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astxrwar · 5 months

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ties that bind [5/x]

SUMMARY: Quentin Beck– your old college biology professor– is still a bastard. Apparently, you’re kind of in to that.

RATING: M

WORD COUNT: 7k+

CONTENT + WARNINGS: Emotional manipulation (a given,,,). The general vibes associated with that. Sex scene will be chapter 6 because it got too long, this one is just plot and developing the AU + character. I take liberties with RC because you kinda have to in long-form works; if you're an experienced cook no you're not and if you're allergic to sesame seeds no you're not.

If you're still reading this series we're married now btw. love u babes, mwah.

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | [PART 5]

Beck says nothing else between the car and the elevator, nothing as he presses the only slightly-tarnished silver button for the third floor, still nothing as the doors glide open and nothing when they close, either. The silence begins to coalesce like its own entity, something that pulses and breathes, alive, expanding to fill the rest of the too-small space of the elevator car; something he is, of course, unaffected by. Whatever tension is building inside of you feels precarious, uncontrolled, like a shaken-up can of coke in the seconds before an unsuspecting hand cracks the tab open, an unchecked ignition system with the fuse dwindled all the way down to nothing but a fine powder of ash, the silence before something explodes, because it has to, pressure building too high for too long, until there’s no other recourse or hope for respite. It’s nerves, and you know that, the feeling, but it’s not like anything you’ve ever felt before, better and worse and more, now, in ways that you still can’t fully comprehend or explain.

Beck studies you wordlessly from the opposite side of the elevator car as it moves upwards, the motion so fluid that if it weren’t for a small digital panel above the door, the floor numbers ticking by in glowing fluorescent red, you wouldn’t be able to tell it was even moving at all.

“Have you eaten?” He asks, cutting clean through that silence. It calms whatever tumultuous thing is coiling in your belly, even if only temporarily, the mundanity of the question striking and strange enough to draw your attention away from it for the moment.

“No,” you answer, quieter than you’d meant to, eyes flitting up to meet his and then glancing away again of their own accord, skittering back to the panel with the glowing red two now displayed and then to the doors, gleaming and reflective, the carpet, brand-new, only faintly discolored along the common path into and out of the car, a dappled pattern of overlapping shoe prints beginning to wear into it there. “I have my wallet, we can order something, if you want—“

Beck makes a sound; not a laugh, more just a particularly harsh exhale, dismissive and uninterested. “I’m making dinner, you can get yourself whatever you’d like if you won’t eat real food.”

The display panel ticks over to three and the doors slide open, a pleasant, bell-like chime announcing the stop; you follow him out into a carpeted hallway that’s painted a bland shade of steel blue and lined with wall-mounted lamps, like a hotel. There are windows on one side, spaced evenly down the length of the wall, and from this height you can see past the lines of barren, skeletal trees, the lights of cars as they trawl like beetles along the winding length of the road in the distance.

“What do you think I usually eat, then, if I don’t eat ‘real food’ ,” you say, instead of any of the other things that you’re thinking about— your nerves, still, trembling like the wings of a bird in the hollow of your throat, or the strangeness of him offering you dinner, or the entirely predictable way he can make that, even, sound like it’s a dig at your expense.

“Takeout,” Beck answers pointedly, mouth twitching up at the corners; you’ve arrived at his door, the numbers 34 pasted in neat silver leaf below the rounded inset glass of the peek-hole, reflective and glinting in the light from the hallway, and as he rummages in the pockets of his coat for his key and slots it into the lock you can hear your own pulse thrumming loud in your ears. “Frozen pizza, boxed mac and cheese, microwave ramen, anything they sell at the dollar store,” it clicks, and the door handle turns, and he looks at you, grinning in earnest now, “Hot pockets, probably.”

“Oh my god,” is all you can really say to that— because, yeah, he’s described to a T the off-campus-student-with-no-meal-plan diet, and you’re not even really any good at lying to him even when you’re not feeling some dubious combination of off-balance and dangerously out of your depth, so you decide that you’re better off not even trying. “You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”

“I’m actually not trying to be, this time,” he replies, amused, as he pushes the door open and moves into the darkened foyer, hand sliding along the wall until he finds the switch and the hall is illuminated by the artificially-white glow of the ceiling light. “I was also a grad student once; I do still remember it.”

As you pass the threshold and press the door closed behind you, he follows with, “Take off your shoes.”

You do, stepping on the heels of your well-worn sneakers to slide them off, one foot, and then the next, stacking them in the tray by the door next to his impeccably-clean and perfectly-polished black oxfords. There’s another set of sneakers there, too, much nicer and much newer than yours, and a pair of thick-treaded black winter boots, the laces wound up together in a neat little ring, tied off to keep them from unraveling, tucked in behind the tongues of the shoes.

Ahead of you, Beck has moved further into the apartment; he sheds his coat and hangs it in a small closet at the end of the hallway, his laptop bag, too, and gestures for you to do the same with your backpack. There are other doors, one on each side of the hall, and you wonder briefly what might lay beyond them as you trail behind him, your footsteps muted and the hardwood floor cool through the relatively thin barrier of your socks.

He flicks on another set of lights, brightening the kitchen enough for you to see the whole of it; a high ceiling and low-hanging light fixtures and clean granite countertops, the two-section sink and drying rack both empty of dishes, a keurig machine and a toaster and a blender and other assorted appliances all pushed back against the wall, spotless and free of dust. His apartment looks like a showroom, like some sort of facsimile edition of a place where real breathing people live, and you mean to say that to him in a way that you intend to be insulting, but you find when you go to speak that your mouth is dry and your tongue is uncooperative and the words don’t even arrange themselves correctly inside your head, anyways. All of this feels suddenly very real, the cool stone countertop when you press your fingers against it, the faint draft of air moving through his apartment, drawn from the windows lining one side of the wall– and his eyes on you, something you can feel without even having to look at him, like a warm, solid weight on your shoulders.

Behind you, you hear the sound of some door pulling open, the rush of colder air against your back; the fridge, probably.

“What are you making?” you say without turning, suppressing that nervous tension, forcing it down inside of you as deep as it will go.

“Nothing complicated,” he replies. “Stir fry. Probably one of the easiest things, actually, if you ever decide to stop eating garbage.”

“Didn’t we just establish you also ate like shit during grad school?” You do turn, at that, so that he can see your face when you pointedly roll your eyes. “Besides, I just– I don’t really have time to cook. Or the energy, honestly.”

“Cooking doesn’t take much time or energy, that’s a poor excuse,” he replies, and you’re halfway through formulating a more-than-slightly-defensive response when he continues, “Learning to cook takes time and energy. You don’t have time or energy to learn , right now.”

The abrupt transition from what you’d assumed would be another insult to a gentle and even understanding correction– it makes something inside of you lurch like the feeling you get when you miss a step walking down a staircase, your balance thrown off and your center of gravity ending up somewhere unexpected.

“Really unnecessary amount of semantic nitpicking,” you say, the words tumbling out uncertain and unsteady, not sure if the warmth you feel is irritation or something else entirely.

He grins, one of those calculating ones that makes you feel like he knows something you don’t. “It’s necessary if one statement is true and the other isn’t.”

You don’t respond to that, and in the silence you move further into the kitchen, taking residence on a bar stool on the side closest to the living room. You hadn’t seen, before, what Beck had taken from the freezer, but you can see it now; a block of tofu, semi-defrosted, dripping beads of condensation onto the countertop.

“You’re vegetarian?” You can’t keep the note of incredulity out of your voice, and you don’t try, either, knowing by now that he’d notice regardless.

Beck moves to the counter space by the sink, pulls a shining silver knife from the block on the counter and a cutting board from one of the cabinets below. “No,” he says, “But I don’t eat meat frequently. I assume you know enough about epidemiology to figure that out for yourself.”

He doesn’t say it like a compliment, more like a basic and trivial fact, but it still kind of– registers as one. That he just expects you to know things. You’d thought his general opinion of you to be markedly worse than that. “Lifestyle disease?”

He hums in affirmative—that, too, sounding expectant and unsurprised— unfolding the block of tofu from the plastic wrap which he discards, and placing it on the cutting board. “Bodies aren’t miracles, they’re machines. Machines need to be treated well if we want them to last.”

“Nice rendition on the much simpler ‘you should eat healthy because it’s good for you’,” you say, through something that you are deciding to call a snicker instead of a giggle, for– reasons. “You are so not beating the Patrick Bateman allegations.”

Beck finally looks up at that, and his face does the same thing it did in the car– the mask, or whatever annoyingly impenetrable facade he maintains, it slips, for second, his face relaxes and his mouth twitches up and his eyebrow raises a little, maybe unintentionally, the sum of his features far more expressive than you’re accustomed to, surprise and amusement and something else you don’t recognize flickering across them in quick succession. “Allegations,” he repeats, nonplussed, almost a question, and then, with an undercurrent of humor, “You’ve seen American Psycho ? That movie is almost as old as you are.”

“Not beating the allegations- it’s just a saying. It means, like, you’re living up to a stereotype.” You register what might have been a jab at your age a few moments too late to even really react to it, and you think that it should probably make you feel uncomfortable or uneasy or anything, really, but it doesn’t– which does make you uncomfortable. Because you should care. Presumably. “And, yeah, I had a computer. I think I pirated it when I was like, fifteen.”

“I had it on VHS, for a while, when I was in high school; I was too young to see it in theaters when it came out.” Beck has already turned back to the task at hand, moved to another set of cabinets under the counters further from you to pull out a large, high-walled pan. You can see, though, from the light in the kitchen, the way that his mouth tugs up at the corners still, like he can’t quite suppress it completely. “You think I could be a serial killer, and you still willingly came to my house?”

“Do I need to explain the concept of a joke to you?” you reply, intending for it to be sardonic and scathing but finding that it really just sounds like you’re teasing him. The way a friend might. And god, that’s–

(Weird. Bad. Maybe neither— is that worse?)

(You’re not going to think about it.)

He doesn’t say anything back, just hums under his breath, low and amused and barely audible, and takes out a set of bowls from a cabinet above his head that he places on the counter.

“Go in the pantry and grab me the soy sauce and sesame oil,” he says after a moment, fixing you with a look in the seconds before it registers, “I’m not your personal chef, you’re going to help.”

It still takes a moment, after that, for the request to click. Even when you do get up to do as he’d asked, you take a moment to stretch out, first, before moving anywhere, reaching your arms up to the ceiling– he looks sidelong at you and you think his eyes might linger on the revealed expanse of your stomach where your sweater had risen up, and something low and warm inside of you is fucking satisfied by that.

“You say that like you wouldn’t still be doing this if I weren’t here,” you say when he looks away.

“I would,” he acknowledges as you approach him, and tips his head towards the closed door to his right. “But since you went and lost your keys and are now intruding on my weekend, the least you can do is make yourself useful.”

The remark is so at odds with the series of events that had brought you here in the first place and in such direct contrast with his own behavior that the slight doesn’t even really register; rolls right off, like water. “Right, because this is such an inconvenience to you.”

A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth, and there’s that new strange feeling again, like somebody’s filled your whole body with buzzing TV static.

You find the pantry at his earlier direction, open the door and scan the rows of shelves, as spotless and impeccably organized as everything else in his apartment. The sesame oil and soy sauce are just below eye height and next to each other among a neat line of various other ingredients– cooking wine and white vinegar and molasses and more that you don’t take notice of in the time it takes to grab what he’d asked for and close the door again.

“Fridge,” he says when you place the bottles on the counter beside him, having finished cutting the tofu into neat squares that he sweeps off the cutting board and into a bowl with the flat of his knife. “Broccoli and green peppers, they’ll be in the bottom drawer on the left.”

His fridge is one of those massive gleaming silver ones with the double-doors and built-in water and ice dispenser, and it, like everything else, is pristine and neatly kept; you find both items where he’d directed you, still wrapped in those paper-thin plastic bags from the grocery store.

“There’s beer in the door, by the way, if you want any.”

True to word there are bottles lined in the trays on the left inside shelf— wheat and fruit varieties, mostly, light and tolerable and kind of surprising; you’d have pegged him as a snobby IPA type— though you decide that, despite his often incomprehensible devotion to being an asshole at all times, you still can’t abandon the weird sort of obligations that come with being a guest in someone else’s home. Namely, the feeling that it was somehow improper to accept an offer not also indulged in by the host. “Do you?”

He considers it for a second. “Yeah, I’ll take one.”

“Anything specific?”

“No,” There’s that edge, again, more teasing than anything else, and you ignore that, too— the difference, the lack of overt malice— with an ease that should probably be concerning, “I like all of them, that’s why they’re there. Pick one and come here, you’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”

The words come here, because you’re pathetic, they drag that winding coil of tension in the pit of your stomach back to the surface, but then the fridge begins to beep at you–you’ve kept it open for too long, presumably– and so you push the thoughts back down and blindly pick two from the bottom rack, allowing the doors to fall closed again.

At the counter he’s already portioned out snap peas he must have pulled from the freezer earlier, and mixed what you assume to be a sauce together in another bowl.

“Start cutting them up,” he says as he takes one of the bottles from your outstretched hands, nodding towards the vegetables you’d grabbed from the fridge, and then the cutting board, moved further down the counter to a spot where you’d have the space to stand alongside him. Beck doesn’t wait for your response; he turns and flicks on the stove and pours sesame oil down the sides of the pan, not bothering with measurements, just eyeing it with a practiced and familiar ease. He’s rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, cuffs neatly folded and edges creased, probably while you were in the fridge, and the tanned and solid expanse of his forearms— you’re not staring, not exactly, but you’re aware of it as you rinse the peppers and the head of broccoli in the sink, the sight of him in your periphery. The oil crackles in the pan, browns and aromatizes, fills the kitchen with the smell, fragrant and rich like salt and nuts and caramel; your eyes keep getting drawn back to him, the muscles and the tendons flexing in his hands as he moves to add the already-prepared ingredients, sprinkles salt and red pepper, lifts and shakes the pan to toss the contents of it—

“If you want to be of any use to me, that needs to be done before this is,” he says, tone deceptively mild. You’re barely halfway through cutting the broccoli up into approximately bite-sized pieces, and at his comment your eyes flicker away from where they’d drifted to him again.

You don’t say anything in response, just try to focus more intently on the task, slower and more clumsy and comparatively unskilled as you are at it; it’s not like it’s difficult, really, it’s just one of those things that’s borne out of practice, of which you had little, considering your circumstances. Begrudgingly, you acknowledge to yourself that he’d been right, before, about the challenge being less the actual cooking than the learning of it, something you had next to no energy for– much less the desire to do– as a seemingly perpetually-busy grad student.

Some time during your finishing dividing up the broccoli and setting a pepper on the wooden surface of the cutting board he must have turned the stove down, set the pan aside; you feel him behind you before you really even know that he’s there, the air changing, growing warmer with his presence.

“You’re going too slow.”

You hum, in response, before you try to speak, making sure your voice isn’t going to betray you and crumble the second you say anything in return, “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, unconcerned, and for whatever reason that, too, feels like– something. Something weird. “You’re learning.”

When he moves closer, his head above your shoulder, his arms bracketing yours and his hands lingering somewhere near your wrists, your breathing catches and your pulse picks up and that thing inside of you— the thing that had never really gone away in the first place, hadn’t ever faded or lessened at all since you first got out of his car, that ever-widening chasm of your own want like a fucking fault in the earth that you’d just somehow been managing to ignore this whole time— it rears its head again, dizzying, requisitions the bulk of your attention span to the point where you nearly nick your fingers.

“Wow, actually, maybe you’re not learning,” he murmurs, gently mocking, low in your ear as his hands move down to overlay your own, steadying your grip on the knife. “So much for making yourself useful.”

“I’m not great at tuning out distractions,” you tell him, and in your head you imagine you say it with enough bite to imply that he’s being annoying, but in reality it just comes out soft, plaintive– a confession rather than an accusation.

“Oh, really? Couldn’t tell.” You can hear the smile, bleeding into the tone of his voice.

