🇸🇩🇨🇩🇵🇸•She/Her •21•"I just wanna have a good time" •König/Soap/Ghost 🫶🏻 •Please don't mind my english.. • Cuz i'll be there for them with open arm and open legs and open mouth. •pfp and banner are both from Stephanie Priscillia
he literally cannot help it. the second you push your tits together and trap his dick in that soft, warm squeeze his breathing is already ragged and he's looking down at you with his big, watery eyes. and you’re just looking up at him so pretty. lips parted, lashes fluttering, the tip of him poking through your cleavage. and you're smirking.
it makes him feel tingly.
he whimpers. he always whimpers first. grabs onto your shoulders or your hair and starts babbling, “wait wait wait, slow down, you’re so—” but you just squeeze tighter and it’s over.
his hips twitch, stutter, and then he’s cumming in hot, desperate spurts all over your chest, your collarbones, a drop catching your chin. the noise he makes is almost painful.
and then comes the aftermath where he can’t even open his eyes, face burning red, mumbling, “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, you just looked too good, i couldn’t stop, fuck—”
and you just gather a little bit off your skin with your thumb and suck it clean while he peeks through his fingers and whines. dick twisting.
tell him it’s cute. tell him you wanna do it again. he’ll bury his face in your neck, mumble that you’re gonna kill him, but he’s already grinding soft against your thigh.
he’s just so pathetically in love with you it makes him pop like a teenager. that’s all.
LOSER KÖNIG OUGHHHHHH I WONT THAT MAN BADLYYYYYYYYY SOB
Loser!König who’s too embarrassed to have sex with you. he gets red from the neck up at just the thought, let alone when you come on to him. he knows you wouldn’t complain about him, he’s eager for your praise, but his nerves always get the better of him. it’s worse that you know, never pushing but teasing with a grin on your lips every now and then. you know he adores you, loves you with his whole heart, and you’ll happily wait for him to give you the okay. still, the way his ears burn and sweat dots his forehead makes your heart squeeze
Loser!König who works up the courage to let you use his thigh to get off mid make-out. kissing you already had him twitchy, but letting you grind against him? he can’t help the muffled whimpers and lilting whines that leave his spit-slick lips. his large, rough hands don’t know where to go, hesitating to grab your waist, awkwardly held up in the air ghosting your sides. painfully hard, his hips uselessly buck as you ride him. he doesn’t see the way your eyes gleam as he comes in his pants, eyes screwed shut because your knee barely grazed his bulge
Loser!König who’s absolutely taken by his tall wife. standing side-by-side? even looking up a centimeter, if not more, to meet your eyes has him dizzy. don’t get him started on heels or platforms, be it little kitten heels or something more chunky his heart rate skyrockets seeing you surpass his height even more. gaze smitten, he’ll look up at you in a daze while listening to you talk, eyes half-lidded with adoration. nothing makes him happier than offering you a massage after a long day if your joints and back hurt, warm, rough hands thoroughly kneading at you. good luck getting him off while he insists your hips and lower back need extra attention, trust him Schatzi
loser könig who snaps pictures of his sweet sleepy roommate…
there’s a thrum, heart beating so violently, he hears it run through the shell of his ears. he can feel his pulse prick in his eyelids, pretty blue eyes fluttering as nervousness clogs his senses, but something stronger drowns them. excitement.
the tips of his ears prick up, gently. just ever so slightly at the sound of your soft breaths. you’re tucked beneath your fluffy, plush duvet, body rolled over to its side as you snore softly. perfect.
his footfalls are silent, just a barely audible thud over the carpet as he brings himself to the side of your bed. he’s just barely a silhouette amongst the darkness, the curves of his body hidden by the shroud of darkness blanketing the two of you.
it’s then when his fingers find the edge of your duvet, they pinch, lip catching beneath his teeth to fight the urge to pounce. it’s this unexplainable feeling, nervous system so worked up that he can feel the muscles in his body pull taut, feel the way he wants to go absolutely animalistic. but he doesn’t, no, no.
