.

"Scarred me of ponds for the rest of m'life." He chuckles and a pause takes them both over as they settle back down.

"...Thank you, H." She whispers into the phone, adoration taking up all her features.

“F’what?”

“For being you, for being here. Just...Thank you.” She sighs.

They get lost in recalling stories of their loved one for the rest of the night, repainting her memories in gold. They laugh with each other until all the pain seems to disappear. The weight, of what felt like the world, lifting off of both their shoulders. Finally being able to breathe after days of endless battles of trying to stay strong for Phoebe's sake.

***

Days pass since the lonely 4am phone call and Y/N and Harry are still talking everyday.

She finds out he lives in her city, only a few blocks from her apartment she shared with Phoebe! She didn't believe him when he first told her, but he said he was always busy with college whenever Phoebe tried to meet up. Y/N's not going to lie, her heart picked up when she found out he'd be so close to her, wondering if he'd want to hang out with her when they leave her hometown.

Almost everyday of the last few days they have visiting, they've spent at Y/N's empty childhood home. Harry asking her to explain pictures and what she was like in high school, whenever he gets the chance. In turn, she's been picking his mind on what Holmes Chapel was like and how his family was growing up. She found out that he lived with his sister, Gemma, and his mom, Anne. They talked about everything, from their favorite things to every pet they've ever had (Y/N, particularly, falling in love with the pictures of his cat, Evie).

Just as the last few days have been spent, they are spending Y/N's last day in her hometown together before she goes back. Harry told her he had to stay a couple more nights with his family before he could leave, assuring her he would've gone back with her if he could've. That comment made her blush and she had to pray the butterflies growing in her tummy to relax.

That's another thing. Y/N had stopped lying to herself and denying the ache in her chest that would form when she was away from Harry, growing very fond of him since their first encounter at the headstone bench.

Harry, also, couldn't deny any longer the way his heart would flutter at every little thing she did. Just wondering to himself how everything about her was just so pretty. He loved the way her eyes would light up every time she saw him and how he would catch her checking him out whenever he took off his shirt.

He especially loved the way she let him sleepover a few times and how they would end up cuddling into the late hours of the morning. Both parties not minding one bit, the comfort and warmth actually preferred than sending Harry home to sleep in his own bed.

"Bet I can reach that branch right there," Harry shouts with a gleeful tone, a bit out of breath as he tries to stretch his legs far enough so his shoe brushes against the leaf on the end of the tree branch.

The two of them decided to go to Hope park, where they both held fond childhood memories at. They settled at the swingset, calm swaying in the seats quickly turning into a competition of who could swing the highest. Harry won of course, his legs being much longer than hers giving him the advantage. Playful giggles and sweet conversations of things occurring in that moment help distract them from both Phoebe and the fact that Y/N is leaving.

Y/N is distracting herself from worrying about if Harry will reach out to her when they get back to the city, if he even wants to talk to her again after this weekend or if this was all just out of politeness.

Harry, on the other hand, is distracting himself from wondering if she fancies him. He wonders if the cuddles and small touches meant as much to her as they did him, if after this weekend she would want to hang out again or if she was just being nice because he knows what she's going through.

"Bet I can reach it before you!" She giggles as her hair whips around in the wind she's created. Pumping her legs back and forth, desperately trying to get higher so she can beat Harry in her made up competition.

"Now, love, not everything has to be a competition," He huffs, really reaching out this time, "But, I wanna win, if we're playing a game, I wanna win." He grins, the cute dimple that Y/N has fallen for making an appearance on his face.

The two try their hardest to be the first ones to touch the tree branch hanging not too far from their swinging feet at their highest point. Harry, however, attempts a little too hard and flies off the swing when he lifted up his leg to make the two inch gap he was short of.

Tumbling to the woodchip covered ground, he ends up laying on his back. Groans spill out of his mouth and Y/N's eyes go wide with concern. She slows herself down just enough to safely jump off the swingset, rushing to Harry's side.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" She asks worriedly, trying to hold back the laugh that's trying to bust out. Crouching down to him, she runs her hand over his arm that's grabbing his leg.

He rubs his knee with a pained smile, "Yeah, just peachy, pet."

"Is anything hurting? Bruised?" She questions with a loving smile.

"Just my ego," He chuckles, looking up at her and admiring her caring nature.

She can't hold it in anymore, she laughs loudly at his comment, her carefree happiness making Harry's ears perk up and his heart warm.

"Yeah, love, just laugh at the crippled man." He jokes, smiling up at her happy face, wishing it could stay that way forever.

She lets out another laugh at his comment, delicately grabbing his arm to help him up, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It wasn't funny," She attempts to calm herself but fails, "Okay, it was a little bit funny!"

Giggles fall out of her mouth as Harry brushes off the mulch from his jeans, "See how much you're laughing when I push you out of the swing."

"I'm soo scared." She mocks fear.

"Oh, just wait, pet. You'll never be safe on another swing set again." He playfully grabs her sides to tickle her, but her fighting his tries just ends up bringing her closer in his hold.

Their laughs quickly die out when they realize he's holding her in his clutch, his hands at her waist, hers around his neck. Harry stares into her eyes as she stares back into his. The empty park is serene, no other noises besides the chirping of birds and the sounds of other animals sprawling about. The sweet moment causes Y/N's breath to hitch and her palms to sweat. They've only been this close when cuddling, she's never been this close to his face before. His features glow in the sunlight, his green irises complimenting the bounce of his skin and dark eyelashes. Her skin is soft and warm against his, and he just wants to lean in and-

Y/N's eyes flutter close as Harry's face comes closer, his lips meet hers in a gentle caress. With the sweet kiss, he takes note of how soft her lips are, how warm and fuzzy her intimate touch is making his head. While one hand is squeezing at her side, the other is brought up to cradle her face and she leans into his touch. Harry sucks on her bottom lip before peeling away so they can catch their breath.