With him directing you, it goes much faster, turning with one hand and cutting with the other, the movements methodical and clean; rationally, you know it must have been no more than a minute or two, but it feels like so much longer and so much shorter, somehow, your perception defying all sense of logic, your entire body thrumming with the awareness of him, the broad span of his chest and the places it’s almost touching your shoulders, his hands, steady and warm and rough, his breathing, too, the rhythm of it against the shell of your ear, the goosebumps it sends prickling across your neck—

“There,” he says when it’s done, when he steps back and the air goes cold and that stupid thing inside of you twinges with an embarrassing amount of disappointment, “Not so hard.”

Beck returns to the stove, cranks the heat back up; you swallow and steady your breathing and reach for your beer on the counter, the top already having been cracked open for you; when he’d even had time to do that, you have no idea, but you murmur a quiet thanks as you reach for it and drain a long sip, if only to have something to do.

“Garbage is the drawer on the left by the wall,” he says over his shoulder, “Just throw out what’s left over and put the dishes in the sink. The bottles away, too,” he jerks his head towards the sesame oil and the soy sauce, “And then you’re good.”

“And then I’ll have made up for ‘ intruding on your weekend’ ?” you reply, still far softer than you’d intended it to be as you move through the tasks, tossing the seeded pepper cores and the stump of broccoli in the garbage alongside the scraps from the cutting board, placing that and a stack of bowls in the sink.

His answering chuckle is soft and low, the particulars of his expression blocked from view by the pantry door as you replace the items you’d pulled from there. “No, honey, then you’ll have helped with dinner. Making up for intruding on my weekend–” When he laughs again, the sound is a lot less kind than before; and maybe he’s amused by the reference, or maybe the circumstance, or maybe something else entirely, some other thing that only he knows about, a punchline to a joke that you’re not in on. “You will.”

It’s the way that he says it, probably, or the particulars of the words– the difference between you will and you can that seems impossibly large and unfathomably significant in this context– but it makes your breath catch and your pulse tremble and that warmth– the heat– it rages back before he’s even really finished speaking, searing and unavoidable like somebody had turned the gas on a stove up to the very top or just gone and broken the dial off completely. You could blame what happens next on the effect of all of a half a beer on an otherwise-empty stomach or the terrible realization of both being so far beyond outside of your depth and having lost control of whatever tenuous hold you ever really had on your own desire, but–

The last bottle– does not even matter which one it is and you don’t fucking care anyway– slips from your fingers a centimeter from the edge of the shelf, and though you catch it before it hits the ground and return it, more carefully, this time, to its’ place, you know— you just do, even though you can’t see him, even though he can’t see you, even though he’s ostensibly busy, preoccupied, not paying attention — that he still somehow notices it, too.

You don’t eat at the table, because he does not, strictly speaking, have one. What he has instead is just one of those chest-high dividing walls that acts to partially separate the kitchen from the currently unlit living room, outfitted with enough counter space to hold dishes for maybe a grand total of four guests. The food cools in the pan until the sound of crackling oil fades and then goes silent completely, leaving just the steam to rise from it and spiral up towards the ceiling in wavering lines; Beck brings it over to the bar, then, uses a fork to fill both plates, and sets the pan in the sink.

You mumble a thanks, to which he responds with a noncommittal, wordless hum; you eat mostly in silence, perched on the stool you’d sat in before, on the end of the bar outside the kitchen. He sits across from you and you try not to look at him too often, but you’re certain you don’t succeed, as much as you’re certain that he must know, somehow, must be keenly aware of each and every time that you glance up at him— at his forearms, his sleeves still rolled to his elbows, his chest, too, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, the heat of the stove having softened the crisp, pressed lines of it, his tie gone, discarded at some point. He looks more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him, more at ease, and you are affected by that, apparently.

He finishes eating before you, and you watch him then, too, as he moves around the kitchen, slotting his plate and the silverware and the used bowls into the dishwasher, scrubbing clean the cutting board, setting it to dry, washing the knife by hand with a sponge in the sink and returning it to the block on the counter.

“You’re so organized,” you blurt out, without meaning to, suddenly aware that your beer is less than half full, probably less than a quarter, and you’d drank most of it well before you’d eaten anything.

“I take it I’m still not beating the Patrick Bateman allegations, then,” he replies, with a grin you could only really describe as conspiratorial. For a second you don’t realize he’s actually made a joke that wasn’t at your expense– one that was, actually, weirdly, at his own– and when it registers you’ll blame being halfway drunk for the involuntary and genuine and utterly helpless burst of laughter that escapes you before you can even so much as think to stop it.

Whatever emotion passes briefly across his face in response to that seems almost pleased. But it’s late and you’re tipsy and unthinking and it’s easy to just not worry about it, any of it, to just let yourself react like you would in any other interaction with anyone else, for once unconcerned with the machinations of whatever game he’s always playing.

“I was actually– ” you start, the words stumbling to a halt when you find yourself laughing again, and when they start back up they come spilling from you faster than your brain can comprehend, a precarious situation that results in far more honesty than you intended. “That was— it was kind of a compliment.”

“A compliment,” he repeats, the tone of his voice mocking and sly; his expression has shifted to one of those pointed and intentional looks, the corners of his mouth curled up, not a smile and not even really a nice thing at all, but the rush of warmth that floods your face in response is still immediate and abjectly fucking damning. “And here I thought you would sooner drop dead than ever entertain so much as a positive thought about me.”

Part of the flush in your cheeks, you reason, is probably the alcohol, another part the way it’s gotten warmer in the kitchen with the stovetop on, but there’s still some that’s just due to whatever thing that’s been simmering inside of you this whole time– the way it’s buzzing, right now, nervous and flighty and alive as you watch him move back towards you. He’s grabbed two more beers from the fridge, with his empty, and yours nearly there; the thought occurs to you to decline, in the interest of preserving whatever remains of your ability for clear-headed and rational thought, but–

You realize, with far less shame than you figure you should be feeling, you don’t actually want to preserve that at all.

“I don’t have to like someone to recognize they can have good qualities,” you say, flippant, more relaxed than you feel, “Everyone does. You’re still a human being, even if you do get on my nerves.”

Beck goes quiet and still for a second, takes a long, slow sip from his beer, and then fixes you with this look that’s so intense it’s unsettling. “So, what, you don’t like me, then?”

Something in your subconscious prickles at the question or maybe just at the fact that he’d even asked it; he doesn’t sound offended, or upset, or even like he cares much at all either way, which doesn’t surprise you. But you can’t figure out exactly why he would be asking, otherwise. You take another sip of your beer, finishing the bottle; wordlessly, Beck reaches across the table for the second one, and cracks the top open on the edge of the counter; you murmur a quiet thanks as he sets it beside you.

“I mean– you definitely don't like me, so I don’t see how that would be unexpected,” you say after a while, not really answering outright, unsure you would even be able to. Not knowing for certain what the answer even is, anymore.

Beck blinks, expressionless for a second, before he breaks out into another smile, this one markedly unkind, suspended somewhere between derision and incredulity. “Of course I like you,” he says, in a tone like he’s talking to a particularly stubborn or particularly stupid child, and if he were saying anything else right then maybe you would have remembered to be irritated at him for that. “You’re— god, sometimes you’re so obtuse. I mean, you’re smart as a whip, really, but you’re just– clueless.”

And–

None of that makes sense to you, and you get the feeling that the alcohol isn’t to blame, that even stone-cold sober you would still be left parsing this same inexplicable and fundamentally contradictory amalgam of facts and secondary emotions– one, he thinks you’re smart, really smart, even, and there’s a part of you that does something awful and pathetic like fucking preens at that, and two, he also apparently and simultaneously thinks you’re stupid, which isn’t that much of a surprise, and three, perhaps most confusing of them all–

“What the fuck do you mean, you— you like me?”

Beck exhales, this long-suffering sound as if you’ve proved his point by even asking, and says, “Really, just– it’s not complicated. Exactly what it sounds like.” He drains probably a quarter of his second beer, leans forwards on his elbows, and shrugs. “You said that I dislike you, and I’m saying that you’re wrong.”

“Okay, I don’t–” you tear your eyes from him, stare hard at your plate, pushing a browned piece of broccoli around the mostly-empty edges of it with the tines of your fork, certain you can feel the actual cogs inside of your head as they turn, uselessly, stuck in place and uncomprehending. “That doesn’t make any sense. You– I mean, you’ve basically had a vendetta against me since I was in undergrad.”

“No,” he says, that patient, vaguely annoyed quality still lingering in the word, and when you look up again his eyes are fixed on you, dark and unreadable, “I had an interest in you.”

“An interest in, what– bothering me?”

“Something like that.” The barest traces of humor infiltrate his otherwise still indecipherable expression. “You’re easily bothered, honey.”

“So, what, you—“ you stop to take another sip of your beer, head spinning, “You bother me on purpose, for years, and then you’re confused that I actually might not have liked you very much? At all, even?”

“I knew full well you didn’t like me. It didn't matter and it still doesn’t,” he says, with a level of disregard that you know, objectively, should concern you, “I’m not asking about then. I’m asking about now.”

Whatever your immediate response to that dries up as soon as you open your mouth, like your thoughts are flying by so quickly you can’t hold onto them long enough to figure out how to say them. You know, somewhere, deep down, that you should be angrier than you are about this. That you should be a lot of other things, too, things that are stronger and more important than anger– you should feel victimized, probably, violated , even, uncomfortable and uneasy and unsafe , knowing that he’d had some sort of fixation with you and with garnering your frustration for what amounts to numerous actual years. A subconscious part of you, though, might have already known a lot of that– or at the very least suspected it– since the very beginning of whatever the fuck this whole thing has even become, and there was that to contend with, too. But right now he’s admitting to it, all of it, explicitly; the intentional provocation and the unabashed harassment and the fact that he hadn’t cared at all about your feelings or your opinions or anything you thought that whole time– because it didn’t matter to him, not when what you felt had no direct impact on his ability to get what he wanted from you. He’s admitting that, presumably, the reason he feels some approximation of care– no, not even, just interest, cold and objective and impersonal– regarding those things now is because now it actually can impact things. What you feel about him now could absolutely stop him from getting whatever it is that he wants from you– sex, presumably, though he clearly still enjoys getting under your skin, too-- because now you have no contractual obligation to even so much as exchange pleasantries with him anymore, much less be here, in his house. You could leave, easily, never see him again if that’s what you wanted, if you really disliked him that much.

He doesn’t want that, you realize, with a dawning understanding. He does not want you to dislike him, at least not enough to drive you away. Not now, because now– now it runs counter to his own interests.

“I don’t know,” you say finally, looking up at him and feeling unsteady just in doing it, not sure whether your instincts should be telling you to do now– because they aren't telling you to do anything more than what they’ve pretty much always done every time you’ve so much as seen him in the last four months. You still want him, the maddening and terrible way that you feel like you always do just at the sight of him alone, that desire simmering right under your skin, and maybe in the moment you could blame the one-and-a-half beers or the time or the circumstance, but none of that would really even be true. Your survival instincts, what little of them you even possess to begin with, have always, always been next to nonexistent when it comes to this.

Him.

Whatever.

God, none of this would be an issue if the sex was worse. If it was even just average. Or even–

“So you don’t, then,” he replies, and as soon as he speaks it’s like your awareness snaps to him, narrows and refines like adjusting a microscope, everything falling outside the edges of the lens drifting out of focus. Your thoughts; your ability to reason, too, probably. This was a terrible, terrible idea, you had thought that in the hallway in the biology building what feels like actual lifetimes ago, and you’d been right, then; you should not be here.

It’s alarming, the way that you can’t even seem to summon up the will to care.

“I said I don’t know.” That horrible iniquitous thing in your belly coils itself tighter, twisting in on itself like a snake, hollow and starving, like it wants to sink teeth into him, and would do it, too, if he were closer.

“Right. And maybe you don’t,” Beck replies, as if to say, I do , a hard gleam of satisfaction in his eyes that betrays the otherwise light, conversational cadence of his voice.

You don’t respond to that. In your belly, that heat pulses and burns brighter.

There’s a silence, then, drawn out and excruciatingly unbearable, and during it you drain the rest of your beer, maybe just to do something with your hands, relieve that nervous itch in your fingers. Maybe to chase the feeling of being somewhere beyond your own control– because that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Because– well, presumably because there is something fucking wrong with you.

“Thank you,” you say, after a long while, “For dinner.”

Whatever you see in his expression then; it seems like enjoyment. Like he’s pleased. And while you could almost understand all the rest of the things you’d just seen from him–

You don’t understand that.

“It’s late,” he says, with a casual nonchalance, taking your plate from you to the dishwasher and waving a dismissive hand at your protests, you being an adult who is perfectly capable of putting your own dishes away, and all.

When he turns back, you rise from the bar stool and meet him halfway, in the middle of the kitchen. Like this, you have to tip your head back to look at him, just a little, and whatever shameless thing inside of you that you try so hard to repress when you’re not tipsy and unthinking is way too into that, but seeing as you are both of those things at the moment, you don’t care. That feeling, the climbing, steady warmth; it just spreads further, sweeps through your limbs and fills every part of you, until you think it must overtake every cell in your body. Until it’s all you can think about.

He looks at you, for a second, and one of those slow, sharp smiles curves across his face. When he moves past you and towards the living room,he steps into your space to do it– on purpose, you know it’s on purpose, if there’s ever anything you’re absolutely sure about when it comes to him it’s that everything is always on fucking purpose– and you can’t stop any of the things that you know must happen; the way your body must go tense and strung taut with anticipation or how your breathing must catch somewhere in your throat or how your pupils must dilate, the breadth of your irises reduced to just a tiny sliver of color–

“Come on,” he says, without looking back, voice unbearably even. “I’ll put something on the TV.”

And–

That feeling inside of you– it pulses and trembles and wants, and then it doesn’t really matter what you do or don’t understand or what little sense you could ever make of his behavior or motivations, because–

You understand this, at least.

#ties that bind #quentin beck x reader #mysterio x reader #ohhh this was a fun scene. this dynamic is deeply enjoyable to write he's such a weird fucked up guy

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elwenyere · 4 months

Note

Cap quartet 2.0 (Sam, Bucky, Yelena, Joaquín) and “marshmallows”

Hello, my darling!!! It's been an unforgivably long time since I got this prompt for my (very old now) follower celebration, but I haven't given up, and I finally found a way to craft a little ficlet for this out of some ideas we cooked up together. I hope you enjoy. <3<3<3

Vanilla (Bellores and Cap Quartet 2.0, 500w)

Rating: G

Tags: Established situationship, vaguely holiday vibes, tooth-rotting sweetness (literal and figurative)

Yelena lets herself into Joaquín’s apartment in the usual way: by pocketing the key he keeps leaving her (idiotically) under the doormat and picking his lock in protest. Joaquín has the radio on, the chorus of “White Christmas” covering the sound of her arrival, so she follows the smell of sugar into the kitchen.

“Son esos para mi?” she asks, taking a quick moment to appreciate the view of Joaquín bent over to pull a tray of cookies out of the oven. He twists around to look at her, one curl half-plastered to his forehead with what might be a smudge of batter.

“Konechno, dorogoy,” he replies. He reaches for a spatula, slides the thin blade between the parchment paper and the crisped edge of the cookies. “You’re just in time to decorate.”

“Lovebirds not here yet?”

She means Sam and Bucky, of course, but then Joaquín hands her the dough-covered beater from the stand mixer before she can even reach for it, and she admits, privately, that maybe there’s been some of that going around.

“They stopped to pick up Sarah and the boys from the hotel on their way over. They’re bringing pizza.”

Yelena scoops a line of dough off the beater with the side of one finger as Joaquín moves toward the cupboard, and the familiar flavor hits her taste buds at the same time the Hershey bars and bag of marshmallows clear the cabinet door.

“You made the cookies,” she says. “The s’mores cookies.”

Her mom had made them for all Yelena’s birthday parties when she was growing up: probably, Yelena had realized later, because they seemed like the kind of desserts only a wholesome, law-abiding American family with no Kalashnikovs in the closet would enjoy. And maybe that link to the old family lie was why Yelena had formed such a fierce nostalgia for the cookies later - why she had mentioned them, casually, a month earlier, when the team had infiltrated the high-end restaurant a British arms dealer had rented out to use his daughter’s sweet sixteen as cover for a HYDRA meet-and-greet.

She hadn’t even realized Joaquín had been paying attention to her story - what with the fact that she’d been applying pressure to a bullet wound in his shoulder at the time.