he peels the duvet away from your body, pupils bouncing blown as your body reveals. you’re in a tank top, plush tits smooshed to one another. he can see the faint peachiness of your soft nipples beneath the white, tank top too flimsy to cover much of anything.
and then he pulls the duvet further, and his poor cock jumps at the site. your panties. they caress the pretty roundness of your bum, hollowing at the dip of your hip. there’s a delicate trim of lace along the top, just tight enough to cause your skin to swell and dimple around the waistband.
his once pricked ears flatten back down, eyes steady on your lower half as he slowly reaches out. he’s thankful for all the years of training, his movements quieter than air itself.
and then his pointer finger hooks, hooks beneath your panties and he’s pulling. pulling them up tight until your once bikini cut tapers to a thong. and his chin cocks over, eyes reveling in the way your sweet pussy strains up against the fabric, reveling in the way your thighs tighten themselves up at the pressure.
he smoothes his middle finger down the slit of your cunt, pressing down just ever so slightly on the dip, pushing just enough to feel the fluttering opening of you, so desperate to just be filled. so desperate for him. and he’s the same, so desperate to shove himself into you, to spear, to split you wide open.
but not tonight. no. he came for one thing. a picture. and that’s when the flash illuminates.
Summary: You were offered a deployment in Alaska, and nothing was holding you back from accepting.
Warnings/tags: minors DNI, fem!reader, no use of y/n, cussing, conflicted feelings, English is not my first language.
A/N: this gained much more attention than I expected, now I feel very responsible for this series haha, thank you guys for all the support!!
Pt.1 ->
•❄︎•❄︎•❄︎•❄︎•❄︎•❄︎•❄︎•❄︎•❄︎•❄︎•❄︎•❄︎•❄︎•❄︎•❄︎•❄︎•
3 months later...
The morning dawned sunny. You trudged through the uncleared snowdrifts at the entrance to the residential block. The thermometer on the door read a balmy -35°C. Bending your numb, mittened fingers, you hesitated, searching for your pass in the numerous pockets of the thermal suit. You sighed heavily at the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps behind you. A hand reached over your shoulder and unlocked the door with it's own keycard.
"What's taking you so long?! It's cold like a grave out here," Horangi hopped from foot to foot, theatrically rubbing his hands.
The warmth inside the base welcomed your bodies, tired from the night's patrol. You unfastened belts, clasps, and buttons as you walked. It had taken you a while to get used to the extra layers of clothes, but in this bitter cold you had to accept the circumstances.
Horangi hid behind the screen in the supply room, nearly smashing his face on the floor as he tried to pull his leg out of puffy pants.
"Don't peek! I know you will stare".
"Just like you stared at Nikto's ass in the gym last morning?"
"Appreciating a nice ass isn't a crime," he winked.
"I smell some hypocrisy here," you said with a shit-eating grin that matched his. "Pretty sure it is in 66+ countries, though."
"Don't tell my momma I'm a criminal, doll. It'll break her fragile heart."
"Right, like she doesn't know the Korean mafia is looking for you."
After you changed into regular clothes and packed the equipment, your legs carried you to the cafeteria. The base's layout also required some adjustment: the establishment consisted of a system of long corridors, mostly underground, huge barns filled with advanced technology, warehouses with endless stacks of boxes, and technical rooms you were off-limits to. The living quarters were also different from those of Task Force. More modern, or simply less lived-in. Simple small rooms, each with two or three people, were neat and unusually quiet.
Konig met you in the hallway near the mess hall. This had become a habit, ever since you were paired with Horangi, you'd become part of an unspoken trio. It had been fairly easy to integrate into the new team, but these two unexpectedly became your rock.
"Alles good?" Konig pushed himself off the wall, rising to his full gigantic height. You had to tilt your head back every time you looked him in the eyes. Although, you noticed, any eye contact with him lasted no more than two seconds.
"As good as it can be when Kim is filling my ears with shit all morning," you rolled up your sleeves at the entrance to the cafeteria. A row of small washbasins with soap dispensers stood in front of the tall doors. Your frozen fingers burned like fire under the lukewarm water.