Y/N lets out a whine at the loss of contact, her bottom lip jutting out as he pulls away.

"What are y'pouting for, pet? W-was that not okay? Should I not have done tha'?" The blood almost drains from his face at the pouty look on her beautiful face.

She shakes her head at him, "No, I liked it. I want more," She pants, pulling him by the collar of his shirt to bring him back to her lips.

He chuckles at her cute antics (and in relief of not fucking up his shot with her). He smiles against her lips as he melts back into her, her hand around his neck reaching up to tangle in his curly hair. He groans when her nimble fingers pull tenderly at the curls at the base of his neck, causing him to squeeze her side gently.

She breathlessly kissed him, slotting her lips between his and immediately opening her mouth in acceptance when he brushes his tongue against her bottom lip in a silent ask to take it further. As the kiss deepens, the need for air increases. They naturally separate, Harry sucking her bottom lip as he goes until it pops back.

Taking in her reddened swollen lips and her pretty flushed face, he presses one last chaste kiss on her lips, and one to her cheek and her nose.

A big, genuine grin adorns Y/N's face as she stares up at the man in front of her.

"Thank you f'letting me do tha'." He says with a gravelly voice.

"I've been thinking about you doing that since the first night you stayed at my house." She tells him bashfully.

"Me too, love. And it was better than I ever expected," He says whole-heartedly, leaning in to press one more quick kiss to her lips again.

"So, does this mean we're gonna hang out when we both go back home? Because I really want to do that again." Her glassy eyes blink at him with hope awaiting his answer.

He smiles and shakes his head, bewildered at how she could ever think that he could just ghost her after that, "I think Phoebe would come back just to slap me upside the head if I ever kissed her best friend and just never saw her again."

She chuckles at his comment, shyly looking down to her hand on his chest when he doesn't say anything else.

"Of course, I want to hang out when we get back. I want to take y'out on a real date, if you'd let me." He looks at her all starry eyed, squeezing her waist.

"I think Phoebe would come back and slap me upside the head if I ever kissed her cousin and just never saw him again," This time he's the one that laughs.

"I'd love that very much, Harry." She beams up at him.

Going back home couldn't come sooner to the both of them.

******************

ahhh i hope y’all liked that, i’d love feedback :) i’m thinking of making a series out of it, but only if that’s something y’all would like! so, pls let me know if you enjoyed it or if i should make a part 2 ??

anyways, stay safe and much love <3

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danniburgh · 3 years

Text

Evergreen Intrusion (Frankie Morales x f!reader)

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x f!reader

Summary: You never knew what happened or why it did; at nights, when you wrapped yourself around his body and he held you in place so you wouldn’t slip away from him, you talked about it, always coming to the same conclusion right before falling asleep. It was real.

Word count: +8.2k

Warnings: angst, hints of grief, smut, unprotected p in v, oral sex (f receiving), this is my attempt at magical realism, bear with me.

A/N: okay guys, this took me over 2 months to finish, i left it incomplete bc sex with frankie intimidated me but i sat today and said "youre gonna get done bitch" and it did, with major changes, but it did. anyway, thanks <3 and i wanna thank @mouthymandalorian because since the start i ranted everything to her and she read it in april and said “its good bitch” and wow, i love her so much i wanna cry

Masterlist // Read on ao3 // playlist // ko-fi

comments and reblogs are eternally appreciated 💓

moodboard by me // gifs: @pajamasecrets and @conveniently-available

Many years later, when Frankie thought of the smell of the thick fog making contact with the grass, petrichor, is called, he would recall the time he spent with you on that place, in that time, and he would remember the eerie aura that you had carried with you during your stay, you glowed. It wasn’t like the feeling the rain gave him when he heard it. It was something else, something he couldn’t name, even decades after it happened.

“We’re lost, aren’t we?” you sighed out, looking around you and seeing nothing but thick high pine trees.

Your feet ached because of how long you two had been walking together; Frankie decided the previous day that as you both had your weekend off, maybe some hiking would do you good. He had found a location he liked three and a half hours away from the racket and hustle of the city; he had driven you both in and guided you both inside. The air inside the forest was chilly, the ambient was silent, and at the height you were currently in, a thin layer of fog was roaming and settling right above your heads.

The view was breathtaking, though. The trees made a shelter high above your bodies, the leaves and tweaks and small bushes under your feet were soft, almost mushy, the moss around the tree trunks adorned them in different, formless patterns that you could make out if you were close enough to them, and if you touched them, they whispered the secrets of their host.

It was a weird time in your relationship with Frankie, he had just finished his therapy sessions and he had just recovered his pilot’s license, but he could still get lost into himself at times, he could still sit silent in a room full of people, thinking and thinking and thinking.

He had changed, the Frankie you knew and loved had changed since Santiago had practically dragged him to Colombia for a job. And when they came back, Santiago sent to you pieces of a man, poorly glued together.

Helping Frankie re-build himself was a challenge in itself, first you had to help him find himself among the mess that he was when he came back home. And slowly you had to help cleanse himself from the metaphorical dirt he had carried with him, dirt that was so embedded into his skin; under his nails, behind his ears, entangled in his hair, between his fingers, under his feet, that you had found yourself taking off time from work, and basically life to help him scrub it all off.

All to aid him become himself again. Not lost time. Completely worth it. Because when you had finished helping him, he had looked at you, deep in the eyes, and he had thanked you in the best way he knew how.

But he could still get lost into himself at times.

“No, we are not lost, babe,” Frankie’s voice was low, he was trying to get the map on his hand in some other direction to locate himself.

“Frankie, we are lost,” your hand dropped to his shoulder and he raised his eyes to you, his gaze glistening with the soft light that shone through the pine branches that hovered feet above you, making them look like fine pieces of dried amber, almost hypnotizing.