“I never told you how to make them,” she points out.

“I got the recipe from Sam.” Joaquín rubs a hand over the back of his neck, and there’s probably dough in his hair now too. “I guess your sister stress-baked sometimes when they were, you know - international war criminals.”

Yelena stares at him, and then she steps forward, close enough that she has to crane her neck to look up at the mounting flush across the brow of his nose.

“You always do this,” she says, wiping a spot of powdered sugar off his cheek and letting the pad of her thumb drag a little roughly over his skin. “Get sweet things all over you. It’s impossible, you know that?”

#mcu #bellores #yelena belova #joaquín torres #cap quartet 2.0 #my fics #thank you for the prompt jules <3<3<3 #follower celebration #better incredibly late than never!!!

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always-andromeda · 1 year

Note

“La Belle Fluer Sauvage” for Nick Flynn. Nick has a really rough night at the shelter and comes home to discover reader decided to surprise show up at his place. Nick actually wonders if he’s hallucinating. She’s wearing a sexy outfit and does some moves on the stripper poles to try to cheer him up (Nick isn’t really quite in the mood so it takes some time). She does win him over, and he becomes ridiculously horny for her - would love it if you include extended oral sex/fingering, primal/carnal vibes, real hot and heavy dirty talk, maybe they both take turns trying to dominate one another 😉

Lol sorry for so much detail ahhhhhhhh 😅

Author's Note | lmao, you're totally fine, bb!! in fact, I should be apologizing for this being part of literally the last batch of milestone posts? like damn, thank you for your patience on this one lol.

Warnings | smut (MDNI), y'all read the request lol, we have oral sex (female receiving), fingering, thigh riding, and a little bit of Nick being an ass, nothing else I can think of!"

A Disclaimer | As with any characters that I write who are based on real people, I would like to say that the Nick Flynn I am writing about here is not meant to reflect the real life Nick Flynn, merely the character Paul plays in Being Flynn!

The waiting is what makes the knot in your stomach twist tighter. And not the good kind. Regardless, the pressure keeps mounting with every minute that passes as you sit on the couch. Even though it's entirely the point of the skimpy red lace set that you have on, you felt unsettlingly naked sitting by yourself.

The only thing you could think of doing was stealing one of Nick's old flannel shirts. You buttoned a few of the middle buttons and fiddled with the ends of the sleeves. To say Nick had been having a rough time lately was an understatement. Ever since his father had shown up at the shelter, your boyfriend was seeming to do everything in his power to hold it together. Every time you saw him the circles underneath his eyes seemed to be getting deeper and darker. You can't even begin to imagine how much of a strain the emotional turmoil of his job wrecks on his mental state.

But now you're second guessing your assumption that Nick is just like any other guy; only in need of a quick fuck to relieve his tension. Because when Nick walks through that door looking as exhausted as ever, you feel none of that confidence you had earlier. Especially when he plops down beside you, barely sparing a glance at your unusual appearance.

He groans and leans his head back on the couch, burdened by some work altercation that you're sure you'll hear about later when he feels ready to tell you. But, for now, you push down the rising guilt and advance forward in your plot, bringing your legs up on the couch so you can kneel beside him. Laying your hands on your knees, your arms press your tits together slightly.

You hope and pray that the awkwardness wears off. That somewhere in the middle of your act, it'll start to feel natural and effortless. The discomfort only deepens when you reach forward to place a hand on his thigh and Nick finally looks at you.

His eyes go wide in the worst way, betraying the same kind of unease that you're feeling. "Something bothering you, dear?" he asks hesitantly.

You put on a bright smile. "No," you blink rapidly, "Just wondering how your day went."

"About as good as they all are now..." he sighs and runs a hand through his greasy hair.

"Oh," you swallow thickly. "Maybe I can make it better?" you wonder aloud, lifting yourself from the spot on the couch and strolling around it. Nick's turns so his gaze can follow your figure as you walk towards one of the poles mounted on the stage behind where he sits. His brow raises when you grab it and swirl around once, reaching your hand out with a flourish.

You plant a foot firmly on the platform and gracefully slow to a stop before looking at Nick again.

"That was...nice," he says carefully.

You pout, "Just nice?"

Realizing the obvious surprise in his tone, he over-corrects. "That was fantastic, really. I just didn't expect this...why don't you come here?" he looks you up and down, only now drinking in the whole look before urging you over with a sly tilt of his head.

You try not to give into your nerves as you step down from the stage and make your way toward him. Nick notices the way his flannel loosely hangs from you, exposing the thin, lacy straps of the scarlet lingerie laying on your skin.

As soon as he takes it all in, he's grabbing your hand and bringing you around the couch again and encouraging you to straddle him. His hands rest possessively at your sides and slide up underneath the flannel.

"You look really good in this," he comments distantly.

From your spot on his lap, you look down with a bashful smile. "You actually like the set?"

Nick blinks blankly before shaking his head. "I mean this," he rubs the fabric of his shirt between his fingers, "I like this on you."

You nearly roll your eyes at the sentiment. You should've predicted that the poet would turn to jelly once he saw it. You could put in infinite amounts of effort on your appearance but it wouldn't compare to the simple but tender gesture in his eyes. But you're glad that something is working on him, regardless of if it fits in with your plan. He still looks up at you like you hung all the stars in the sky just for him. It's a type of exclusivity that makes pride swell in your chest.

"What else do you like about me?" you lean in a little closer and roll your hips, practically daring him to do something to you with the sheer proximity between your bare skin and his.

Nick reacts with a deep breath and swipe of his tongue over chapped lips. "What kind of question is that?" he shoots you a trivial look.

"It's a simple question." Your fingers tease the folded collar of his leather jacket. "I think a smart guy like you should be able to answer it pretty easily."

Nick takes you by surprise, turning you so you're flat on your back against the couch. You adjust so you can sit up and get a better look at him as he begins to travel.

"Hmm, I'm a smart guy now...why don't you tell me what I should be paying attention to, honey?" He leaves sloppy kisses down your jaw before pulling the flannel away just enough to he could continue down your chest. Though his descent down your body is quick, each kiss is filled with vigor; you hear it in how he breathes and hums, waiting for you to answer him.

The closer he gets to your panties, the more your voice falters when you respond, "I think you should appreciate...how hard I try...for you..."

That makes him stop dead in his tracks between your legs. He rests his cheek against your inner thigh and when you look down, you see how his brow furrows.

His tone takes on a note of sincerity, "You know you don't have to try for me, right?"

You reply breathlessly, "I know. But I just– you do so much at that shelter and–"

Nick sighs and starts to chuckle humorlessly, "But that's my job. Not yours. You don't have to worry about me. I'll be just fine, okay?"

You catch how he sleepily blinks. Still, he's nearly salivating being this close to the warmth between your legs. His voice is hoarse as he teases, "Besides, why would you have to try when you already have the perfect answer right in front of me?"

"You think I'm perfect?"

Nick laughs again, "Of course. You know, Shakespeare once said, 'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate..." Then he kisses you above your clit.

You groan, mostly from the cheesiness of the line. "I don't think that Shakespeare was talking about pussy, Nick."

"Who knows. It's open for interpretation," he waves your comment off as he hooks his fingers around each side of the waistband. You lift your butt off the couch to allow him to pull the garment down, just for him to crumple it into his pocket.

Now gazing directly at your folds, Nick drags a long finger up the center of them, gathering the little bit of slick that's formed. It's been a while since he's touched you like this. So you're still sensitive when he dips in, coating his finger in the slick.

"I take it that I should recite poetry more often when I'm about to make you come, huh?"

"I will slug you if you do, Nicholas," you threaten halfheartedly, earning another pompous laugh.

As he pushes the lubricated digit against your entrance and lets it slowly swallow him, he breathes deeply in time with the way your walls clench around him. He continues his recitation, "So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this, this gives life to thee."

And with that, he can't help himself any longer. As soon as his finger is buried completely inside of you, his mouth goes to your clit. He circles the bud with his tongue and smiles when he feels it harden slightly.

Hands flying to his hair, you hate the thought of possibly degrading him, but you need more of his face against you. So, using your grip on his dark locks, you begin to faintly thrust against his face, trying to find that sweet spot that you can ride all the way to the end of your rope. That's when his lips wrap around your clit, sending you through the damn roof almost entirely.

Nick lets you have your moment; lets you put an entire show into rolling your hips into the thrusts of his finger and the suction of his mouth on you. He waits for your gasps to get higher and feels your thighs tense up with the consistently building pressure against your clit. Each of your strangled little sounds of pleasure just increases his ego. And that, on it's own, builds him up enough to where he pulls his finger from you and grabs your wrists from where they'd been grasping his hair.

Gathered in one of his large hands, he holds your wrists up and crawls his way towards you again. "I thought that you were trying to impress me?" He chuckles before giving your parted lips a searing kiss. Even though you don't kiss him back, you taste yourself on your own tongue; it's impossible not to, considering you're all over his chin. But based on the way he smirks smugly into the kiss, you know he's enjoying the power play. And a Nick Flynn who is full of himself is one that you don't want to encourage.

Finally recovering from the devastating edge and regaining a semblance of a grip on yourself, you break your wrists free from his hand; a move that he didn't expect you to have the willpower to do based upon the way his brows raise. You push back on his chest until he's properly sitting up and take your place on him once more. But this time, you're planted firmly on his thigh.

Even if you'd been wearing those red lace panties, the material of his dark wash jeans would've overwhelmed your still sensitive cunt. But you commit to the moment and grind down on his thigh, bracing your hands on his shoulders.

"Maybe I changed my mind," you whine, barely able to stand the electric wave that makes you quiver.

Nick can tell that you're not nearly as strong as you're making yourself seem, spacing out each roll of your hips sporadically and reacting severely each time. The sight is almost pitiful.

"Then at least let me help you," he murmurs. With your eyes closed, you feel Nick's hands rest at your sides before they travel down to your hips. Then there's his fingers digging into your flesh and guiding you into a temperate rhythm, turning your pathetic rubs into steady grind against his jeans.

You squeeze your eyes shut as that really makes the coil start to form again in your belly. Like muscle memory, it all comes back quickly. Your body is familiar with this slow burn and is eager to rush through each twist and turn just to get to the ending. Nick is going to absolutely ruin you with this one and you can do nothing to stop it; and what's worse, is that you don't want it to stop.

Long after the end hits you, you're still clinging to him. The climax moves through you so fast that you feel like if you move even a little bit, you might just fall apart. So you stay, waiting for the tension to simply fade away. You bury your head into the crook of his neck, shaking as your arms snake around his torso.

"Fuck, I really needed that," you whisper.

Nick chuckles hollowly, taken aback by the way you attach yourself to him like a lump. He decides on rubbing your back over his flannel. That texture makes the smile reappear on his expression. He hums, "I think I needed that too."

Being at that shelter takes something out of him. Every single day he works his ass off, taking care of people, often to what feels like an unsympathetic audience. He thinks back to his father; always so disappointed that the world hadn't simply folded to his obvious brilliance. Seemingly disappointed with Nick for not bearing the burden of his mistakes. It's thankless work.

But this isn't. And Nick, himself, clings to that. That, here, especially when he's holding you, he has a place where he is treasured.

#strange trails milestone✨#danonation #paul dano #danocel #being flynn #nick flynn #nick flynn x reader #nick flynn x you #nick flynn x y/n #˚ʚ meda writes ɞ˚

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mossyscavern · 1 year

Text

Flowers in mount Todd, part 4.

___________________

It was one of those nights in mount Todd.

Everything is peaceful, today’s the day to play wick and the 5 siblings are super excited... until a discover has been made.

They didn’t even know when or how it happened, but there’s a lot of flowers growing in mount Todd but it’s only wallflowers that’s growing. The siblings are confused, Tom had an idea, but he’s doubting his theory.

While lilian floated above the small field curiously, Caleb picked one of them and examined it, both Tim and Tom watched from the bridge.

Both amazed that there’s so many of these growing in a place that normally doesn’t grow anymore, it made mount Todd a bit better. “Gotta admit, this is nice.” Tom quietly said staring at the wallflowers below.

“Yeah... makes up for the dead area we normally see.” Tim agreed, not sure what else to say about all of the flaming colours in an area that’s normally dark and gloomy at this time of night.

Tom turned to his twin to say something, when he spotted the look in Tim’s eyes.. the very same look that Tom knows well and judging by the many times Tim turned towards him, it had something to do with Tom.

Knowing exactly why by the look alone, he sighed and spoke softly. “Lilian told you, didn’t she..?” Tom asked out of nowhere, making Tim turn towards his twin

The red, brunette chuckled a bit, then later sighed. “Yeah, she seemed excited... and was very morbid when she mentioned ‘garden in your lungs’ with so much detail when she told me.” Tim told him, Tom flushed pink when he heard all that.

Chuckling nervously at that he told Tim that he had given her some of those details. “Seriously?! God I was wondering where she got that from.”

“Hey! You’re no better.” Tom said after he lightly punched Tim in the shoulder, both of them laughed at the whole ‘corrupting lilian’ situation.

After calming down, they both sighed in content and stared at the flowers below, hoping this moment to never end... then the area started shaking around them and a booming voice came from in front them, which could mean one thing...

Benny has awoken.

“Boys! Lilian! We-... where did all this come from?” Benny asked, after he stopped and pointed towards the small field of flowers. “We don’t know.” Caleb pondered. “Apparently they’re... everywhere.” Lilian answered.

“Ah... heh, kind of makes up for- wait, never mind that! We’re wasting time!! It’s almost 12:00am!” Benny shouted, everyone’s eyes widened, Tom’s reaction was a little later because he had to check the time on the moon.

“Oh shoot, he’s right! It’s 11:55pm!!” Tom said. With a bit of panic in his voice Tim shouted to his siblings. “Everyon in position!!”

After he said that Caleb had dug himself in the ground, Lilian sprung in the air before disappearing, while Benny ran towards the location of their unmarked graves.

Before Tom could teleport towards where his siblings are going to wait, he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Tom?” He heard from behind him.

Tom turned towards his twin, now maskless. Tom hadn’t seen his twin’s face for a long time, looking at his twin now? He felt like he never died at all. “Please be careful..? Ok?” Tim asked, with a bit of sorrow in his eyes.

“I... don’t make those kind of promises, but I’ll try.” He said, teleporting away before Tim could say anything else.

Tim sighed, placed his mask back on, climbed up one of the high trees and positioned himself to be ready for him to jump down. Tim doesn’t normally prey based on how much pressure Mary had put him and Tom.

But for once he did, just for his twin and siblings... for good measures. After he made a little preyer for his siblings he cracked his knuckles and sighed.

“Alright human... let’s play wick.”

___________________

Ok, i know it’s a bit confusing... but here me out.

The hanahaki Tom has is tied to the earth because of Mary kicking him and Tim outside, because of that the wallflowers grow in places that the twins can enter without a problem.

It’s... still confusing but it’s a confusion that makes sense.

#wick hellbent games #wick 2015 #wick horror game #wick au #wick #wick tom #candlebrace shipping #hanahaki au #yes I’m still writing this series

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aline-the-cat · 2 years

Text

Sanctuary

Wei Ying was 6 years old when he entered the Burial Mounds and it adopted him. By that time he had been fighting dogs for scraps for a year and a half, and it was one of the same beasts that drove him to the outskirts of Yiling, we kept wondering out of curiosity and hope that he might find a place to stay, a place where he could be safe, a place where he could belong.

He found it

.-.-.-.-.

Meng Yao was 13 years old when he and his mother arrived at Yiling, his father had tossed him down the stairs of Koi Tower, and after an incident in the brothel they couldn't stay in Yunping, they had no idea where to go, but Sisi helped them

"The rumors say the Yiling Laozu can help," She told them as she put all her own savings in young Meng Yao's hands "that he can fulfill any wishes for the right price"

Meng Yao didn't believe that, but they had no place to go and in any case, Yiling was far enough of Lanling and Yuping so he worked and worked until he and his mother were able to afford the trip. He kept working along the way, hoping to be able to afford whatever price was needed to ensure his and his mother's safety

When they reached the base of the mountains, of the Burial Mounds, they found a little shrine, they had discussed that one of them hide in case things went wrong, but in the end, neither he nor Meng Shi wanted to leave the other, they only had each other now

So they walked and reach the shrine, there was an unnatural amount of dark fog, resentment the other cultivators they meet on their way called it. Meng Yao noted the very second they stopped being alone, he tensed and his mother bowed next to him, pressuring him to do the same

"Yiling Laozu, we, humble servants come to you to ask for your protection" his mother's voice was firm even if a bit rough from the new disease that was starting to take root in her lungs

It did not pass a full minute until a small figure stepped out of the shadows, if he wasn't an expert in keeping his emotions in check, Meng Yao would've gaped. In front of him was a child, one a few years younger than he himself

"What sort of protection do you seek?" He asked them with a childish voice

Meng Yao was 13 years old when he and his mother went looking for safety.