"I bet you got kicked out of the previous unit for your evil tongue," Horangi pouted, clearly enjoying your constant verbal competition.
"I really don't think you should be making any bets, considering it's partly the reason you're here."
"Bruh, let's not bring up my past! That's the second time in an hour!" He rolled his eyes, and you laughed. 2-0 in your favor.
Nikto had already saved you a table by the wall and was waiting, sitting in his usual stillness of a brick wall. Only his left leg twitched involuntarily under the table - a nervous tic. A steaming cup of your favorite drink awaited you in your usual spot.
"Is that for me?" You plopped down on a chair, facing Nikto, and smiled at him. "Thanks! How did you know?"
The masked man greeted you with a raspy accent, "That's not us. Konig brought it."
You stared at the Colonel who had taken the seat next to you. He studiously kept his eyes down, only nodding nonchalantly, "No problem."
Remembering your first meeting, you couldn't have imagined how close you'd become with Konig. Moving to a new place, you prepared yourself for difficulties. It's work. It's labor. It's hard. True, but you found support in those you promised yourself you'd avoid.
You haven't tried lying to yourself that you didn't miss the place you'd come to call a home. You missed your guys, you wanted to laugh until your stomach hurt with Johnny, listen to Kyle rant about how often the vending machine broke down, and lecture John about the dangers of smoking while he rolled his eyes but obediently put down his cigar. And even Simon...
"Are you even listening?"
You snapped out of your thoughts and looked up at the guys. Three pairs of eyes were studying you in their own ways.
"Sorry, just got distracted," you sipped loudly from your cup, leaning back in your chair. "Remind me, what's the point of us sitting here together if I'm the only one who eats?" You raised an eyebrow, and the others exchanged thoughtful glances. Nikto burst into a low, rough laugh, the sound catching you off guard with its novelty.
"Intimidated by our masks?"
"Oh, please," you yawned, dismissively waving your hand. "You're not being original with the mask thing, it's not my first rodeo."
"Oh, so we're not winning the contest," Kim stated with feigned disappointment.
You stood up from the table, replying over your shoulder at a safe distance, "Don't give up trying, kittycat."
Horangi's (translated as Tiger, not fucking kittycat!) indignant cries were music to your ears, preventing you from hearing the quick sweeping footsteps behind you. Your name sounded hesitant on Konig's lips, with a brief hesitation.
"Want to reprimand me, Colonel?" You smiled, and that seemed to disarm him for a second.
"I- no, actually, I was thinking... Are you going to sleep now?"
"A nap would be nice, yeah. Why?"
The giant hesitated, rubbing the back of his head. "Nothing, just... thank you for covering for me this shift," he cleared his throat. "Maybe I can buy you a coffee sometime?"
"You just did, didn't you?" You couldn't see his face, but something told you he was blushing.
"Ja, I mean... I, um-"
"Coffee always comes in handy," you smiled encouragingly, giving his forearm a soft squeeze. "See you later."
Konig sagged under your touch, his shoulders slumped slowly. He let out a breath he, apparently, had been holding, "See ya..."
.
.
Your limbs felt too heavy to move. With the last of your strength, you forced yourself to wash your face, shed the warm clothes, and climb under the covers. Your roommates came and went, new faces constantly flitting by, but they never stayed long. For the past few days, you'd blissfully enjoyed the quiet of the room, as long as it was just you. Outside the thick window which looked more like a porthole, a snowstorm raged.
You reached under the pillow and pulled out your phone. Fingers hovered over the screen, your breath caught, and suddenly you felt hot all over.
Simon - Missed call. Today, 6:08 a.m.
A hateful feeling of need rose in your throat. Goosebumps, whispers in the darkness, breathing in sync. No.
You pressed the call button with Johnny's photo next to it before any other organs could perform an action not processed by your brain.
"Bonnie, finally!" Less than three rings later, he picked up. "I thought ye were snowed in."
"Don't get your hopes up," you laughed hoarsely, still feeling a slight tremor in your fingers. "How is it going without me?"