“Okay yeah, I have no idea where we are,” he sounded resigned to admit it, his shoulders dropped as his head moved so he could take your surroundings in, taking his cap off, brushing his curls back and putting it back on. His eyes for a second got fixated on something far away and you tried to follow the direction his gaze was going, finding nothing but trees, dirt and bushes. His head turned slowly back to you and he left out a sigh when he saw you smile at him.

“What?” Frankie muttered, you bit your lip as you saw his preoccupied quirk, his eyes were trying to find some reassurance in yours, as if he thought you had an answer to a question he had yet to ask.

“We can always walk back from where we came, don’t we?” you suggested, shrugging lightly, trying to get Frankie to loosen up a bit. If he started to freak out, then you knew everything had gone to shit. And you didn’t want that.

Frankie looked at you and he looked behind you at the path you had come from, considering the suggestion.

“I mean, yeah,” his eyes fixated again on something or somewhere and then his brow furrowed, you followed his eyes and yet again, you found nothing but trees, “I jus–what the fuck?” you widened your eyes.

“Frankie?” your voice was as thin and disperse as the fog above you and it seemingly didn’t reach Frankie’s ears, because you had to find your air and put it all in your diaphragm to almost shout at him “Frankie!”

He looked around him slowly, his brown eyes were roaming around trying to locate something, anything and his worried stance and his shocked face made your stomach churn in something closer to fear than expectation.

“I can’t find the way we came from,” he whispered, and you saw the fog slowly turn into a transparent arm and reach to his mouth, eating his voiced words. Delightful, the fog said.

“Don’t play with me,” you pleaded, shivering as you felt as well the fog’s arm feel out the confines of your mouth, tasting your words, not liking them and spitting them on the floor.

Frankie looked at you, his eyes telling you he wasn’t lying, his brows were almost touching each other and his mouth was open in bewilderment, he shook his head slowly a few times and you felt your legs flutter and a heavy weight fall onto your shoulders.

“Look for it,” you mouthed, Frankie saw you breathing heavily and he rushed to you, he dropped his backpack to the floor. His hands on your body felt electrifying. His touch was heavy with preoccupation, his face was quirked in confusion as he guided your breaths in and out, in and out, in and out.

Once the air entered your lungs and exited them as food for the trees around you he tried again to look for the narrowed path you two had walked into the forest.

“C’mon, I think is this way,” he pointed in a random direction and you whined. The fog’s arm rejected it as well, and it fell in front of your feet; you looked at it and found out why the fog didn’t like it, it was stale, incorporeal, bland.

“Are you sure?” your question felt like a prayer and a plea and a beg. Frankie nodded. He wasn’t but he nodded.

Frankie took your hand and turned around to put on his backpack. But the backpack was gone and the ground where it was thrown onto before was ruffling about it.

“Fuck,” he swore and brushed a hand on his forehead to wipe the thin layer of fog that was clinging to his skin, mimicking sweat. “let’s go,” you nodded and gripped his hand as hard as you could, your other hand gripped the shoulder strap of your own backpack and for a second you glanced at the space on the ground that had eaten Frankie’s and it growled softly.

You and Frankie walked for what it felt like hours upon hours upon hours. And you got nowhere.

At that point the forest looked like a carbon copy of itself, the moss was showing the same secrets and you started to be sad, and angry, and scared, and Frankie noticed and the forest noticed.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Frankie muttered to you, you felt an ever so known and unwelcomed sting in your throat, “I’m so sorry,” his arms found you and he held you close to his chest, he kept muttering apologies. For getting you two lost, for choosing that place, for wanting to hike, for not giving you the time you needed, for making you lose a piece of yourself in the works of putting him together. He was sorry. And you felt it. And the forest felt it too.

You cried, as everything felt like you weren’t going home anytime soon.

And Frankie held you, because he was the only piece of home you had left, and you were the only piece of home he had left.

Your tears escaped your eyes and the fog’s arm feasted on them, and you let it. It was the only delicious thing you could offer to it, anyway.

You didn’t know for how long he had been embracing you and letting you damp his shirt with the tears that the fog’s arm didn’t choose to eat when you heard it.

But you didn’t hear it, you felt it entering your head, roaming around your ears and getting itself settled in your mind.

A whisper from the forest. It sounded like a tree’s secret, but sadder, needier, stronger, bigger, heavier, darker and lighter.

“I wanna go home,” you whispered out, to him. To Frankie.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he broke the embrace and his hands slid to cup your face, he brought you to him slowly and took your lips in his.

He kissed you with gentle desperation. His mouth moved at the rhythm of an unheard, newly made up song, chordless, lyricless, soundless; his grasp on your head felt like the silk of the sheets you never lied on, the sound of his tongue sliding into your mouth was lewd and warm and happy and there. You grasped his wrists and held onto him as if he were your home. Not letting you go. Not letting him go. No one was going anywhere.

You kissed for what it felt like hours upon hours upon hours and when he stopped kissing you; you chased his mouth and kissed him again and the songless song began again, and the never owned softness stayed in there, and the ever so present warmness became warmer.

When the air of your lungs faded into the leaves and the pinecones screamed at you and the moss stopped whispering their host’s secrets at the surprise of you kissing for so long, you stopped.

And Frankie’s big, warm, brown eyes felt ever more present, as if they had been there for years and years.

He smiled at you. And you were sure the thin fog that invaded the space faded away because of it.

“You wanna try again?” he asked softly, and you nodded, replying to his smile with one of yours.

So Frankie grabbed your hand again, and you two started walking in whatever direction you two felt like walking.

Soon enough you would be home.