They found it

.-.-.-.-.

Xue Yang was 5 years old when he was tossed into the Burial Mounds, the man had tricked him to give a letter that only resulted in him getting beat up, after, the same man tried to get rid of him, he would've succeeded and possibly hurt him badly, but then, the kid made a scene

"YOU ARE A BAD MAN!!!" the child yelled, making everyone turn to look at them, the cultivator, Chang Ci'An flushed embarrassed, even if the kid was a street rat, it was still a small one, it started to look very bad for him "BAD MEN LIKE YOU WILL BE PUNISHED!! YILING LAOZU WILL COME FOR YOU!!" the brat screamed one of the most common threats he heard in the alleys. It had been roughly two years since people started whispering about the shadow demon that roamed the Burial Mounds and controlled the fierce corpses that tried to get into the town

The cultivator flushed bright red, both from embarrassment and also from the secret fear he felt, for he too had listened to the rumors and stories

"You want to meet Yiling Laozu? Then so be it!" he grabbed young Xue Yang from his collar and mounting his sword he flew as fast as he could until he was over the mass grave. For a moment he paused, feeling the doubt creeping in, it would be easy to just toss the kid in Yiling, where he couldn't bother him anymore, but then the kid started to spit out insult after insult, making the rage reach its peak "Tell the Yiling Laozu I send my regards" he sneered as the let go

Xue Yang had a moment of pure fear as he fell, then, the darkness engulfed him

Xue Yang wakes to the kind face of a woman, she reassures them that he is alive, that he is safe. He is inside a shack, inside there're also two young men, one looking at him with slightly apprehension and the other with open curiosity

"Welcome to the Burial Mounds" the curious one chirps, he has silver eyes and a sunshine-like smile

Xue Yang was 5 years old when he was tossed into the Burial Mounds. Once, he hoped to find a family

He found it

-.-.-.-.-.

Wen Qing was 17 years old when she arrived at the Burial Mounds to ask for help

She was from a branch of the Qishan Wen Sect, her family resides in Dafan Mountain, a few years ago, her uncle, Wen Ruohan had killed her parents because they refused to make poison for him. Since then, Wen Ruohan took her and her little brother under his wing, threatening her compliance with the safety of her brother and extended family.

Wen Ning was barely 10 years old when they started to listen the rumors, the ones about a shadow roaming Yiling, then, a demon who fulfilled wishes; then, about people starting to willingly enter the Burial Mounds. Wen Ning turn 13 years old when his older sister decided to take them there

When Wen Qing turned 17 and her brother turned 13, she had a vision. Nothing dramatic or prophetic, she just saw her uncle's actions, and, logically followed them until she reached her conclusion: War.

At some point, not too far, the sects would go to war against Qishan Wen, and whoever won would take over her family. Wen Ruohan had them already under his thumb, he could send them to fight at his own whim, without caring if they live or die; the other sects could decide all Wens were guilty and torture them or kill them. Either way, they lose. Wen Qing didn't want that future for her family. So, taking advantage of a night hunt she goes to Yiling.

The entrance of the Burial Mounds doesn't look as grand as Wen Qing would've imagined; there's a rundown shrine with offerings, a dark fog surrounds the area, she represses the shiver the resentment gives her. After a few minutes, a figure emerges from the darkness, Wen Qing tenses, even if the young man looks barely older than her brother, anyone who manages to live inside a mass grave is considered as dangerous according to her

"Yiling Laozu" she says as she bows as low as her dignity allows her "This lowly healer come to you seeking for your help"

"How may this Yiling Laozu be of service?" the kid gives a tentative bow

"I seek refuge for me and my family"

In the end, it takes six months to move the Dafan Wen to Yiling.

Wen Qing is 17 years old and Wen Ning is 13 years old when they entered the Burial Mounds looking for protection

They found it

.-.-.-.-.

Mo Xuanyu was 5 years old when his mother brought him to the Burial Mounds

His mother was the second young mistress in the Mo Clan, she was 15 years old when Jin Guangshan approach her. The "romance" last roughly two years until she got pregnant; the young Mo girl truly thought that Sect Leader Jin would come for her, for his son at least, but her dreams were crushed by Madam Jin, who she stumbles upon during one night-hunt she was having with Madam Yu. By then, Madam Jin had the ability to accurately recognize her husband's bastards, which was what happened with young Xuanyu when he was playing in the town

The Madam didn't chase her out of the village, but she might as well have when she almost laughed at the promises Guangshan had made to the young girl in front of the Mo manor. After the cultivators left, her older sister Mo furen, kicked her out of the house, calling her a disgrace for the Clan

The pair of mother and child then walked and walked, looking for someplace to stay, somewhere warm and dry... but there weren't many places like that that wouldn't try something more perverse with a young, beautiful, desperate mother. During the travels, the young mistress heard the tale of the Yiling Laozu, the demon who fulfilled wishes and took strays under his wing, there were talks and rumors about a new Yiling Wei sect, but nothing concrete, the only things that were consistent were that the Yiling Laozu could fulfill wishes for a price and that the Burial Mounds now was a place for the ones who didn't have a place to go. So young Mo Ning took her child and made her way to Yiling

The mother and the child were hovering in the outskirts of Yiling, near the shrine where offerings and hunt requests were placed. She was unsure of what to do next, the dark fog was very intimidating; her nerves were such that she didn't notice the young man walking towards them

"Hello" the polite man saluted her, she flinched and hastily bowed to him "Are you perhaps looking for the Yiling Laozu?" he gave them a smile that looked friendly enough, at least his dimples made it look friendly

"Yes gongzi" she bowed as low as she is used to as the daughter of a servant, her child clumsy follows her. She didn't see the wary look the man gives to her son, also recognizing the Jin genes "We hoped to ask for a place to stay, at least until my son is older and can provide for himself... I am the daughter of a servant so I can pay our stay with work!" she hurried to add

The young man contemplated for a second before he moved to raise her from her bow

"It's alright guniang" he reassured her "Come on, follow me" he instructed as he started to walk towards the dark fog

Mo Ning took her son's hand tightly and did as instructed

Mo Xuanyu was 5 years old when his mother brought them both to the Burial Mounds in search of a new home

They found it

-.-.-.-.-.

Meng Yao is 19 years old, Xue Yang 10 years old, Wen Qing 20 years old, Wen Ning 16 years old, and Mo Xuanyu 7 years old when a letter arrives to the relative new Yiling Wei Sect about the start of the Sunshot Campaign

Wei Ying, courtesy name Wuxian, master of demonic cultivation, Yiling Laozu and Sect Leader of Yiling Wei, is 17 years old when he closes the wards surrounding the Burial Mounds and goes to war

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errythinisblue · 2 years

Note

If your request are open , can you do one where mason and the reader are in a night out with friends , and she has anxiety, starts shaking her legs and mason notices this and tried to calm her down and pulling her into his lap ☺️

nHi love! I really wanted to thank you for your request, it felt so personal for me and I actually loved writing it. I hope you'll enjoy reading this! <3

"Can you feel me?"

Mason Mount x Y/N

Summary: You're feeling under a lot of pressure because of your finals, and this doesn't get on well with your anxiety. When you throw a birthday party in the mix, that might be too much for you to handle.

Warnings: in this one the reader suffers from anxiety attacks, so please don't read this if it triggers you! Thank you!

January 14th was a special day for Mason, it was his bestfriend’s birthday. And that could only mean one thing: party night.

You and Mason started dating a little less than a year ago, and even if you were determined to go slow at the beginning, he couldn’t really resist the urge he had for you to meet Declan. He was so smitten with you that he introduced you to his bestfriend barely two weeks into your relationship. You knew he was very important to him, and vice versa, and you could easily understand why. Declan was so funny and kind he won you over from the very first time you met him, and so did Lauren, his girlfriend.

Needless to say that he’s the reason why you were now at a club. Declan’s birthday party was going strong, even if you weren’t really feeling like partying at all. You studied all day long, your finals fast approaching and you were feeling so tired and anxious about them, that you didn’t think you had it in you to go out and have fun with your friends. But you knew Mason didn’t want to miss Declan’s birthday, and he wanted you to go with him. So you ended up going out, thinking that it could actually do you some good to take your mind off uni for a night.

You were waiting for your drink at the bar, a rum and coke was just what you needed right now, to just relax a bit and try to actually have fun. As you were standing there, you felt a pair of arms slide around your waist, you knew exactly whose arms were those, as soon as you smelled Mason’s cologne. You smiled at the contact, turning your head to look at his face that was now leaning on your shoulder, and left a kiss on his cheek.

“Hey, I was just on my way back, do you want a drink?” you said in his ear so that he could hear you over the loud music.

“I do,” he told you, ordering a gin and tonic for himself after, “everyone is on the dance floor, do you want to join them?” he asked you, leaving a trail of kisses on your neck.

“Why not?” you turned around in his arms and put your hands on his chest, “I mean we’re here to party after all so, let’s go…” you told him, kissing him on his lips before turning around and grabbing your drinks.

“Thank you,” he told you as you gave him his gin and tonic, “hey wait…” he stopped you by your hand, “I mean it, not only for the drink, but for being here too…I know how stressed you are lately, and-”

“Shh. It’s okay,” you placed your forefinger on his mouth to shush him, “now take me dancing Mase.” you told him before leaving a peck on his lips.

You slowly started sipping on the drink while you were making your way through the crowd, Mason was leading you by the hand, searching for his friends in that multitude of people. Once you found them Mason was quick in pulling you towards him, wanting to keep you close to him as he knew how the alcohol could affect you, especially when you were as tired as tonight.

“Dance with me?” he leaned his head down towards your ear, “they’re to occupied to care if we ignore them for a while.” he added referring to your group of friends, that seemed to be too preoccupied watching Declan’s silly moves to care about you two.

“Are you sure you’re enough of a good dancer?” you teased him, wrapping one of your arms around his neck while you held your almost empty cup with the other.

“Why don’t I show you?” he grinned at you, taking your body even closer to his and starting to move to the rhythm.

As you both started dancing, you finally started to feel the tension leave your body. The alcohol mixed with Mason’s body heat and perfume were the perfect mix to make you feel like you could actually let go of your stress for tonight. When you finished drinking, Mason took the empty cup from your hand and left it on a near table with his own.

“Are you having fun?” he asked you, always worrying about how you were feeling. He knew you struggled with anxiety, and he wanted to make sure that you were alright. He was always so sweet and caring with you that hearing these words leaving his lips even tonight, that was supposed to be about Declan, made your heart swell.

“I am…” you slowly turned around, leaning your back on his chest as you wrapped an arm around his neck to keep him close to you.

“Are you tired? We can go home whenever you want…” he grazed his lips on your earlobe while saying so, and put his hands on your hips.

“I’m okay Mase, really…” you placed your hands above his and gave them a squeeze to reassure him.

Once you saw that everyone was seating at the table Declan booked for tonight, you two decided to make your way back to them. You were seating near Mason, as you all started making small talks.

“How are things going with uni?” Lauren asked you in between things.

“Oh, they’re going pretty well actually…but I’m just so stressed out…I mean I’m so tired…” you rambled.

She continued talking to you but you suddenly couldn’t hear a word she said, and it wasn’t because of the loud music. You suddenly felt like you were in a bubble, you couldn’t hear a sound even with all that noise that was surrounding you. You started to think that you shouldn’t have went out to party when you had a shit ton of things to study at home. You started to feel like your chest was too tight to breathe. And you started to shake.

Your legs were shaking, you could see it with your own eyes. But just as you were looking down you saw Mason hand leaning against the skin of your thigh, and you felt the warmth that his touch was emanating as you raised your eyes to look at him.

His eyebrows were drawn together as he looked at you with his deep brown eyes full of concern and worry, you could see his lips moving slowly, and as you fixed your eyes on his mouth you started to feel a little bit calmer.

“Are you okay now?” you could hear his words faintly as you felt his thumb brushing your thigh.

You slowly nodded your head, still unable to form sentences that actually made sense or to even speak a word.

“Come here…” he took your hands in his and made you sit on his lap, “everything’s okay now, I’m here with you baby. Can you feel me?”

Here it was, the question he always asked you once you calmed down after your anxiety attacks. When he was with you the first time you experienced an anxiety attack, he was panicking. He didn’t know what to do to calm you down and take you out of those thoughts that were trapping you, suffocating you. His mind was running even faster than yours if it was possible, until he thought that maybe if he could make you concentrate on something else you would come back to him. As you were seating in your study, he turned your chair around and kneeled down in front of you, leaning his hands on your shaking thighs. He put his head in your lap and put your hands in his hair, knowing how much you loved to run your fingers through it. After a while, when he felt your hands moving in his hair, he took them in his, and kept them firmly in his own as he whispered to you “I’m here with you baby, can you feel me?”.

As he whispered those words all the noise in your head stopped and the noise that surrounded you reappeared. His voice soothed all those voices that kept ringing in your ears. Just like the first time, Mason was here, saving you from your own thoughts, and keeping you safe in his hold.

You took his hand from your thigh and caressed it, looking at it as you were trying to concentrate on something that wouldn’t let you fall back into that endless spiral of thoughts. You put his hand on your lap, tracing invisible patterns on his palm while he kept his lips pressed to your jaw. You examined it his hand in every detail, from the slightly visible veins on the back of it, to his bitten nails, to the rough skin of his knuckles caused by the cold weather.

As you were back to your own self, you leaned your face onto his lips, silently asking him for more kisses. You felt him smile at that, his lips curving up against your heated skin before they left an infinite amount of loving kisses on your jaw and neck.

“Are you really okay?” he asked you softly as he needed to understand if he interpreted all your signals in the right way.

“I am my love, I can feel you and I don’t need anything else…” you told him, putting your head in the crook of his neck, “I love you.” you whispered sweetly, leaving a kiss above the sweater’s collar.

“I love you more, let’s go home mh?” he told you, leaning his head against your own.

“I want nothing else…” you smiled up at him, as he lowered his lips to yours.

He made you stand up and immediately took you by your hand, never wanting to break the contact between the two of you. Once you said your goodbyes to everyone, you started to make your way out of the club, feeling safe with the only man that could save you from everyone, even from yourself.

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landoncrris · 2 years

Note

heyyy love your imagines. Can you maybe do like something where Mason respects her wishes to wait until they’re married and like just some cute first time smut bc she’s super nervous and a bit insecure on their wedding night? It’s super cold and I need some cute husband!Mason smut content to warm me up lmaoooo thank you ily!!!! Xxx

thanks anon!! ily hope this makes up for the long wait<3 (even tho i hate this but we’ll move)

everlasting memories - mason mount x reader

REQUESTS ARE OPEN // MASTERLIST

warnings: english is not my first language, not proofread; 18+ minors dni, unprotected sex, virgin!reader, praise kink, fingering, thigh riding

word count: 4.5k

“I love you so much.” Mason said before pressing a passionate kiss to your lips as his hands gripped your waist, feeling the soft fabric of your wedding dress under his fingertips.

“I love you.” you mumbled after the kiss had ended, leaning your forehead against his and enjoying the last moments of your wedding day. Marrying the only man you’ve ever loved felt absolutely surreal. From getting lost in his beautiful brown eyes during your vows to having one last dance together that only the two of you could experience.

If Mason wasn’t sure before that you were the one, the love of his life, the one he wanted to spend every single moment of his life with, he certainly was now. Nothing in his life has ever made him as happy as the sight of you walking down the aisle, looking as stunning as ever, while your eyes lit up the whole room and all he could focus on was you. The love he felt for you only grew over the last few years of your relationship and never stopped doing so, making him feel like crying and bursting with happiness at the same time because he loved you so much.