"As miserable as yesterday," he replied with a theatrical sigh. His voice slightly lifted the heavy weight of melancholy from your chest.
It was during these moments of your call that thoughts crossed your mind about whether you had done the right thing by agreeing to this deployment. And although the rational, more sane part of you understood that you liked it here, you wanted to go home.
older roommate könig who the first time that he sees you enter the apartment his brain blue screens and has to remind himself to act like a normal human. he helps you with the boxes, doesn't talk much, is glad that he was still wearing his mask so you didn't have to see you blush. he was weird, yes, but rent was cheap and the place was close to your campus.
könig keeps a good distance with you, staring behind his mask, talking very little, asking enough, noticing. he knows which snacks you like and how high or low he has to put the temperature, he knows when you do your laundry and when you need someone to rant to, he is there, nodding as he fidgets with the pillow that rests over his lap.
könig who comes home late after a long workout, taking off his mask after closing the door, freezing when he hears a small gasp from the couch, you sit there staring at his face, sharp angles jaw, tall nose, buzz dirty blonde hair, a few scars all over, his cheeks go pink. "i thought you'd be asleep by now" his voice comes a bit higher than usual. "i was waiting for you... i couldn't sleep" you say back, still looking at his face, he truly is breath taking. "i'll make some tea" he says before rushing to the kitchen to die in silence.
a few months go by, könig still prefers to wear the mask around the house, sometimes you ask if he can take it off so you can look at him while you talk, he can't say no to that pretty smile. every time he looks at you blush or giggle at him, he feels guilty, nasty, he hates how he fucks his fist in the bathroom after you touched his arm. he hates how much he stains your panties; he hates how the small of your shampoo gets him hard.
but what he hates the most is that he can hear your soft moans at night, that no matter how much he tries he can't stop his hand from sliding down his sweatpants and take out his leaking length. dreaming of being the one to make you sound so pretty.
so, that night when your friend dropped you off at the apartment after a party, könig gently carries you to your bed, placing a small and soft kiss in your head, getting ready to leave until your hand grabs his. "sleep with me" you whisper, and he can't say no. his body makes the bed sink, too big for your twin sized bed. your body lays over his, your face on his chest, your legs on each side of his thigh, you can feel him poke your thigh, his uneven breaths, his big hand on your lower back. he is getting hard by just the smell of your hair, by feeling your body so close to his. "i need you" you whisper close to his jaw, and he gives in, flipping you over without effort, his big body caging you in, the bed creaks. his bulky hands rip apart your shirt, his lips crashing into yours as he moans your name. he is gentle, slow, stretches you out with his fingers, wats you out, tires you, but never puts his dick in. "i want you to be sober for that, ja?" he whispers into your ear, his leaking tip resting on your stomach.
after that night and a long talk in the morning könig becomes your personal stress relieve, taking the worries out of you with his big dick and soft kisses
He doesn't fucking sleep and it's driving you insane.
And it's not cute. No. It's 4 AM and he's still at his desk, screen glowing, and he hasn't eaten since— since when? Yesterday? The day before?
You want to throw his laptop out the fucking window.
You don't.
Because you know why he's doing this.
He's doing this for you.
The promotion. The overtime. The side projects he picks up like a stray dog dragging home scraps. The spreadsheet he updates every monthーsavings for vacation, savings for her birthday, savings for the ring, savings for the house, savings for her to never have to worry about anything ever— and you found it once, accidentally, when he forgot to close his laptop, and you cried in the bathroom for ten minutes because he's killing himself and it's your fault.
Not that he ever blame you. You know he's more likely to put a bullet in his own skull to say anything is ever your fault.
He'd just smile.
That exhausted, hollow smile and kiss your forehead and promise he'd come to bed soon and then stay up for three more hours.
Every night.
Every single fucking night.
But not tonight.
Tonight you've had enough.
He's been in there for sixteen hours.
He was in there when you left for work. He was in there when you came home. He was in there when you ate dinner alone, when you watched your show alone, when you went to bed alone, and now you're standing in the hallway in your sleep shirt with your arms crossed.