“Oh” Frankie let out, tightening the grip on your hand, you looked at him with anticipation and question in your eyes. His gaze seemed to be fixated on something and you, yet again, followed his eyes, not really expecting to find anything. But you were surprised at what your gaze encountered.

“Wow,” you sighed out. You felt Frankie's eyes on your face and you turned to see him. His eyes bewildered, his smile giddy, contagious, child-like. His. It was him.

“Shall we?” he asked. You nodded enthusiastically, giving him the brightest smile he thought he had ever seen in all his years on the earthly plane.

You had found a house.

A small, old-looking house.

The outside was battered, the pass of the life’s years had darkened its wooden walls, made them look like wrinkles in an old person’s face, the small, squared windows on the front were foggy and covered with white, fine dust and an even thinner layer of mist, it had a small rot-wooden deck, moss and mold and a bright green vine covered the steps. From the spot you were standing at, you could see the way the climbing plants and the secret teller moss adorned the single slope roof.

Tiny droplets of water that had grasped and clung tenaciously onto the roof edge from the fog that had faded into the sky were succumbing to the gravity and fell onto the floor, sounding like some form of a song you were sure you knew but never heard.

As you two walked hand in hand, you noticed the open door. The house felt old; it felt weak; it felt blight, yet so warm, so bright, so inviting, so welcoming.

So you entered.

Frankie let out a soft gasp at the sight.

The inside was even more tainted.

The walls were partially covered with the remains of a rotten, tattered, poorly kept wallpaper, the color had faded and the only noticeable feature of it was the flower print that seemed to adorn it after years and years of exposure to everything around you.

The wooden floors looked long-lived; some of the wood tiles were cracking, some of them looked sturdy, some others were rotten and there were a few places around where there were no tiles and it was just wet, dark dirt.

You looked at Frankie with a smile adorning your face and he was looking at the ceiling; you looked up as well and saw the wooden beams above you, angled and darkened, some weathered and damp, some robust and dry. They looked relaxed, yet hefty. Soft yet firm. Some of the climbing plants you had seen creeping on the roof had crawled and slithered and found themselves at home in the beams.

It was beautiful.

“C’mon,” you tugged at Frankie's hand and pulled him further inside. He followed close. The first room, the biggest, had on one side a worn out, misted loveseat in the middle of the space and a stone fireplace that the time and the weather and the forest and the fog had taken care of turning green. On the other side there was a small table, topped with fallen leaves from the climbing plants, a wood stove right below a window and a legged stained sink with a copper faucet.

You bit your lip and narrowed your eyes, thinking.

“What?” Frankie asked when he saw your face, you smiled and walked towards the sink, with him following you, with your free hand you reached the faucet handle and twisted it. The pipes started moaning in protest after being awakened so rudely and without notice and then, clear water started pouring from it.

Frankie barked out a laugh. And you smiled at him, your eyes bright and shiny as if the moon was stationed inside them.

You got rid of your backpack and left it on the floor while Frankie washed his hands and cupped them to gather water and drink it, after he finished he left them under the faucet and nodded his chin to them. You leaned down and drank from his hands. The water tasted sweet; it tasted like rain; it tasted like a summer night breeze, and the early days of winter before a snowstorm. It tasted like home.

Frankie’s skin was warm at the touch, despite the outside's brisk temperature. When you finished drinking, your throat happy and satiated, you smiled at him as he twisted the handle to stop the stream of water. You wiped your mouth dry with the sleeve of your shirt and your eyes meandered around the space, taking in the colors of the wood, the small crevices of the teared wallpaper, the way the window adorned herself with tiny specks of dust that formed a thin yet thick white cover all over the glass, and the way Frankie seemed to fit like a puzzle piece in the middle of the room. As if he was part of it. As if he was meant to stand in the middle of the rotten wooden floor, among the fallen leaves of the climbing plants that never seemed to die.

“You’re really pretty,” Frankie muttered, his brown yet amber eyes glistened with the anticipation of what was about to come but you didn’t know yet. The great something-about-to-happen. You smiled at him and his chest fluttered, swollen with the extensive, deep love he had for you.

“Let’s go see the rest,” you suggested, Frankie nodded as he saw your voice eagerly come out of your lips in crescent waves of light, and smiled back at you when you took his hand again, intertwining his fingers with yours, sending his spine a few shocks of loving electricity.

You walked to the center of the big room that functioned as both an impressively functioning kitchen and a rotten living room and at the end, on the wall, there were two doors, both medium tall, dark, mahogany doors, one of them closed, the other halfway open.

Frankie followed you as you tugged gently at his hand, you walked first to the one closed and the doorknob felt like room temperature butter when you twisted it open, it was a plain and simple bathroom, the three essentials, a misty, foggy, dusty mirror on the wall and a misty, foggy, dusty window in front of you, you smiled to yourself when you saw the way the climbing plant was creeping its way inside the room from a little crack on the upper left corner of the window.

Walking back you stepped towards the halfway open door and you pushed it open with two fingers. The hinges howled softly as the door moved to the side and let you enter through it. You scoffed as you saw a double, tubular bed in the middle of the room, the green bedding seemed plush and cozy, it looked like a giant sheet of that secret telling moss that gave you the warm welcome when you were walking towards the house.

Directly next to the bed there was a bigger window, still covered and hidden by the dust and the fog and the white mist that apparently covered every single glass surface around the house, as if it was its job, but it still let the light come through to the room, illuminating it with the smiles of the little sunlight that the trees allowed to enter their space.

In front of the bed there was a dusty mirror, the frame of it was bigger than the glass but fitting, and it reflected the tiny, thin, imperceptible sun rays that the window happily let through.

The room felt colder than the bigger space outside and you didn’t like it.

“Let’s take that outside, it feels like a freezer here,” Frankie said and you nodded. Both of you walked and each one grabbed an edge of the bedding. You looked at Frankie with your eyebrows raised and asked without asking if he was feeling the same thing around your hands.