“You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.” Mason whispered, pressing a kiss to your lips, all the while looking into your eyes and feeling himself getting lost in the gorgeous way the different colours in them combined and created the most beautiful colour. At his words, your lips twisted into a smile before you nestled your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent.

In his mind, your whole future life played out in a frenzy, from waking up tomorrow morning when he could finally call you his wife, to all the other mornings you’d spend together in each other’s embrace. To your children running around the house, playing tag with your dogs. To buying an even bigger house that your whole family will fit into. To celebrating all your upcoming birthdays together and supporting him at every game he plays. To getting older, looking at old photo albums with your grandchildren and wondering where the time went. He just wanted it all with you, wanted to be with you forever. Even if eternity wasn’t even enough time with you.

His thoughts made a laugh escape his lips and his breath fanned the side of your head. “I know I’ve said it about a thousand times today, but I really love you, Y/N.”

“I don’t mind you saying it a few times more.” you murmured, pulling your face away from his neck and placing your hands on either side of his face, pulling him closer to you, sliding your lips over his in a loving kiss.

“Shall we go home?” you asked, knowing if you’d stay longer, it’d be too late to sleep at all, something you desperately needed after the stressful but exciting hours today. You couldn’t stop a lump from forming in your throat as he nodded, knowing that this was your wedding night, the night you had been waiting for all your life, which made it even more stressful. Distracting yourself and collecting your thoughts was one of the reasons you wanted to have one last dance with Mason without feeling pressured by the situation and instead just feel his love enveloping you like a bubble.

But that didn’t change the fact that you were glad that you waited until marriage because you didn’t want to be tested, you wanted to wait until you found true love. And you did. You were one-hundred percent sure Mason was the one, and experiencing that memory with him as your first was a dream come true. Especially considering how understanding he was of your decision and how long he waited, which proved to you even more that he was in love with you and that there would never be anyone like him for you again.

You were very nervous on the drive home, and even though you knew it was bullshit, you couldn’t help but think that you would disappoint Mason. What if, after all this time together, your body looked or felt different from what he had imagined? What if he didn’t think you were beautiful anymore? What if you embarrassed yourself? What if all these things made him regret his decision to wait and wish he hadn’t wasted his time with you in the first place?

A few minutes into the drive, after telling the driver your address and checking his phone to answer a few messages from friends and relatives, some of whom sent him pictures of the two of you, which he showed you each time, he realised that your mind was elsewhere. Mason put his phone away, grabbed your hand and kissed your head that was resting on his shoulder. In the remaining time until you were finally home, he tried to calm you down by talking about today, making fun of Declan’s bad dancing most of the time.

When the car came to a stop in front of your house, you got out, being careful not to ruin your dress, while Mason thanked the driver. As he got out too, you were already unlocking the door. “Wait!” shouted Mason, bringing you to a halt as he walked towards you with quick movements. The moment he got to you, he lifted you up bridal style, eliciting a squeal from you and making you laugh, which instantly warmed his heart.

You clung to him as he ushered you both inside, slamming the door shut with his heel before walking towards the bedroom and setting you down on the foot of the bed. Mason pressed a kiss to your cheek before kneeling down and taking off your shoes, brushing his fingers over your ankle, sending goosebumps down your legs. “Can you open the dress, please?”

“Of course, love, come on, get up.” replied Mason, standing up himself and taking your hands to help you up as well. As soon as you were on your feet - finally feeling them again after walking around in high heels all day - you turned around and gave him the opportunity to undo the button that held your dress together at the back.

Mason pressed a kiss to your shoulder and noticed how you nervously took a breath and held the top of your dress because you didn’t want it to show any more skin. “You know, we don’t have to do this.” he told you and kissed you on the cheek, whereupon you turned around and smiled at him.

“No i want to. I’ve waited long enough.” you assured him, whereupon he nodded and kissed the bridge of your nose. “Just give me a moment. Promise i won’t be long.”

“Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.” he said, walking around you and settling down where you were sitting moments ago. He savored the sight of you in your wedding dress one last time as you walked away, smiling to himself as you made him happier than ever.

Once you had closed the bathroom door behind you, you leaned against it, looking at yourself in the mirror and taking in a deep breath. You were nervous before, but now it was on a whole other level and you couldn’t quite place your feelings. All you knew was that you were scared and very excited at the same time. After you had just breathed for a while and relaxed a little, you went to the counter where you had already put your clothes for tonight.

You quickly took off your dress, hung it carefully on a hanger over the shower door, deciding to take care of it later, and put on your matching bra and an oversized shirt. Because you didn’t want to be half-naked right from the start, dressed only in your panties. After that, you thought it be best to brush your teeth too, afraid you might have bad breath, even though that was silly since you’d already kissed Mason a thousand times. But it helped to calm your mind a little.Then you took off your make-up and tried to convince yourself that it couldn’t be a bad first time because it was with him.

As you opened the bathroom door, his head lifted, from where it was thrown back while staring at the ceiling. You noticed that he had changed a little himself, already taken off his blazer and shoes while his tie hung loosely around his neck. Making him look as handsome as ever.

“Come here.” he mumbled with a smile on his face when he saw his shirt on your body. His words made you walk towards him, who was also standing up to put his hands on your waist and kiss your forehead easier.

“What do I have to do?” you asked nervously, just before his lips could meet yours. Your words elicited a breathy laugh from him and another kiss on your forehead as his warm hands stroked your back.

“You don’t have to do anything, baby. Just relax, yeah? This is about you.” Mason replied softly as his hand moved to your cheek, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear before he placed a kiss on your lips. “Okey.” you nodded before kissing him again.

“Do you trust me?”

“I do.” your choice of words made him smile. He picked you up easily and laid you on the bed so that your head was on the pillows, hair sprawled over them.

“I can’t believe I can call you my wife now.” he didn’t give you time to reply and instead kissed you tenderly, “You’re my favorite person ever, Y/N.” the kiss turned into a clash of teeth as neither of you could hide the wide grin that settled on your lips.

“And you are my favourite person.” you murmured between kisses as your hands ran through the soft strands of his hair. His words and kisses calmed your mind a little and let you concentrate completely on him. Your kisses became more passionate by the second and the only thing you could hear was Mason’s breathing and the sound of the rain pattering down on your balcony, creating a chill atmosphere in the room.

“Mrs Mount.” he whispered casually against your lips, which made you both laugh as he waited what felt like an eternity to finally call you that. “Sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

“So nice it might be my new favourite nickname for you.” eliciting another giggle from you as you kissed his temple while he traced kisses from the corner of your mouth down to your neck. Mason continued to gently kiss the skin of your neck as his hands tentatively moved under your shirt and caressed the skin of your stomach. His touch made the nervous pit of your stomach resurface, which he noticed immediately by the change in your breathing and the way your muscles tensed.

“What's wrong?” he punctuated with a kiss on your cheek and took his hands from your stomach, holding himself up with one hand and holding your cheek with the other. At his words you just shrugged, causing him to move his head down slightly to meet your gaze, “Tell me, love.”

“I don’t want to disappoint you.” frown evident on his face as you looked at him, eyes full of concern and confusion at the same time. “What do you mean, disappoint me?”

“Like— ugh. I mean, you could have anyone you want and you might find out I’m not good enough for you. Or what if you don’t find me attractive or-”

“Y/N.” The serious tone in his voice made you pause mid-sentence and sending him an apologetic look. “Listen. First of all, I’ve seen you in your underwear before and I can assure you that you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. No matter what you’re wearing, if you just woke up with messy hair, or if you have food between your teeth."

His words made you grin, kissing his hand that was still on your cheek, the thumb stroking your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. “I love you. You’re absolutely gorgeous to me.”

“But I’m not one of those Instagram models and I don’t have a perfect body..."

“But even these imperfections are perfect. They are perfect because they are a part of you. Believe me when I say that you are beautiful. That for me, there is no other woman who could even begin to compare to you. I mean, why do you think I married you?”

“My good cooking?”

“Well, that and the fact that I can beat you in every single video game there is.” which made you laugh, the doubt slowly leaving your body from the impact of his words. You trusted him completely, whatever he did or said you would never question it.

You took a moment to observe his features, your gaze moving from his eyes to the freckles that adorned his nose, to his slightly parted and moist lips, and back to his eyes. You saw him smile as he watched your gaze intently while your fingernails scraped the back of his head, making him hum. “I love you.” you whispered, though those three words contained so much more than that and summed up all your feelings at that moment.

“And I love you.” whereupon you took his hand from your cheek and placed it back under your shirt, which made him smile and kiss your neck again as well. Although he had kissed your neck several times before, it felt different now somehow. And when he sucked lightly on one spot, brushing his teeth over it, your hips raised off the bed unintentionally and you felt like there was a little lump hanging in your throat that had to come out.

“You can take it off.” you sighed, at which he pulled back and pointed at your shirt to make sure he got it right. Nodding, you straighten up slightly as Mason pulled it over your head, leaving you in your underwear. His lips twisted into a smile at the sight of you and he thought he for sure must be the luckiest man in the world.

“I really trust you, Mase, so you have permission to do whatever you want.” your words made his smile widen as you moved your hands to his shirt, unbuttoning it and pushing it off his shoulders, revealing his perfectly defined abs. You couldn’t help but run your fingers over his six pack and the tattoos that adorned his skin, making him inhale sharply. “But tell me if something’s wrong, alright?”

“Yeah.” at which he pulled down his trousers and you gulped as you saw the bulge in his white calvins. He distracted you by kissing you, tongue gentle against yours as his hand moved to your ribcage, stroking circles on the skin. After a few moments, his fingers moved higher and slowly began to massage your breasts.

Your breathing immediately became heavier at his actions, the feel of his hands on your breasts was unsurpassed. The thought of what else he could do to made you feel like this made the anticipation in your belly rise. He too, could feel his mind going wild by the way you were reacting to his touch.

Mason released his mouth from yours, wanting to move them to where his hands were, but was stopped by you pulling him back by his hair, “Please don’t stop kissing me.” you pouted, feeling him smile against your lips as you kissed him again, not wanting to lose the feeling of safety by his lips on yours.

As his fingers probed the fabric of your bra and you arched your back to allow him access, he took this as his sign to unhook your bra. When your nipples were exposed to the fresh air, you suppressed a shiver and pulled his chest closer to feel a sense of warmth. Mason’s thumb stroked your nipple, feeling it harden under his touch, and the soft whimper that got lost in his mouth made his hips grind against yours, needing to feel some sort of relief.

Sure, you’d been turned on before, but the feeling Mason was giving you now was second to none. You felt a wet spot forming in your underwear and a tingling sensation moved all over your body, starting at your neck and moving further down. Suddenly you felt his fingers move downwards and as they touched the spot below your belly button, you squirmed and held on tighter to his hair. As your other hand moved down his back, his breathing also became heavier, from feeling your soft fingertips on his sensitive skin.

When his fingers reached the waistband of your underwear, you expected him to start touching you where you needed it the most, but instead they moved to your hips before going down your thighs. Mason wanted to drag it out as long as possible to make you feel more comfortable, but you couldn’t deny that you just wanted him to touch you, and that you felt the strange desire to be filled. All the nervousness and insecurity had long vanished thanks to his comforting words and touches.

“God, I can’t believe you’re mine.” he gulped after lifting his head and looking at you without a bra on for the first time. He ran his thumb over your nipples, already quite fascinated by how they hardened and how soft your skin felt. He ran his thumb over the moles and the various marks that adorned your skin, feeling like he was about to burst from waiting for this moment for so long. “So beautiful.”

“Such a beautiful body, Y/N.” those words made your heart flutter and a smile flit across your face. His head bent down again and kissed the valley of your breasts before he brushed his lips all over them, leaving a few soft marks. You tugged at his hair to pull him closer to your chest as his tongue circles your nipple, sucking lightly on it as his hand finally moved to your panties.

“Mason-” followed by a low moan as his thumb touched your clit. The sensation was something you’d never felt before, the fire in your body ignited and your hips bucked due to the sensitivity of your nerves. Mason continued his movements for a while, his fingers stroking your underwear and making you want more, even if you didn’t know exactly how to tell him.

“Can I take your panties off?” he asked softly, pulling back from your chest and admiring the marks he had left before looking at your face, seeing your flushed cheeks and eyes dark with lust. The sight almost made him whimper as he tried not to burst his load just by looking at you, as his last time having sex with someone had been so long ago that he felt like a teenager again who couldn’t hold it for more than ten seconds. “You don't have to ask, Mase.”

“Of course I have to, it’s your body after all.” he pressed a kiss to your lips and you smiled at his sweetness. You shivered as he hooked his fingers into your underwear and pulled them down your legs. He sat back on his knees to pull them off your ankle, giving you a perfect view of his thighs.

Mason’s gaze wandered to your pussy as he leaned over you again and licked his lips, mouth salivating at the sight. But he was pulled from his thoughts as you pulled him down for another kiss, his hand sliding back up your thighs and settling on your core, fingers running through your folds and spreading your wetness. The moment his fingers circled your clit, your body jolted and you bit down lightly on his lip. “Sorry.”

“No, it felt good.” you murmured, shaking your head.

“Yeah?” he asked, pressing down on your clit with more pressure, circling it further, making you wriggle around on the bed and hum in response. Your eyes fell close and your head rolled back as he switched from circles to left to right movements and kissed your neck again, only increasing the pleasure you felt.

You whined as his fingers left your clit, making him chuckle against your skin. Instead they came to a stop at your entrance before he slowly pushed one inside you, making you gasp at the new and strange sensation. You moaned out as he inserted another finger, filling you more with each thrust. “Does that feel good too?”

“Yes— Fuck yes, that feels so good.” crying out as his fingers settled in knuckle-deep, curling them and hitting a special spot inside you. Out of reflex, you put your hand to your mouth to stifle the sounds that escaped your lips.

“Don’t. I want to hear you, love.” he said, taking your hand away from your mouth again and guiding it to his own, kissing over your knuckles as his fingers moved inside you with perfect speed. When you opened your eyes and saw him smiling at you, you knew once again that this was the perfect moment and you wanted him now more than ever. You tried to let him know that by wiggling your hips away, which indeed made him pause and look at you with slight worry in his eyes. “You okay?”

“Yes. Just... I don’t want to wait anymore.” you murmured, seeing his eyes light up with relief that he hadn’t done anything wrong. He nodded, understanding what you meant, kissing you once on the forehead before taking off his boxers and revealing his already hard cock, from which pre-cum was already leaking.

“It might hurt a little.” he informed you and you nodded. Mason took your hand again, intertwining your fingers and using it as leverage. He began kissing you, trying to ease the possible pain as he lined up with your entrance, slowly pushing into you, whimpering because you felt so tight around him.

Halfway he came to a stop and let you get used to the feeling, which was really a strange sensation, but luckily it didn’t hurt as much as you had imagined. His lips parted from yours, panting against them. “You can move if you want to.” you told him as you wanted him to move yourself.

“It doesn’t hurt?”

“Not really.” you assured him, kissing the corner of his mouth as he slowly pulled back out before starting to thrust slowly, that still had you feeling him everywhere as he fitted just perfectly inside you.

“Fuck— you feel so good around me.” he whimpered, head fell against your forehead, and the strange feeling now turned to pleasure, moaning as you felt him inside of you completely . “Doing so well for me, Y/N.”

Occasionally he kissed your lips, which were interrupted by your moans every time. The grip you had on his hand and shoulders tightened with each of his thrusts as you felt them become more erratic, as did his breathing.

“I won’t last much longer.” he panted as his movements came to a halt, knowing that if he continued he would be a goner in seconds. “I don’t mind.” you assured him, running your hand through his hair as your breathing also got heavy.

“Really, it’s fine.” you added as he looked at you, his eyes squeezing shut again, a moan leaving his lips as you clenched around him. That finally got him to move again, and true to his words, he only needed a few more thrusts before he pulled out, tugging on himself a few times and coming on your stomach.

“Holy shit.” he moaned, before his head fell against your shoulder, his body lying limp on yours, and you continued to run your hands through his hair while the other ran over his sweaty back. It took a few moments for him to come down from his high, for his breathing to return to normal.

“Still doesn’t hurt?”