You push the door open.
He doesn't notice.
Of course he doesn't notice. He's got his noise canceling headphones on一the expensive ones you bought him for his birthday, the ones he said he didn't need but now wears like a second skull一and he's hunched over his laptop, shoulders up around his ears, left leg bouncing nervously.
There's a mug next to his elbow. Empty. There's another one on the floor. Also empty There's a protein bar wrapper unopened. He forgot to eat it. He forgot to eat.
He always forgets to eat.
You walk up behind him. He still doesn't notice. His screen is full of spreadsheets and emails and whatever the fuck he does at his job that he never complains about but is clearly eating him alive. His fingers are flying. His jaw is tight. There's a vein in his temple that's been pulsing for three weeks straight.
You put your hand on his shoulder.
He startles so hard he nearly knocks the laptop off the desk.
"Fuck一 baby—" He's ripping the headphones off, spinning in his chair, eyes wide and bloodshot and so, so guilty. "Did I wake you? I'm sorry, I was trying to be quiet, l just had to finish this one thing—"
"It's almost four in the morning."
"It's— what? No. No, it's like midnight, I just—" He checks his phone. His face falls. "...Oh."
He looks up at you with his red rimmed eyes.
"I'm sorry." he says again, quieter.
"Come to bed."
"I can't. I have toー"
"Bed."
"Just let me finish this report, it's due tomorrow and the formatting is fucked and my boss is being a dick about the projections—"
You close his laptop.
He makes a sound like a kicked puppy.
"Hey—"
"No. You're done."
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking."
He looks down at his hands. They are, in fact, shaking. He shoves them under his thighs like that'll hide it.
"I'm fine," he repeats, stubborn, stupid, infuriating.
God, he's such a liar.
He's not fine. He hasn't been fine in months. He's running on coffee and cortisol and some deeply pathological need to provide, to protect, to make sure you never want for anything even if it means grinding himself into dust. He does all the cooking. All the cleaning. All the grocery shopping, the bill paying. the appointment scheduling, the car maintenance. He won't let you touch the dishes. He physically removes your hands from the laundry basket. You tried to vacuum once and he looked so genuinely distressed you thought he might cry.
"l just want you to have a good life," he said once, when you confronted him about it. "I want to give you everything. The nice things. The expensive things. You deserve— you deserve so much, and I can't— I have to—"
He couldn't finish the sentence. His throat closed up. You held him for an hour.
That was six months ago. He's gotten worse since then.
Now he's sitting in his office chair at four in the morning, vibrating with exhaustion and the desperate, delusional belief that if he just works hard enough, he'll finally be worthy of you.
As if he isn't already. As if he hasn't been since the day you met him.
You take his face in your hands.
He freezes.
His eyes go wide and wet and immediately. instantly. all the fight drains out of him. His shoulders drop. His jaw unclenches. His breathing hitches and then slows, and he's looking up at you like you're the sun and he's been living in a cave for a thousand years.
"There you are," you murmur.
He makes a soundーa tiny, broken thing, half sigh, half whimper一and leans into your touch like a cat seeking warmth.
"Baby," he whispers, and his voice cracks on it.
"I've got you. Come on. We're going to bed."
"But the report—"
"Fuck the report."
He blinks. You never say things this... aggressive.
"Okay," he breathes. "Okay."
You take his hand and pull him to his feet. He stumbles. He actually stumbles. Your strong, capable, hyper competent boyfriend can't even stand up straight because he's so depleted. You have to hold him. And when you do, his forehead drops to your shoulder and he just... stays there. Breathing. Just breathing.
"I'm so tired," he whispers, so quiet you almost miss it.
It's the first honest thing he's said all week.
"I know, love."
"l just— I want to give you— want you to have一the necklace, the blue one, I saw you looking at it, and I've been saving, I've almost got enough, l just need to finish this project and then I can—"
"You think I want a necklace?"
"..."
"You think I want anything more than I want you alive?"
He doesn't answer. But his hand clenches in your shirt.
Fuck.