The sheet felt like velvet and moss and the single petal of a rose that fell on a table when you put its owner on a small vase, it felt soft as the whispers of love you would give Frankie when he slipped inside of you, soft as the whispers of the forest you had heard earlier, but happier, relaxed, lovelier.

Frankie then looked through the window and he narrowed his eyes a bit.

“I think the sun is about to set, baby,” he mumbled, you agreed with him without looking at the window “come on, we have to rest.”

You two walked outside the room with the thick sheet on your hands and let it fall carelessly on the floor of the rotten living room, between the tattered loveseat and the green stone fireplace.

You felt Frankie’s hand leave yours and find its place on your waist, soothing you even when you didn’t need to be soothed. Caressing you, knowing you always wanted to be caressed.

You turned your head to see him and he reached in to grab your lips in his, his mouth tasted sweet and earthy, his lips told you what he was thinking without saying it and you turned around so your bodies could talk to each other.

“I love you,” he inserted in your mouth the words without having to break the kiss, you wrapped your arms around his neck, playing with the curls that escaped eagerly from his cap and your skin felt like it was melting and mixing with his, your scents got to know each other again and for a brief, brief moment, it felt like you were floating several inches from the floor.

A soft crack above you interrupted your kiss and you and Frankie turned your heads up to follow the sound, one of the ceiling beams was moving, slowly. Frankie moved you gently, pushing your waist and you stood there, watching how the middle of it cracked itself open from two different points. The soft noises the wood made as it opened itself sounded like an egg hatching, you narrowed your eyes when the cracking stopped and then, a single, almost perfectly squared piece of the ceiling beam fell to the floor, landing next to your feet with a soft thud.

Frankie let go of your waist and leaned down to pick the piece of wood up with curious eyes.

“Oh, shit,” he whispered to himself and to you.

“What?” you questioned, narrowing your eyes in amusement at his soft expression and his small smile.

Frankie then reached inside the beam and slowly pulled out a thin, small purple flower.

“Oh,” you gasped, covering your mouth with one hand, Frankie, ever so delicately finished taking out the flower from the wood with everything and roots and admired it closer, smiled to himself and then gave it to you.

“Una flor para otra flor,” (a flower for another) he whispered and you both chuckled, taking the small flower from his fingers.

“So fucking cheesy,” you teased, reaching to his cheek to cup his face with your other hand, brushing softly over his patchy beard with your thumb, taking in the sight of your boyfriend’s face, the dimmed light that the windows allowed to get through them gave him an aura of safety and his skin seemed like it was sparkling.

You looked down to the small flower, still cupping his face, and you smiled at the way the purple petals danced on the stem, stirring as if the wey stretching after a long while dormant and encapsulated inside the wood of the beam. You brought it to your nose and the petals brushed the tip of it as you inhaled softly the scent of its core.

The flower smelled like the garden of your childhood home, like the perfume that your grandma used. It smelled like the mixed berries Frankie liked to munch standing in front of the open fridge in the middle of the night, it smelled like the dream you had the night Frankie came home after Colombia and that you couldn’t wipe out from your head.

You looked back at Frankie; he was grinning at the way the flower seemed to hug your nose as you smelled it.

“What?” you asked him, reciprocating his smile. He shook his head. Nothing. He inserted in your mind without parting his lips. You slid your hand to his neck and pulled him softly to you, he reached out, knowing what you wanted. Frankie always knew what you wanted.

When his lips brushed yours, you lifted your other hand and pushed the small flower between your mouths.

Frankie let out a chuckle at the action and sighed into your mouth when the flower opened up its petals to kiss you both back.

You let the flower fall to the floor when Frankie’s hands found their home on your waist again and pulled you to him, bringing you flush to his broad chest. You wrapped your arms around his neck.

Frankie’s lips tasted like the flower’s pollen and a faint hint of the fog that had tasted his words

His lips stole a moan from your throat as he used his tongue to open yours and you both heard the way the flower imitated your moan on her newfound place on the floor, making you both smile at the soft, almost imperceptible sound.

The air became warmer, thicker with all the love that exuded from your bodies. You both heard the secret teller moss yell at the way he was kissing you so the forest found out and it made you incredibly proud to have a man like him devouring your lips ever so softly.

“Make love to me, Frankie,” you whispered on his lips, carefully reaching into his throat and pulling out a soft groan out of it with your words. He just nodded in response and slowly guided your body to kneel on the sheet and kept kissing you.

Your mind reeled at the way Frankie used his lips to make you feel safe, protected, loved, cared for. By the way he, with a few movements of his lips, could make you feel like you had been kissing him and kissing him and kissing him for years and years and years.

Frankie’s hands roamed around your waist and the small of your back, without hurry they got under your shirt and you sighed at the warmness, soft roughness of his touch on your skin, you took his cap off and let it fall on the floor, next to the flower.

The flower crawled towards the cap as you continued praying against Frankie’s lips and snuggled next to the brim.

He broke the kiss, and you felt a gentle, faint breeze cover your body when Frankie took off your shirt, it felt as if it was caressing you softly, and it made the hairs on your skin rise.

Frankie stole your kiss again and hands trailed to cup your tits over the fabric of your bra and you let out a low whimper when he teased your nipples over it. You slid your hands from his neck to his chest and worked slowly to unbutton his plaid shirt. Your feathery touch on his warm, sun kissed skin made him moan softly, and the flower mimicked the sound again.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured on your lips when you made him take off the shirt. You smiled on his kiss, with him on you, on any part of you, you always believed him.

His lips traveled down to your chin, where he left a soft bite and ripped another soft moan out of you.