“No”

“Good.” head lifting after mumbling the words into your shoulder, he turned around and sat up, his back against the headboard, making you look at him questioningly. “Come here.” he said, patting his thigh, to which you sat down on his lap.

“What are you doing?” you asked him as he shifted your position, making you straddle only his thigh. “What, did you think I was just going to leave you like that?” he said and you shrugged your shoulders as he pretended to be hurt by your reaction.

“Thought you’d think more of me, love... I want you to ride my thigh.” the line between your eyebrows increased, making it clear that you had no idea what he was talking about. He then grabbed your hips, guiding you further down and making you grind against his thigh, your breathing hitching at the sensation. “Like that.”

“Mason” you whined, head dropping against his shoulder as the feel of his bare thigh against your pussy sent you straight to heaven. “That’s it, baby.” those words turned you on even more as you grinded down against his thigh yourself now. Quickly you were a whimpering mess on top of him, your nails digging into his arm as your movements came to a halt from sheer hypersensitivity.

Mason then helped you again by also moving your hips back and forth. As he tightened the muscle in his thigh, you moaned out loudly and felt something build up in your stomach, making the feeling even more intense. It went on like that for a while as Mason whispered soothing words in your ear from time to time and kissed your neck.

“Mase— Oh my god.” movements came to a halt again, not knowing if the feeling of your approaching climax made you want to continue or stop. “It’s okay, Y/N, just let go.” whispered Mason, guiding your hips with his hands as the knot in your stomach threatened to burst.

You cried out as you came suddenly, feeling like you were about to pass out because it was the first time you had experienced something so intense. It felt like fireworks were exploding throughout your whole body as you moaned Mason’s name over and over like a prayer, no longer in control of your body. “Good girl.”

“Sorry I didn’t last that long.” Mason said after you had come down from your high again, lifting your head, looking him in the eye and sending him a soft smile. “It’s okay, it was perfect. Better than I could have ever imagined.” you mumbled, feeling his hand on your cheek as you spoke, keeping an intense gaze on your tired figure.

“It was perfect for me too. I love you.” he replied with a kiss on your nose, which scrunched up adorably. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” making you pout, holding him down by the shoulders so he wouldn’t get up.

“We’re not done yet.”

#mason mount #mason mount smut #mason mount x reader #mason mount imagine #chelsea imagine #chelsea fc #england nt imagine #england nt #oneshot #fanfiction #football imagine #football #mason mount fanfic #mason mount oneshot

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lemonluvgirl · 2 years

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#9 Drabble Prompt: "We're not just friends.....”

For @peeta-pocket and @pookieh who both asked for #9

Peeta and I have been whiling away the hours in quiet companionship ever since we got back.

We’re two burned out shells trying to find a way to breath life back into our fragile casings. We make sure the other eats, and showers, and goes through the motions. It’s not quite living, but its better than what we’d be doing alone.

Lately we’ve added a new item to the list of things we tackle together.

Sleep.

Peeta and I have resumed sharing a bed like all those nights where the only things keeping us from cracking under all the pressure was the press of the other’s warm body to keep the nightmares at bay.

Its familiar. Its comforting. Its confusing. And lately when there’s no subtle breeze to blow the steamy heat that radiates off us as we lay huddled together in the night, its been terrifying. For the both of us.

But probably for entirely different reasons.

I worry that the aching, gnawing hunger that settles low in the pit of my stomach each night, no matter how much of Peeta’s delicious food I stuff myself with, is a return to what I experienced with Peeta on the beach during the Quell. I worry that he’ll hear me one night, calling his name not in terror but in longing.

I worry that I’ll screw everything up between us. Again.

And Peeta, sweet, unerringly optimistic Peeta, is still fighting off visions of me torturing him, killing his family, taking away everything he’s ever loved.

He tries to downplay it. But I hear the way he moans my name plaintively in his sleep. I know all his nightmares are about me.

So I keep my mouth shut, and my thighs pressed together and I pray to whatever higher power there maybe that I can just forget my own selfish desires JUST THIS ONCE.

Because Peeta deserves my friendship. He deserves whatever part of myself I can spare. I resolve to bury my inconsequential urges. I dig my hands in my pockets whenever he’s around. I try not to stare at his eyelashes. And whenever I get the itch to lean in and kiss him like I want to live inside his mouth and never stop, I bite my tongue and count to 30. Or 40. or 100. Whatever number I have to climb to until the feeling passes .

Its been working out great so far.

So when he sets his fork down at dinner and fixes me with serious look and asks me, “Katniss, what are we to each other?” I’m completely caught off guard.

I almost choke on my bite of roasted fessant.

“What?” I ask, once I’ve washed down the piece of food with half a glass of water.

Peeta for his part, seems to barely have noticed I choked. He’s still looking at me with that unreadable look that makes me want to simultaneously want to run for cover and also mount him.

“What. Are. We. To. Each. Other?” He asks again, slowly and deliberately, as if I was a child.

I’ve begun scowling before I even realize it.

“Don’t give me that look. Just answer the question Katniss.” Peeta snaps and I have to swallow past the dry lump in my throat.

I know where this is coming from. Haymitch had made a few comments in passing about how we should just officially move in together since we’re never apart for more than a few hours each day anyways. Not to mention we’ve been spending all our nights together for the past few months.

Peeta had gotten a strangely pensive look on his face when Haymitch said that. And he’s been weirdly quiet for the rest of the day.

If I could march over to his house and shoot Haymitch right now I probably would. But it still wouldn’t get me out of this sticky predicament with Peeta.

He waits, seemingly patiently for my answer. But I’m terrified beyond all reason that whatever I say will be the wrong thing.

“What do you want to be?” I say finally, deflecting and throwing the question back at him. I can’t deny that my heart is beating faster with fear and hope alike.

Peeta purses his lips, and his mouth twists slightly. I can see he’s getting upset.

“I asked you first Katniss. Why can’t you just be honest with me? For once!” He asks, standing up abruptly, he’s breathing hard, when he moves to grab the back of the kitchen chair I know that despite my best intentions I’ve fucked it up anyway.

I hear him muttering under his breath about how I always lie, and how he can’t trust me.

Tears roll, unbidden down my face as I watch him try to reign the flash back in.

“Not real! Not real! Peeta, I’m sorry! Please, please I’ll answer any question that you have! I wasn’t trying to lie to you I swear!” I cry, reaching for him before I think better of it. He catches me around the waist and wraps his thick arms around me, holding me to him so tightly it’s borderline painful.

His pupils are doing that strange thing where they dilate to pinpricks and blow up huge again. I feel my heart thundering out of control as I stare up at him helplessly.

I could scream right now, and maybe Haymitch would come running, if he hasn’t already drunk himself senseless by this time.

I could try to twist out of his hold.

I could headbutt him.

The options flow through my mind in flickering images that last about a millisecond before I discard them.

In the end I do nothing.

I just stand there trembling for so many reasons while his arms cage me to his strong muscular body, the least of which being fear.

As debased as it sounds, I can feel my body wake up in ways it only ever does when Peeta is close to me.

I stare up at him, my lips parted to speak, but unable to find the right words. The only thing I’m capable of doing is lowering my head in shame to hide against his shoulder.

My touch causes Peeta to shudder.

“Just tell me what we are Katniss. I can’t take the uncertainty anymore.” He says in an exhausted voice. Its his tone alone that lets me know the majority of the danger has passed. Peeta only ever sounds this tired after successfully fighting off an episode.

“We’re friends Peeta.” I say weakly, hoping that at the very least this title will be enough to keep with me, but not too much to scare him away. I feel the traitorous tears well up in my eyes again, and only barely manage to choke back my regretful sob.

Peeta freezes, becoming rigid against me.

Slowly, very tentatively I feel his fingers reach down to graze my jaw. I tense, waiting for his hands to wrap around my neck, but they never do. Instead he tilts my chin up so that I have to look him in the eyes.

And I guess he sees more there than I ever intended him to, because the next moment his lips come crashing down over mine.

And its so strange because even though the force of our kiss is cutting off my air supply, I feel like I can finally breathe for the first time in months.

I practically sob into his mouth, when he brushes his tongue against mine.

Peeta pulls away, only for a second, and I whimper at the loss of his warm lips.

“We're not just friends, and you fucking know it." He tells me right before he scoops me up and I wind my legs around his waist.

I sigh at the feeling of him hard against my stomach as he carries me up the stairs to the bedroom.

“Definitely not friends.” I tell him when he lays me down across the bed.

#drabble prompts #everlark #fanfiction #gbt phase #implied smut #hope you like this

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mountswhore · 3 years

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𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 — mason mount

summary: chelsea’s massage therapist, and mason’s long term crush, had moved to a different club. but after reuniting at nationals, you realise just how much you missed him.

notes: requests are open, just ask! this is so fucking long, please read when you have time.

“I will take care of you.” + “I could never get tired of you.”

for @masterclassbaby

“she’s pretty,” mason hummed, chin in the palm of his hands and eyes gazing at you. chelsea’s newest sports massage therapist. he watched as you conversed with a few of the injured teammates, the boys on either side of him laughing at his blushed cheeks.

“mounty’s in love.” chilly sang, pushing mason gently. the three of them were laying on the turf, waiting for their trainer to arrive and being introduced to the pretty lady who would be massaging their injured limbs from now on. “go on, make a move before kai does. you know he will.”

“i’m not making any moves,” mason huffed and pushed himself to his feet, ben following suit and pulling a ball towards him with his foot, “can i appreciate her beauty without wanting to make a move?” ben rolled his eyes at his friend, eyes now focused on the ball for the first time in twenty minutes.

“so you’re just going to stare at her, like a creep.” ben stated, stopping the ball with the side of his foot and kicked it back to mason. “noted.” mason was barely focused, looking over to you every time you laughed or your voice echoed. he’d laugh with you, crinkling his nose when you did, it was sickening.

ben had kicked the ball to mason’s feet, where is stilled and hadn’t even broken his stare. he had ‘regained control of the ball’ by kicking mason’s ankles, which had definitely caught his attention and caused him to hiss in pain. “you fucker, what did you do that for?”

“i just gave you a reason to talk to her, you clown.” ben revealed sarcastically, mason limping over to you as you held a look of concern.

“everything okay, mount?” you politely asked, the slight touch on his back as well as hearing his name fall from your mouth was sending him into a frenzy. he just nodded, and followed you inside to where your new office resided. “what the hell happened? last time i looked, you were kicking a ball about with chilly.”

your voice was as silky as he’d imagined. “yeah, he’s a bit slow. so he thought kicking me in the ankles would be a wise idea.” you couldn’t help but giggle at the man’s joke, avoiding his gaze as you were sure to blush. this man was attractive, but it was your first day, you had to remain professional.

“i better get to work,” you huffed, rubbing some hand sanitiser onto your hands and pulling his socks down. “we can’t have chelsea’s best player injured a few days before the game,” you’d finally met eyes and stared at each other for a brief second, before bashful looking away.

“you think that?” mason almost sounded unsure of himself.

“of course,” you grinned and applied some pressure to the side of his ankle, “i’d say you’re one of the best.” mason hummed almost silently, resting his head back on the table. it didn’t hurt, and if anything, he’d have to thank chilly for kicking his ankles, as it got you two talking.

weeks had passed, mason visiting your office most days with random excuses.

“my legs are fine. but maybe a shoulder rub for good luck?”

“i bought you a smoothie.”

“it’s cold outside, and i told the boys my thighs were sore.”

“now i’m just bored.”

every time he’d appear, you’d just pull up a chair instead of prepping the table. he’d talk to you about the most random of things, the pair of you having an intense debate on whether or not ross and rachel were on a break. he’d quickly become your favourite visitor.

“mr. mount, to what do i owe the pleasure?” you questioned, knowing it was him just by the way he fiddled with the handle before opening the door. he grinned at the nickname, sitting in the desk chair beside you.

“i actually came to ask if you wanted to go for a drink tonight. the boys were meant to, but now it looks like i’m all alone.” mason explained, a white lie thrown into the mix. he wasn’t being left by the boys, he asked them to cancel, so he could spend some with you. “so, you fancy it?”

“sure.” you smiled, accepting his invitation before you could overthink your way into cancelling. “i’ll text you my address.” he nodded his head, resting his head on his hands as you got on with paperwork. you could see out of the corner of your eye, he was staring at you as you worked. he had no training to be getting on with, and saw a better pastime in watching you work.

when you’d finally finished work and gotten yourself dressed up, mason was even more in awe of you. you looked adorable at work, and now he’d seen you in a new light. it’s like seeing your crush outside of school, it’s weird not seeing them in uniform, but seeing a new layer of them was good. he’d picked you up and taken you to the nicest pub he could find, it was a quiet one. it was a pub you had to pay extra for to sit on the terrace with a table to yourself. but he was willing to go the distance.

“it’s weird not seeing you in your kit.” you mentioned, staring at his impeccable sense of fashion. like he’d been ripped from the front page of asos. mason chuckled loudly and sipped on his beer, after doing a brief ‘cheers’ with you. it was british tradition, after all.

“i know. i’m used to seeing you in leggings and a chelsea top.” mason observed, his cheeks blushing at the way you looked at him. he felt the butterflies begin to swarm in his stomach, like they did on the way here. “now you’re in a dress, i can see your legs.” his eyes widened at the weird statement that just fell from his lips, face burning with embarrassment. “sorry, that sounded so creepy.”

you burst into laughter, feeling anything but disturbed. in fact, you felt more comfortable with him. “don’t worry about it, you’re easy to feel comfortable with.” mason took this chance to hide his rosy cheeks by sipping on his beer. the pair of you conversed for well over an hour, your conversations from work spilling into the mix too. and soon enough you were laughing on the walk back to your home.

“that’s hilarious. i can’t believe we could’ve almost met years ago.” you exclaimed, mason proud of recalling that memory. the pair of you remembered an awful christmas concert that happened in a town near central london, and were almost inches apart unknowingly covering your ears at the screeches made by the backup singers.

you’d ended up at your door, mason standing just centimetres away from your face. you knew what he wanted, and you wanted it to. so, with the confidence given to you by the mixer you’d just downed a while ago, you closed the gap between you and engaged in a sweet kiss with him. it was well overdue, mason’s teammates would say as he told them the following day.

you’d settled in really nicely with the team, enjoying every day you spent at the training grounds. you’d only been on that one drink date with mason, always planning to reschedule another but you’d both be too busy to do so. it didn’t stop you from texting nonstop and have some late night facetime calls. you were really beginning to like each other. it was as if nothing could ruin your happiness you felt with your life at this moment.

until you’d been pulled aside and told by chelsea’s own manager that a man united massage therapist had quit, offering you the job. it would mean your whole life would shift, you’d have to move, you’d have to make friends with a team all over again, and leave mason. you couldn’t bear telling him, which you’d also been told to do. you’d have to break the news to your beloved team, who would come and cheer with you after a win, and always pester you with random requests. you were each of their’s personal assistant almost, loving your relationship with them all. and mason, you knew he’d be crushed, the girl he was so deeply falling for, being told to move to another club.

you were on edge since that very morning, not being your usual joking self with your boys as they came in for their sessions. you’d weakly smile at them and make small talk whilst tending to their stiff joints, then let them leave. all the boys carried on with their day, assuming you were just having a bad day. but mason could see through you, he could tell something was playing on your mind.

as you were putting pressure on mason’s ankle, which he’d been take off the pitch for last week, he grabbed your arm gently. sitting up, he pulled you close to him and held you how he usually did. his hands grazing your sides and his eyes almost burning holes into your own. “talk to me, pretty. what’s on your mind?”

you shook your head. “i’d go easy on the foot today, mount. i don’t want to see you benched next game.” would you even be able to see their next game? it brought you close to tears throughout the day, but being trapped in a room with mason, you were bound to cry and tell him everything.

his grip didn’t leave your arm, instead he pulled you closer to him and held you close to his chest, now standing and towering over you. you felt a sob erupt through your chest, opening the flood gates as you cried into him. he’d never seen you like this, you were always his smiling ball of sunshine. “talk to me, y/n.”

“they’re moving me.” you simply stated, hoping not to say another word and him just understand completely. but it didn’t work like that, none of the team knew. mason would be the first to know, and you had to tell the rest of the team before the day was up. as this weekend you’d be arranging accommodation in manchester whilst you looked for permanent residence, as well as meeting the team and staff you’d be working for.

“what?”

“they’re moving me to united, mase. a therapist quit over there and they asked for me, your manager signed me over a few days ago. and i’m gonna be leaving you boys.” you explained, mason’s grip on you loosening as he tried to come to terms with what you were saying. he’d had his fair share of bad news in his life, but this was the biggest blow he’d felt in a while.

“they can’t do that,” mason stuttered over his tears, a frown cast upon his face, “they can’t just expect you to pack up and leave.” you placed your hands over his cheeks, forcing him to look down at you. that’s when his tears began to fall, looking so vulnerably at each other in this time of sadness.

“they can, mason. and they have, i need to go this weekend to meet the team and look to move up there.” you admitted, your hands refused to leave his face. you were soaking up every bit of mason you could before you left. long-distance didn’t work for either of you, especially with how busy you both were. the only time you’d see each other would be if chelsea were to play united.

“i can’t lose you, y/n.” he confessed, pulling you into him and resting his head above yours. it wasn’t just losing a girl he was seeing, it was losing someone he loved. he’d fallen deeply in love with you — but telling you would just hinder your movement. he couldn’t make it any harder than it was, it would ruin you. he just had to let you go.

that afternoon, you’d thought about what you were going to say and met the boys on the pitch. the second mason saw you, it took everything in him to not cry into his hands. but he managed to stay strong. you stood weakly beside the team manager, avoiding everyone’s eyes and fiddling with your jumper sleeves.

“afternoon boys,” you greeted them, hearing a few cheers and whistles, they loved you, “i have some news. today will be my last day working with you. i’ve been transferred to united, which will take full effect this weekend. you guys have my number if you just want to talk rubbish, or have any questions for me.” it was a long while of hugging them all, laughing with them and repeating little inside jokes with them.

“what are you going to do without me, huh?” you asked reece, who just chuckled and gave you a squeeze. “i’ll miss you all, you know who i’ll be cheering on if you ever go against united.”

you’d settled in at united perfectly, but something was missing. it was always going to feel this way, nothing would ever break the bond you shared with the chelsea boys. even when they went head to head, and you’d catch mason’s eyes on the pitch, you’d have to hide your smile when they scored, and try even harder if mason was the one putting it in the back of the net. you got on well with the boys here, but you found yourself missing the boys back at chelsea, and most of all, mason.

months had passed since your move to manchester, and you were heading out of your office on a particular tiring friday afternoon, walking past united’s manager, who always seemed to be on his way to something.

“ah, y/n, just who i needed to see.” he commented, stopping you as you were headed out to find a late rashford for his session. “keep an eye on your emails tonight, please. you’ve been included in an international offer.” you nodded, not hearing anything past the word ‘email’. and when you’d gotten home that evening, waiting for your takeaway to arrive, you mindlessly scrolled your emails.

something about the upcoming world cup, saying you’d been selected as the teams massage therapist. it burned your eyes as you danced around your tiny living room; so happy to have a chance at seeing any of the chelsea boys again. you’d thought that after all these months of just seeing mason’s face in his instagram posts, he’d have forgotten about you and moved on. but it was the furthest from the truth.

mason watched over your socials for months, seeing your various pictures with the likes of rashford, shaw, and lingard. he made sure you had friends and was having a good time up north. but every night he’d go to bed, yearning for you and the time you both spent together. missing your first kiss, missing hearing the sound of your laugh in real life, not just through another footballers videos. he missed spending hours on the phone. and although he had a chance to reconnect with you, it would be too much for the both of you to handle. he’d miss you so much more, knowing you were simply unobtainable.

after signing all of the correct documents to show you could in fact work for the national team, you were on your way to the training grounds and coping with living in the camp alongside the boys and other members of staff. it was better than your tiny manchester apartment, that was for sure. you weren’t really needed outside for training, so you set up your office and began on your paperwork. time passed a lot quicker here than it did when you worked at united, it was nearing your lunch break already. a knock was placed at your door, bringing your out of your work daze.

“hello, stranger.” you heard from behind you, heart overjoyed that it was actually him. it was your mason. you turned round to greet him, standing up and immediately pulling him into a hug. it felt familiar, the only bit of familiarity you had in this place. “god, i missed you.” he even smelt the same, as creepy as it was to say.

“i knew you’d be called up,” you admitted to him, looking up at his red face. it was just like the first time, he was so nervous to talk to you, “you’re still my best player.” his hands found your cheeks, taking advantage of the affection not feeling awkward. it was as if you never left.

“you don’t understand how much i’ve missed you all these months, y/n,” he whispered, face centimetres away from yours. “how much i’ve wanted to kiss you again.” you wanted it too, you finally felt like you found your missing piece. but you had to remain professional, this was national level now, not just club level.

“trust me,” you whispered back at him, holding your hands above his own, “i’ve wanted to kiss this pretty face, too. but we have to be professional.” he nodded, understanding that if they were caught, you’d be the one facing repercussions, not him. so he respected your choice and stood back.

“what about when the day’s over, and we go back to the camp,” he suggested, a hand on your shoulder to stop you from turning around, “what would you say to me then?” you just shrugged, sitting back down in your chair and continuing your work. the remainder of your day was quiet, just talking about a few people tomorrow that have stiff joints that need loosening. you’d made your way back to camp, opening your door and sighing as you took your shoes off.

what room are you in? mason texted, waiting outside his door.

you’re eager, i just finished work. but i’m on the floor above you, room 39. you texted him back, speedily changing your attire for something more comfortable and freshening up. mason would be up here within seconds. and whilst there were no rules stating that the squad shouldn’t be in staff members rooms, it felt wrong.

“you’re gonna have to leave when nobody can see you.” you sighed, opening your door to an eager mason. he wormed past you and sat on your bed, semi annoyed that your bed was comfortable than his.

“so not only do you get a room to yourself, you get a bed that doesn’t feel like a plank of wood.” mason stated, clearly getting comfortable on your bed. “i just might have to stay here.” you rolled your eyes and sat beside him, resting your head on the pillow. “you tired?”

instead of saying anything, you nodded and inched closer to him. his right hand was drawing delicate patterns on your exposed arm, whilst the other was wrapped around you. this was the moment he wanted with you, even when you were working at chelsea. but it’s happening now and that’s all he cared about. holding the girl he still deeply loved in his arms.

“i’ll go down to dinner soon,” he mentioned, even if you could hear him or not, “maybe i’ll bring you something up.” a small kiss was placed on your temple, mason snuggling into you a bit more.

the next day, you knew you had some sessions. so you were up early, a text from mason on your phone.

i left late last night, i fell asleep once i came back from dinner. i hope you had a good night.

you blushed at his text, getting yourself prepared for the day. the boys had a match coming up soon and you wanted to be on top of your game, making sure they were all stretched and ready. you sat in your office, prepping your table and your paper work for the first person to enter.

you’d worked with grealish, bellingham, and lingard today. and they only had a few more hours training until they were done for the day. you sighed in your seat and rested your head against your desk, arms and hands sore. your handle was violently shoved down, your door opening in the process. startled, you watched declan carry his best mate in.

“he rolled his ankle taking a kick,” declan explained, helping his friend onto the table. you quickly sanitised your hands and pulled his sock down to observe his ankle. “will he be okay for the game in a few days?”

“yes, dec. he’ll be out in no time.” you reassured his friend, mason smiling through the sharp pain shooting through his ankle. declan had left shortly afterwards, leaving you to giggle at mason.

“what you giggling at, hm?” mason questioned, a finger tickling your side. you squirmed and brushed a hand over his head, his features relaxing under your touch.

“it’s always the ankles, hm?” you retorted, mason rolling his eyes before letting out a laugh of his own. “let’s get you back on your feet in time for this game.” you had taken his boot and sock off, applying gentle pressure to the sides of his ankle and seeing how badly he reacted to the pain.

after the next few days of training, it was finally time for the match. you stood nervously on the side of the pitch, watching the ball being passed around. you watched as it had gone to mason, someone from the opposing team sliding into mason, and knocking his ankles together. he fell and began to yell in pain, the medics rushing over to him and assessing the pain. after realising it was not too serious, but he still had to be taken off, they’d given the job to you.

mason sat on one of the chairs beside you, head leaned back as you pulled his socks down. he winced as your small, cold fingers had pressed different parts of his ankle, but it didn’t feel bad. in fact, it was quite relieving. “it really is always the ankles,” mason finally agreed, making you chuckle and sit on the floor opposite him, “god, it fucking hurts.”

“i will take care of you,” you mentioned, your hand sliding into his. he smiled at the contact, his free hands gently tickling your side. this small amount of public affection felt scary, but good. you knew someone would pick up on it, but you didn’t care in the slightest. you had been away from mason for far too long. months and months apart, yearning for each other every second you were awake.

when the match was over, england scoring a whopping 4-0, mason was by your side for the rest of the evening. even getting onto the coach to go home, he sat beside you the whole way; his hand in yours and his head gently resting against your shoulders. when heading back to camp, knowing you had a day’s break before the boys were back on for training again in time for the next match, mason followed you to your room. you didn’t mind, neither did anybody else really.

you’d gotten into bed beside him that night, eyes heavy from the amount of work you’d both put in today, and the buzzed feeling from declaring victory had awoken something in him. he had the urge to kiss you, like he has every moment he’s spent with you recently, but more than that. he wanted to tell you he loved you, but decided to keep quiet. he wanted to save it for another day, maybe someday more special, when you weren’t trying to catch up on sleep between games.

“are you tired of me?” mason asked, releasing his voice into the darkness. he had no idea whether you were awake or asleep, as half an hour had passed of you both enjoying each other’s presence. you were wide awake, although your eyes told a different story.

“i’m tired in general,” you admitted, rolling over to face him, barely catching his pearly whites in the dark, “but i could never get tired of you.” mason’s heart was beating through his chest, reaching out for your hand to place onto it. it was a special moment — feeling his heart rapidly paced from your words, you’d barely noticed mason’s arm around you as he pulled you into him.

“good, because i’m not letting you go again,” he spoke quietly, your hand now replaced with your head, feeling his pulses on your cheekbone. you smiled for the millionth time that day, happy you had your mason back.

#money mase #mason mount x reader #mason mount smut #mason mount imagine #mason mount blurb #mason mount

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imaginethebeautifulworld · 2 years

Note

mm how about the characters of hetalia (Portugal England Spain Roman Canada America Kiku) he proposed to his girlfriend but she is rejected because she no longer loves him

Hello, lovely~ I see we have a fan of angst in this house.

I'm afraid I'll have to divide this one up a little, as unfortunately the bits I've written are all a bit longer than I was anticipating.

Hope you enjoy!

America

Alfred's smile slowly slides away, even as he continues to kneel before you, your hands still gently clasped between his own. Surely he misheard you, so caught up in the moment that he's missed the rest of your words, only catching a small portion. Clinging to that thread of optimism, he presses for you to repeat yourself.

"Sorry honey, I missed that. What'd ya say?"

To his mounting horror? despair?- you repeat your earlier words, now with the adage of your own apology, something about having wanted to meet up to talk about separating, about-

He can't really hear you anymore, his breath catching in his throat, heart clenching painfully in his chest, eyes sweeping across the floor in hope of some sort of answer, in hope that he'll wake up from this nightmare.

But you're squeezing his hands, helping him up, putting a water in front of him, trying to guide him back to the present, concern clear in your tone even if it's only-

"Why?" He pulls himself from his stupor, sure his eyes are bloodshot already, certain you can see just how wrecked you've already left him.

You look positively devastated, as if you had expected this to go any other way, and damn if he doesn't still want to comfort you despite how much fucking pain he's in right now.

"I don't love you, Al; I can't- I can't do that to you."

Oh, how he wants to fight you on that, can taste the protests already forming on his tongue, can already picture the dozens of ways he would win you back.

Yet-

You want this.

He can see it, can read it in your expression, in the tension of your shoulders.

And he could never deny you anything, even if it hurts like hell.

Even if it feels as if the universe is collapsing around him, as if you've broken every little piece of him.

"Okay."

Canada

Mattie sees the dread in your eyes before he's even finished, his words trailing off as he studies you carefully- the averted eyes, the tension in your jaw, the very distinct aura of panic.

He feels his eyebrows draw together in concern, gently runs him thumb across your hand. "What's wrong?"

He watches as your eyes close, feels the small wisps of anxiety starting to build in his chest as you take a steadying breath, your eyes haunted as you finally turn back to face him.

No, you're-

Dear God, he's a dumbass; he should have figured this out ages ago.

You're trying so hard to be kind, your voice shaking as you try to explain your heart, try to explain your feelings, try to explain how much you do still care about him, but-

Frankly, he's only half-aware of your words, so lost to anger with himself for not realizing sooner, for not seeing-

Your palm on his cheek stops everything, his name from your lips silences every stray thought. He can only focus on you, lost in your apologetic gaze, drowning in the clearly platonic affection shining there.

Satisfied you've reclaimed his attention, your hand starts to fall, and dammit all if he doesn't want to catch it, hold onto you, cling to you.

"Is there someone else?"

You offer a small sigh, a tired sound, your relief clear in your relaxing shoulders and softening expression.

"No, Mattie. I don't know if there ever will be."

He wants to pressure you, demand to know why you're walking away then, what the fuck you have to gain from leaving him.

But...

But if he lashes out now, he may lose you completely.

And selfishly, stupidly, he can't let you go.

He can't let you disappear.

He can't-

Things will never be the same between you.

He knows that, he knows.

But he's fallen too deeply to ever completely let you go.

England

"You could have spared me the embarrassment."

You should have told him sooner.

Oh, everything in him wants to hurt you, make you feel even a fraction of his pain, to understand just how humiliated he had felt at your outright rejection, half the bloody royal family standing in earshot.

He resists the temptation, forces it down deep, far, far away, cursing himself for his naivety. Yet again letting himself become attached, when the whole of Creation has proven over and over again that he is destined to be alone.

How bloody perfect that you would serve as Nature's messenger this time, and just when he finally-

He makes the mistake of glancing at you, catching the shame in your eyes, the guilt, the pit-

No.

No, that's pain, too.

All desire to hurt you, to lash out and tear you apart, is gone in an instant, leaving only a hollow shell behind. He forces his attention away from you, paces over to the railing of the small balcony, stares at nothing in particular of the garden below.

"Take the room in East Wing. Stay as long as you need until you can find your own place."

It's meant to be a dismissal, meant to make you leave, to spare him just a little of his dignity, to let him hide just how deeply you had cut him. But, as often seems the case, you either miss the hint entirely or choose to ignore it, stepping closer and hovering just a few steps away.

"Arthur, I need you to understand-"

"Stop," he hisses, unable to muster anything more than that. The ring, forged centuries ago for a queen long passed into legend, hangs heavily in his pocket. "I don't need- or frankly want- your explanations."

"Arthur."

Your hand is resting on his forearm now, a blessing (your warmth practically weaving its way into his soul, calming him, easing some of the pain) and a curse (a comfort he is no longer entitled to, a familiarity no longer truly shared, the source of all of this pain).

He wants to pull away, damns himself for not pulling away.

"Please just go."

It is a complete and utter defeat, one he can no longer keep from his voice, one he couldn't ever hope to hide from you no matter how desperately he should wish it.

He hears your mouth open and shut again, the weight of your unspoken thoughts hanging heavily in the space you vacate, leaving him alone in the cool twilight.

Spain

Tonio can sense there's something off about you, knows you've been actively avoiding him for the past few weeks. He's had his suspicions for a while, and it's not until your rejection that he finally has confirmation.

"I'm sorry, Toni."

He can feel a tremble in his hand, can feel the smile starting to slip, but he's determined not to crack, not now.

"What?"

You repeat yourself again, and he tries not to pay too much attention to how much easier the words flow from you now, the first hurdle overcome at last.

The first blow hasn't even finished landing, and you're already firing another volley? Despicable.

He is pissed, so furious he can barely focus on your additional explanations, your apologies, your reassurances. Why should he listen, anyway? You-

"You're leaving me."

Whatever the Hell you had been saying is cut short, your eyes widening in surprise when you finally look at him, realise just how enraged he's become. You visibly go to take a step back, stopped by the stone wall of the small bridge.