As you helped him to unbuckle his belt and unbutton his jeans, Frankie liked a stripe of skin from your chin to your neck and you smiled, your eyes were closed when his plush lips started nibbling at your tender, fog tasted flesh and once his belt was unbuckled and his pants were unbuttoned, he slid them down.

“Take off yours, baby,” he whispered, you bit your lip and did it; you undressed as he did and once you were completely naked, bared and vulnerable in front of him, he stopped his own movements to admire your body, “gorgeous.” the word slipped from his lips like thick, raw honey and fell onto the blanket, smearing on it, the fabric sensed it and absorbed the word and your eyes, as he reached for your naked waist, saw it disappear inside it.

Frankie brought you to him once again and his kisses fell on your skin like soft, summer rain; warm and light and all over you; your hands found themselves caressing any part of his body they could reach, making him drop little moans and whimpers on your skin, marking it, leaving it tainted with the soft noises that he produced as you enjoyed the softness of his body.

He laid you down on the sheet and it made itself cushioned under you, it was fresh, comfortable, soft and stirred ever so slightly under your body; it made you shiver softly.

Frankie’s lips went down your neck, his warm, soft tongue played with your nipples as his hands roamed up and down your torso, you buried your fingers inside his curls; scratched his scalp gently with your nails, making him grunt against your breast.

“Frankie,” you whispered out, his name floating all the way up like an inflated balloon and crashing onto the wooden beams with an unhearable thud, Frankie hummed in response with his mouth worshipping your other breast, his beard making the most gentle burns onto your skin “eat me.” you begged, closing your eyes when he smirked against the tender, already sensitive flesh of your chest.

Without saying more words his kissed trailed down your body, several of them on your lower abdomen, you chuckled and opened your eyes, lifting your head to look at him; Frankie was already looking at you; his deep, brown and amber looking eyes telling you without hesitance what he wanted, what he had been asking for months and months and months. You threw your head back on the sheet with a smile adorning your face as he took your thighs and gently opened them up for him; his face buried inside you and he inhaled the scent of your deepest corner.

With kitten licks, Frankie started tasting you; making you moan when his tongue went deeper, he opened you further and buried his tongue inside you, prompting a groan out of you; guttural, soft. Frankie smiled against your folds, proud and enamoured of the sounds he was making you produce.

Your hand pushed him further deeper inside you, Frankie eagerly opened his mouth around your core and started sucking and licking and nibbling and tasting. You threw your head to the side and your heavy lids opened just enough for you to look at the small purple flower that was snuggled right next to the seam of Frankie’s cap. It was lying on the floor almost lazily, its roots were stirring and stretching and you smiled at it; it was feeling it too.

Frankie’s fingers found your entrance and pushed inside, starting to curl and press and push to the sides and upwards, making you lift your back off the sheet and hatch your hips on his face, you moaned as he pulled his fingers out and in again at a tantalizing rhythm he knew you loved; his lips nibbled at your clit and his tongue teased at it in synchrony with his fingers, you let out a long moan and Frankie groaned against your core. The vibrations of his voice against your tender, swollen pussy made you stiffen and hold your breath, you gasped when he sucked at your clit rather hoarsely and the air that left your lungs through your lips traveled like a feather falling through the air and fell directly on the purple flower.

Frankie sucked and curled his fingers inside you and you rolled your hips against his face, he had built a coil inside you that was getting warmer and warmer with each wet lick on you; your hand fisted his hair and as the coil snapped in half, you pulled it, making Frankie grunt against you. He helped you ride your orgasm and as you came down from one of the highest climaxes he had made you feel in what it felt like years and years and years, he crawled slowly upwards between your legs, covering you with his body.

“Hey,” he whispered above your face, you opened your eyes and smiled when you saw his eyes, those beautiful eyes of his inches from you “you okay?” he asked. You nodded and cupped his slick covered face with both your hands, closing the distance between your mouths and tasting yourself in the process of devouring his lips.

Frankie whimpered at the depth of your kiss and when he broke it, you heard the slightest of sounds; a yelp that sounded both from afar and up close. You turned to the side at the same time and you let out a soft chuckle when you saw the purple flower standing. Its roots well planted into the wood tiles of the floor. An almost imperceptible coat of transparent slick covered its petals.

You turned to Frankie and he smiled at you, falling onto your lips once more.

Your hands wrapped themselves around his neck and your legs opened up for him to brush the underside of his duck against your wet folds; you shivered, feeling the way he was throbbing for you.

“I love you.” he whispered without whispering and you rolled your hips closer to him. He slid inside of you with any other intervention than the sole need you had for each other; he moaned softly against your mouth as his hips started thrusting inside you at a gentle pace you didn’t know he was capable of going at.

You stopped kissing him and pulled his body to rest on yours; one of his hands rested on your hip as the other moved to frame your head and he ground into you slowly; deeply; harder while his rhythm wasn’t strong.

Frankie hid his face in the crook of your neck and you wrapped your legs around his waist, changing the angle for both, you moaned when his cock started grazing a soft spot inside you that made you close your eyes and see the stars up close.

“More.” you heard a voice that wasn’t yours but sounded like you, and Frankie whined against your skin, licking you. He picked up the rhythm and went faster enough so you gushed around him and the noise of him pumping inside you inundated the room; as he drove into you and your throat made the most sweet and soft noises he swore he had ever heard you make, you heard the fog creeping into the house; it slithered in through the small openings the creeping plants were watching you make love from. You felt the weight of the fog falling on top of you and when it covered you whole, Frankie started pounding into you.

“Oh, god.” you moaned out. Frankie held you in place with a hand on your head and another on your waist and went impossibly faster, the noises that your skins made when they clashed together were being muffled by the fog, whose arm formed once more and caressed you both in places you wouldn’t let anyone else touch.

You heard another yelp from afar and your eyes looked for it in the purple flower, but it had turned its back to you and you noticed how, from the seams of the wood tiles on the floor, little purple nubs and buds started growing.

You gasped when Frankie changed the angle, sliding in and out faster than before, hitting your g-spot with more strength, and your breath hitched when he started grunting inside your neck. You turned your head to the other side and saw more of the purple buds. Some of them were opening already, and you felt your eyes water when you saw several small, slick covered purple flowers stretching their petals to the ceiling.

A deep, particular thrust of Frankie into you made your legs tremble. He started kissing your neck and your jaw and your chin, still driving into you at that murdering pace of his you had never felt before. You felt his beard tickling your skin, and you grew aware of every inch of sweaty, fog covered skin you owned; when he kissed your lips and ate the small moans you didn’t realize you were letting out, you grew aware of everything that rested inside your body, and you felt it move, grow, swell and deflate at the same time.

“Frankie,” you whispered against his lips, his cock driving into you and making you squirm beneath him “Frankie.” you gasped, his mouth trapped yours and you felt him throb inside your cunt.

“You’re here.” he muttered against your lips. The sudden, overwhelming emotion of being wrapped around him made you cum almost immediately with your eyes closed shut and your mouth opened at the fog’s mercy, that ate your moans with fervency.

Frankie slid in and out of you for more time than he had ever done before after your orgasms, he was whispering to you words you didn’t understand; you felt your eyes shed the tears they had held as you came at the sight of all the nubs and buds opening as Frankie thrusted into you. All of them opened as beautiful, small, slick covered purple flowers; carbon copies of the one he had found inside the piece of beam and gifted to you.

“They’re ours,” you gasped, Frankie hummed in affirmation, his brow furrowed in concentration, his mouth agape, his breath hitting your face, you cupped his face. “let go,” you whispered to him, caressing the flush skin of his face. “it’s enough, let go.”

Frankie moaned out and grunted, locking his hips with his cock fully inside you as he filled you with himself as deep as he could. He opened his eyes once the last drop of his seed was poured into you and gazed at you.

“How are they?” he asked, panting and trying to recover from his orgasm.

“They’re beautiful.” you replied with a teary smile, Frankie kissed you softly and turned his head to the sides, still inside you, looking at all the precious, tiny purple flowers that surrounded you.

“They’re ours.” he said with a smile adorning his face.

“Where the fuck have you been?!” the scream Santiago let out made you flinch, and you fisted and gripped Frankie's dampened clothes. His hold on your body tightened, and you felt another errant tear escape from your eyes.

“Pope.” Frankie could only let out that sole word, his throat was closed shut and the only thing that was keeping him from falling knees first onto the floor was your body and your need to be supported so you didn’t fall to the floor as well.

“Fish, what the fuck, man?” Santiago frowned at the look you two were carrying; your clothes were soaked wet and dirty, your hair was dripping muddy water. Frankie had wet knots on his hair and for Santiago it was odd looking at him without his cap on. You were shaking and almost climbing onto Frankie’s body.

Frankie didn’t answer. Santi looked at your feet and neither of you were wearing shoes.

“C’mon, c’mon in,” he stepped to the side and Frankie whispered in your ear to move, but he ended up almost carrying you inside. “you need a shower,” Santiago muttered when the both of you got inside and the swampy smell that clung to you brushed his nose. Frankie nodded and slowly walked inside Sant’s home towards the bathroom “Fish,” he heard the voice of his best friend behind him and stopped walking, not bothering to turn around “man, it’s been a year, where were you?”

You sobbed into Frankie’s shoulder and lifted your head to look at Santiago, who frowned when he looked into your bloodshot eyes.

“Living.” you whispered out, missing the fog’s arm, that was not there to eat at your words.

After a thirty-minute shower; in which both of you sat on the shower’s floor and Frankie attempted to unknot your hair as gently as he could while you shared furtive glances, feathery touches, kisses of understanding and heavy; painful tears, you were sitting on Santiago’s dining table wrapped in his clothes and a blanket, gripping each other’s hands as hard as you could.

“Where were you?” Santi asked, his voice soft, his eyes on you and the way Frankie didn’t seem to separate an inch from you.

“The forest.” Frankie muttered. Santiago sighed and tried to look away from you.

“For a year?” he let out in an incredulous whisper.

“It didn’t feel like a year.” you murmured, your voice thin as a thread, your eyes on Frankie’s side, you leaned to rest your head on his shoulder.

“What do you mean it didn’t feel like a year?” Santiago raised his voice and immediately caught himself and tried to calm down “we were about to pronounce you dead,” he tightened his jaw and his finger pressed on the wood of the table, you smirked at the parallels; his finger almost looked like Soleil, the first flower that you and Frankie gave birth to “both of you.”

“You wouldn’t get it, Santi.” you whispered, looking at him from Frankie’s shoulder.

“Explain it to me, then.” he said, crossing his arms on his chest, Frankie let out a huff.

“No.” Frankie said.

“We got lost,” you started. Frankie stiffened next to you and turned to the side to face you; he looked at your pleading face and with his eyes asked you if you were sure. You cupped his face, scratched his short beard and nodded ever so slightly; missing the way he would slip his words inside your mind when he didn’t feel like talking, “we got lost in the forest.” you said, still looking at Frankie.

Santiago stirred in his chair. He had never seen you do that, look into each other’s eyes so profoundly it felt like you two were sharing not only the same air, but the same brain; the same heart.

“And we found a house,” you turned to see him, teary-eyed and a soft smile adorning your face. Frankie hid his face inside the crook of your neck and breathed in deeply, your hand caressing his nearly knot-free hair. “and we stayed there.”

“For a year?” Santiago deepened his frown, you huffed and shook your head gently.

“For a week.” you whispered.

Santiago stood up from the chair and closed his eyes, he scratched his beard for a few seconds and turned to you.