Wasn't this fucking perfect?

Everyone left him eventually, no matter what he did, no matter how hard he fought to keep them. Why should he be surprised that you'd end up the exact same way?

There's an inferno roaring in his ears, a haziness to his vision, and his nails are digging so sharply into his palms he can feel them piercing the skin.

A sick, twisted part of him wants to make sure you can't run away, can never leave him again, and for a moment, for a horrifying moment he actually considers it.

Common sense snaps back into place, a sharp, whipping jolt of knowledge that those thoughts belonged to a different man, that he hasn't been that man in a long, long time.

He finally meets your gaze again, feels his heart shatter at the concern in your eyes, at the tangible traces of fear.

No...

No, you were the last person who should ever be scared of him.

"Go."

It's an exhausted sigh, the taste of defeat more bitter now than it had been in centuries. He looks away from you, opting to watch the sunlight playing off the water.

You're hovering, and he feels his chest constrict when he hears you step closer.

With a growl, he turns to face you, pouring all of that aching fury into his voice.

"Go!"

It's enough, and you practically run in your rush to get away from him.

Once you're finally long gone, he slams his fist into the wall beside him, and crumbles to his knees, finally lets the mask shatter to pieces.

He's lost everything else; of course he'd lose you, too.

Japan, Romano, and Portugal to follow at a later date. Thanks for reading!

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timextoxhajima · 3 years

Text

RESONANCE BEACH: Fly Away With Me

RESONANCE BEACH masterlist [to be linked]

member: best friend! jaehyun x reader

genre: fluff and angst

wc: 1.3k

warnings: swearing

synopsis: our hearts are trapped in the same dream

"do you feel better?"

"mm, i think it depends on what we're talking about."

jaehyun chuckles, not bothering to look up from his feet sinking into the sand as he walks. his eyes are slightly squinted from the sun, but only because he's blocking you and using his shadow to keep you out of the sunlight.

"regardless, i hope this isn't a wasted trip. didn't drag you across the country for a road trip only for you to not feel any better."

"uh huh," you snicker and hold your palm over your eyes to look up at him. "i mean, i do. it's just... it's gonna take a while."

he nods, looking up on the other side when he hears a dog bark.

it feels like a million years since you first met jaehyun. he grew up well, as attested by the number of girls on his tail in school. yeah, you know it's cliche. the boy best friend who glowed the hell up and suddenly became the famous, popular jock friend.

but it's not like you hung out with him in school that much - or at least enough for the girls to pick on you.

they know you are friends and a good number of them have done enough homework to know that jaehyun's been your best friend for more than a decade but he hangs out with his big ol' boy gang in school.

leaves you out of the spotlight.

that is - until jaehyun self-elected himself as your personal therapist, bodyguard and chauffeur when your boyfriend decides to dump you on graduation night.

whilst it was fun watching jaehyun being held back by johnny and taeyong from bashing the boy's face in, it really wasn't funny having his words play over and over and over again in your head like a broken record.

"i didn't want to break up with you before graduation because i didn't want to be the reason why you failed your exams."

"i didn't wanna wake you up but we're almost there," jaehyun mumbles under his breath, obviously tired from the driving as well. the car slows to a stop at a red light, and he taps on his phone mounted to the dashboard to stop the GPS tracking.

you shuffle and sniffle lightly, pushing yourself up on the passenger's seat and looking out the window. it's a pretty row of shophouses, and the cafes and restaurants along the road were probably more aesthetic than their menus were.

the restaurant - chosen by jaehyun simply hitting a digital bottle on his phone and picking the one the mouth landed on - was something more like a jazz bar with classy ribs and al funghi linguines.

he didn't really care that you weren't hungry, not when he was.

the strawberry milkshake slurps loudly as he inhales, his hands tightly gripping onto the glass as the both of you watch haechan and mark bicker in the group chat.

you wouldn't describe your friendship with jaehyun as stellar; role model-like. it's not.

you've had your fair share of fights with him- yelling at each other, physical fighting (and by physical fighting, you truly do mean pulling his hair and sometimes he shoves you too).

of course, you'd only allow it because you've given him so many 'gender-equality' speeches, and on top of that, the 15-year friendship? not going to stop him from picking a physical fight with you.

but jaehyun knows when to stop. he knows if he's gone too far or how many more words he can hurl at you before you crack under pressure.

he knows how far he can go before you need to be held in his arms, crying into his shirt and letting you hit him and shove him away - yeah, i know what you're thinking.

sounds like a boyfriend. sounds like that universally known best friends-who-are-probably-in-love-with-each-other trope. it does.

and it is.

the thing is - we already knew.

kind of.

it's in the sweets and snacks he used to give you before and after school if you weren't dating anybody. he was careful not to when you had a boyfriend, but otherwise... you'd lost count of how many people would ask if you two were dating.

you were pretty sure jaehyun had lied and told people you were dating, but it never got out far enough for word to spread. especially not when you were the uglier, quieter best friend of the duo.

"you should ask them to pack the truffle fries, we're not gonna be able to finish it."

jaehyun looks up from his phone and squints at you. "try me."

"you're gonna puke later when you realise you've eaten more than you can digest."

"when have i ever had so much that i can't digest it?"

gently rolling your eyes, you sigh and sink back into the sofa seat. the fries crunch as he jabs the pieces with his fork, shoving them into his mouth like he hadn't had a plate of pasta and some chicken nuggets.

it does get boring with jaehyun sometimes because he's so mellow with his friends he doesn't get into as much shit as the younger ones do; he's never the source of drama.

but he's comforting when you're back at the beach (only because the holiday house was a 5-minute walk from it), and he's holding your shoes because you're too busy screaming about your skirt getting wet.

it's not uncommon for people to question your friendship with him, because you were either too similar or too much of an opposite from each other. most people think he's sweet and caring - which he is - but not with you.

he's brutal and has a strange sense of tough love - because he knows that's the kind you need.

"scream any more and you'll just about wake the rest of the neighbourhood up," he groans, knowing when to step back when the waves crash into your calves.

"why are they so fucking irregular-" you stumble and step clumsily all over the sand, the water and grains getting stuck to your legs and all over your skirt. finally, you give in and strut away from shore, leaving footprints in the sand as you walk towards him.

"think you just lack a sense of rhythm and pacing," he sniggers, yawning as he turns to face the holiday house.

you snort, used to his mockery. reaching out to get your shoes, jaehyun simply turns and walks off with them in his hands.

you'll never deny loving jaehyun - in whatever ways anybody else can imagine or experience, you probably have that with him.

platonic. romantic. hate.

what do people really mean when they say soulmates?

is it the way they complete each other or the way they complement one another?

is it the way they bicker but make up in hot kisses or lovingly press their foreheads together and wish till death does them apart?

god, actually - anything but those.

the thought tickles a funny bone in you, and jaehyun hears your giggle when he comes out of the bathroom with damp hair and his water-spotted shirt.

"what is it? thought of a new insult for me?"

"maybe," you rub your eyes and turn to look at him, giving him a tiny smile before turning back to the ocean stretched out beyond the balcony.

"guess I'm never gonna find that out then," he groans as he sits, pulling his feet in and hugging the arches. "i do hope this trip was a-"

"yeah, it was," you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. "thanks."

"you're welcome."

you look down through the corners of your eyes and catch him staring at you, eyes glimmering like the stars you could see in the night sky.

"you're lucky we've known each other for like half our lives now, else i wouldn't hesitate to punch a tooth out from your mouth."

he chuckles, reaching over to press his knuckle into your thigh. "but you won't. you love me too much to do that."

a snort runs through your throat.

probably.

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ohmyeyesmyeyes · 3 years

Note

Idk if you do one shots inspired in songs, but if so, Would you mind doing one with a Taylor Swift's song which is called "The 1"? With Mason Mount please

< i love taylor so much and i really hope i didn’t completely butcher this, but thanks for the challenge :) >

MASON MOUNT ONESHOT

the 1

( WARNING: little bit of angst and fluff?, swearing )

word count: 1.8k

Things don’t often go as we expect them to, and it’s often incredibly difficult to replan your life around that massive change and adapt your lifestyle so you can — in reality — live again.

It’s like trying to find your feet when you’re in the air — it feels impossible but you know with time you’ll eventually meet the ground again.

That’s what it felt like when you and Mason broke up four years ago.

You were fresh out of uni and at the time, you really thought he’d be it for you, and honestly, so did he. A break up thrown into the mix of having to navigate adult life just seemed to put a huge stopper on all your plans; the holiday you two had both booked for a weekend away in Ireland, the meals out with friends that you had to cancel, and the house showings you were set to attend.

Looking back on your relationship now, you realise it wouldn’t have been the worst thing to end up with Mason. All the years and effort and time put into loving him were — without a doubt — some of the best years of your life (at that stage in life), and did you regret it?

Not one single bit.

But four years is the perfect amount of time to heal, remove the salt from the wound and finish grieving.

But he was here. In real life.

You’d imagined running into him in the supermarket or on a night out with your friends, but a bus stop?

That one was weird. Mainly because you both hated catching the bus with a burning passion.

But it lead to a catch up over coffee.

It was a quiet place, out of the way of the usual lunchtime hustle and bustle in the city, and for that you were grateful. You could hear your own thoughts.

It was awkward at first, you couldn’t keep your eyes from fixating on his figure, his features, because four years can really change a person. He was much broader, his hair a little shorter, but he was still that same Mason you once loved.

You knew that because the first thing he did when he sat down was offer you that cheeky, charming smile that had you hooked from the second you met.

He’d asked how you were, and you answered honestly: you were living well, your best life, and to the fullest. And you knew and he knew that it wasn’t a lie.

He could tell by the smile on your face and the new, sparkling band on your wedding finger. He half expected that blow to sting a little — that you’d found someone and he hadn’t, but he was never one to be bitter whatsoever, at least, not when it came to you.

Instead, he offered his congratulations and the only inkling of regret he held was not being there when it happened.

I guess you never know, never know,

And if you wanted me, you really should’ve showed,

And if you never bleed, you’re never gonna grow,

And it’s alright now.

There was silence after that.

You had one thing on your mind, and you knew by the way he was looking at you that he was also thinking the same thing.

You took a sip of your coffee.

He mirrored your actions, seemingly startled when you placed your mug onto your saucer, the chink of porcelain against porcelain echoing around the small shop cutting through the previous quietness.

“I think I hated you for a while.” You murmured, and if Mason wasn’t leant over the table slightly, he would’ve missed the statement completely.

He nodded in understanding, his brown eyes shining with the faintest hint of guilt.

“I think I was so frustrated with the idea that we just…didn’t work, and I blamed it on you.” You paused, fingers twisting your rings.

He paused, mulling over his words, “And now? Still hate me now?”

You bit back a small smile and met his eyes, “No…I think it’d take a whole load of bad shit to get me to hate you.”

He smiled.

“That’s good to know.”

“I mean, I think it was a long time coming anyway, that break up.”

“It didn’t feel right for a while.”

“No,” you agreed, “as much as it hurt to admit, I think we just failed…as a couple. There was a point where we were just together for the sake of not giving up on the relationship, but with no real reason to continue.”

But we were something, don't you think so?

Roaring twenties, tossing pennies in the pool,

And if my wishes came true,

It would've been you,

In my defense, I have none,

For never leaving well enough alone,

But it would've been fun,

If you would've been the one.

He seemed to ponder over your words, and although he never voiced it, he came to the conclusion that you’d just put into words — perfectly — the itch that had been tickling his brain for the past few years.

“Despite that, you can’t deny that we weren’t something…” he started, before breaking off and shaking his head, as if the mere thought was ridiculous.

“We were something special. I think, had things stayed like they were in the beginning, that…you and I…” you waved your hand, tilting your head, and he nodded in agreement, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Me too. I think…in another life we could have made each other happy. It would have been fun.”

The words ‘if you would’ve been the one’ echoed in your head, and despite the passive aggressiveness of your conscience, you found yourself holding back a smile.

“Water fights in winter and eggs with ketchup…perfect. I’d never have gotten tired of that.” You mused, and he spluttered slightly on his coffee, laughing along with you in what felt like a decade.

I have this dream you're doing cool shit,

Having adventures on your own,

You meet some woman on the internet and take her home,

We never painted by the numbers, baby,

But we were making it count,

You know the greatest loves of all time are over now.

“Then again, who knows? Maybe you’ll fall over in the airport and some lucky person will help you off the floor—”

“You’re about to say something cheesy, aren’t you?” Mason covered his mouth, scrunching his nose in anticipation as you nodded.

“All this nostalgic bullshit has me emotional! I swear, just this once…just this once, and I promise you can laugh about it afterwards.” You swore, holding out your pinkie for confirmation.

He didn’t hesitate, and linked your pinkie.

“You’ll find someone else. It’ll be love at first sight—hey, let me have this moment…maybe love at second sight, knowing you… you’ll go to some really magical place and have the most amount of fun you’re ever gonna have…hikes, skydiving, looking after animals I’m sanctuaries…you’re gonna have the time of your life — like Grey and Swayze.” You sniggered, unable to hold in your laughs at the ridiculous scenarios.

Mason pulled a face, unable to hide a smile.

“Okay, okay. End of story: they’ll be perfect. The Chandler to your Monica or the Robin to your Ted. But, you understand what I’m talking about, right?” You asked, sighing out of frustration.

“You’re saying I’ll find my person.” He concluded, sitting back in his chair.

“Yeah.”

We were something, don't you think so?

Rosé flowing with your chosen family,

And it would've been sweet,

If it could've been me,

In my defense, I have none,

For digging up the grave another time,

But it would've been fun,

If you would've been the one.

“Like…your grandma and grandad. I want what they have.” Mason smiled.

“They’ll be pleased to hear that,” you said, “I don’t think they’re quite over us yet. You were too…you at family meals. They fell in love with you too.”

This time Mason really laughed. Really laughed. He threw his head back and the people working at the counter turned to look at him, fighting their own smiles at his carefree nature.

What you’d said wasn’t even that funny.

“Too me? Thanks, I think?”

“Oh, that’s definitely a compliment. You’re too damn charming for your own good, it’s a problem. You should come with a warning label on your forehead: EASY TO LOVE.”

“That’ll solve a lot of problems.”

There was silence.

It was relieving to say the least.

“That whole conversation was about four years too late.” You said, pursing your lips.

“Better late than never.” Mason murmured, his eyes trained on you.

The pressure on your shoulders was lifted. All the things that needed to be said were said.

As time passes, the wound heals — sometimes, but in your case, that was true, as hard as it was to come to that conclusion — and it suddenly became easier to recall the loss of what might have been without bringing you back to wishing it would be again.

It was nice.

“Would it be totally inappropriate—”

“Not at all.” You interrupted, shrugging at his raised eyebrows.

“You didn’t know what I was going to say.” He chuckled.

“I’ll have you know that years of knowing you granted me the issue of knowing what you’re going to say,” You said, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction.

“What was I going to say?” He challenged, “If you get it right, I’ll get you tickets to the next game.”

You raised your brows.

“Confident, are we?”

He shrugged, a smug smirk on his lips.

“I don’t think it’s totally inappropriate to be friends.” At your words, he slumped in his chair, hands going to cover his face.

“No.” He groaned, repeating the word like a mantra as you pumped the air with your fist.

“Three tickets to the next game in the bag.” You bragged.

“Honestly.” He whined, peeling his hands away. “Why are you so difficult?”

“You offered the terms.”

“Why am I so dumb?” He rephrased.

“Ah, I'm afraid only you can answer that one.”

“The brain cells I have left don’t have enough energy to come up with an answer to a question as philosophical as that one—yes, it was philosophical to me, okay?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” You promised, putting your hands in the air in surrender.

“Just remember who’s going to give you those tickets, yeah?” He teased, sitting up.

“Abusing your power, nice move.”

“Oh…shut up.”

“Weak.” You coughed, trying to disguise the fact you said anything.

He looked straight at you, highly unimpressed by your tactics.

“Very original.” Was all he said.

“Is it supposed to be this easy?” You blurted out, spitting out the words before you could rethink the consequences of them being thrown into the abyss between you and Mason.

He knitted his brows together in thought.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly, “but we were friends way before, it’s not hard to fall back into old habits. I think that’s why it’s so easy.”

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