“How?” you shrugged.

“We tried to make sense of it as we walked home,” you muttered. Santiago noticed how your eyes got lost in the space between you and him. “we don’t look like a year has passed, right?” you blinked a few times and focused on him. He shook his head “we were supposed to stay there until the sunrise, we just got lost.”

“What made you stay a week?” he asked, hesitantly.

You choked down a sob and felt Frankie’s hand slip out of your entanglement. He wrapped his arms around you.

“The babies.” he let out, his voice deep, his tone hurt. Santiago closed his eyes and rubbed them with his thumb and index.

“What babies?” he whispered out. Frankie scoffed at his friend’s reaction.

“Ours.” you let out.

Santiago sat down again and you felt yourself stiffen with the memory of them.

Frankie started talking, but his voice sounded far off and distorted.

Your mind could only focus on the hundred little flowers that were born out of you and Frankie, on how they would make space for you and him to walk around them, on how, if you stopped, they would wrap themselves around your feet, burying them with their soft petals and bathing you in their pollen.

You felt your throat clench at the memory of them waking you up in the mornings as your limbs were wrapped around Frankie’s body, of their smallest voices laughing at his bad jokes or at them bathing in the sheer sunlight that entered through the windows.

They were yours.

They were yours and Frankie’s.

“They died.” Frankie let out with a shaky breath. You felt your face wet with the tears your memories had brought to your eyes and Santiago looked at you; his face quirked in worry, his eyes wet with sympathy.

“How?” Santi dared to ask.

“A storm.” Frankie let out.

You buried your face in his shoulder and cried.

Frankie looked to the seamless ceiling of Santiago’s home and felt his chest turn and burn at the sound of your sobs.

The morning they died, Frankie woke up by the sound of a loud thunder that shook the house; he gripped your body absentmindedly, the memory of the hard rain burning inside his mind made him reach to you, he didn’t like the sound of pounding rain. He loathed it, but you were sleeping next to him and your body was giving him the warmth he didn’t have before.

You were woken up by the second thunder that made the flowers shake their pollen off in fear.

The two of you were naked and the dreadful sound of big drops of water made you sit on the blanket. You turned to look at each other just as the rumbling of another thunder made the misty, foggy, dusty windows shackle on their frames.

At the fourth roar of another thunder several windows broke and the sharp curl of sturdy wind came through the windows, you screamed to him and you dressed quickly and went to look for anything to cover the broken windows.

You tore the blanket apart in several pieces to cover some of the now opened windows, rushing to stop the ferocious wind from coming inside the house, but the storm was strong and gripped at the pieces, snatching them away from your hands every time you tried to use them as a barrier.

Frankie yelled at you to try to use the parts of the loveseat that you had moved to the middle of the kitchen space, and when you tried the deafening, thunderous sound of a sky-tearing thunder made the front door fly open and the rain to flood in.

You were soaked to the bone and you looked down at your feet; the flowers were trying to climb up to your calves but failed each time. The water started streaming into the house from invisible tears on the ceiling and the water level was rising quicker than either of you would’ve liked.

“They’re drowning!” you gasped, covering your mouth with your eyes to prevent from scaring them more than they already were; the tears you knew you were shedding had mixed with the rowdy water that came from each broken window. Frankie acted out of his own fears, he frowned and kneeled on the floor, trying to pick them up, but each time he picked up some, they fainted on his hand. “stop!” you yelled at him. He did it again, not listening to your pleas. You rushed to him and pulled him back “you’re killing them!”

“They’re already dying!” he yelled back at you, his eyes reddened and his jaw tensed in pain. You pulled him back again when he tried to pick up more. “stop!” he yelled, pushing you away from him “let me save them!”

“You can’t!” you screamed at him under another thunder that made the ceiling crack, both of you looked at the beams trying to hold together but they swell with water and were about to give in “Frankie!” you called him, he stood up and took your hand in his.

“Let’s go!” you nodded and let out a sob when you saw the purple petals of the flowers floating on the muddy water, lifeless. Frankie pulled you towards the open door and forced you to run out.

Your feet landed on puddles of swampy water that were ankle deep and you gripped Frankie’s hand as he pulled you away from the house; he tried to regulate his own breathing, the feeling of mud burying his bare feet reminded him too much of another time in his life he didn't want or liked to remember, the rain fell on your bodies like needles and stuck to your clothes, tainting them with a green, dirt color that made you feel disgusting.

You walked together for what felt like hours upon hours upon hours; the secret telling moss was dead as well; the floor that had eaten Frankie’s backpack was flooded with the sharp water that fell from the sky. Corpses of bushes and moss and bugs and birds floating around your legs. It smelled like life. It reminded Frankie of war.

“And then we got out of the forest.” Frankie sniffed out.

Santiago was looking at the both of you with sympathy and pain in his eyes. He stood up from his chair and walked around the table. He stood behind you and wrapped his arms around the both of you.

“I’m so sorry.”

You sobbed out louder.

Many years later, when Frankie thought of the smell of the thick fog making contact with the grass, petrichor, is called, he would recall the time he spent with you on that place, in that time, and he would remember the eerie aura that you had carried with you during your stay; that aura that wrapped your naked body and that followed you wherever you walked to, you glowed.

Whenever you played with the flowers, or their tiny petals wrapped themselves around his fingers and you let out the lightest, freest, most liberating of laughs; you shimmered.

You never knew what happened or why it did; at nights, when you wrapped yourself around his body and he held you in place so you wouldn’t slip away from him, you talked about it, always coming to the same conclusion right before falling asleep. It was real.

And the love you had for each other grew because of it. And the love you felt for your babies existed. And the feeling of peace that it made you feel was still there.

It wasn’t like the feeling the hard rain gave him when he heard it. It was something else, something he couldn’t name, even decades after it happened.

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