He always have to make you emotional.
"Alright, we're going to bed."
He follows you.
Of course he follows you.
In the bedroom, you sit him down on the edge of the bed. He's still in his work clothes—button down wrinkled, top two buttons undone, tie somewhere lost in the office. He looks up at you with those huge, exhausted eyes, and you can see him trying to figure out what you want, what he should be doing right now to make you happy.
You peel his shirt off. He hold out his arms to help, even now, still trying to make it easier for you. His pants come next, then his boxers.
Such a beautiful man.
Your boyfriend is such a beauty.
So lucky he's going to be your husband.
"Do you trust me?" you ask.
His brow furrows. "Of course I trust you. I trust you more than— more than anything, more than—"
"Then lie down."
He lies down.
"On your stomach."
He rolls over. Hesitates for half a secondー just confusion一and then settles onto his stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow, hands fisted loosely in the sheets.
You run your hand down his spine.
He start shaking. Full body. Like he's been electrocuted. A tiny, punched out sound escapes his throat, and his back arches into your touch before he can stop it.
"When's the last time you slept?" you ask.
"..Tuesday?"
"It's Friday."
"...Oh."
"Mmhm."
You keep stroking his back, slowy, tracing the knots in his shoulders, the tension that's been there for god knows how long. He's so tight it's like touching hot rock. He's been barely holding himself together and his body is screaming.
You lean down and kiss the back of his neck.
He sobs.
"Shh," you murmur against his skin. "I've got you. Let me take care of you. Just this once. Let me."
"I don't— I'm supposed to— you shouldn't have t一"
"You do everything for me. Let me do this for you."
He's crying now. Quietly, shamefully, face pressed into the pillow so you won't see. His shoulders are shaking and he's trying so hard to be quiet, to not be a burden, to not make this about him—
Fuck, he's such a mess.
Such a beautiful mess.
He's lying there naked and trembling and so vulnerable it gives you butterflies.
"Good boy." you whisper.
He whimpers. Actually whimpers. Like a fucking dog.
You reach for the drawer in the nightstand. The one he never opens because he's too busy taking care of you to even think about sex.
He hears the click of the lube cap and his breath catches.
"Baby—?"
"Shh. You're going to let me do this. You're going to let me take the stress out of you. And then you're going to sleep. Understand?"
"...Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes— yes, I understand— please—"
Please. There it is. The word he never says because he's too busy being the provider, the protector, the one who never needs anything.
You slick your fingers and then your strap一the one you bought specifically for this, for him, because you knew this day was coming, knew he'd eventually run himself into the ground and need someone to pull him back out.
Or maybe you just wanted to fuck him. But that's not important right now.
He's so tight. Damn, he's so tight.
Your first finger slides in and he gasps, back arching, hands fisting in the sheets.
"Breathe," you remind him.
He breathes. Shaky. Wet. Still crying a little.
"You're doing so well."
Another whimper.
You work him open slowly一so slowly. Because he deserves it, deserves gentleness, deserves to be handled like something precious instead of a machine that just runs and runs and runs.
He's making sounds you've never heard from him before. Little broken moans. Desperate, needy sounds. His hips are twitching, pushing back against your fingers, and he's babbling into the pillow.
"please—"
"I love you ughh—"
"Ahh fuck don't stop—"
By the time you're three fingers deep, he's a mess. Tears and pre cum and a flush that goes all the way down his chest. He's stopped trying to be quiet. He's just making noise—open mouthed, broken, gorgeous noise.
"Ready?" you ask.
"Uh-huh?"
He looks confused. So out of it already.
How cute :)
You position yourself behind him. Press in.
He keens.
A high, desperate sound that goes straight to your own core (of course you're wet, but tonight is just about him)一and his whole body goes taut for one second before it melts. All the tension, all the stress, all the months of holding himself together—it all dissolves as you push deeper.
"Oh— oh fuck— baby—"
You start to move. Slow at first. Letting him feel every inch of it, letting him adjust, letting him remember what it feels like to be taken care of instead of taking care of.
His hands are white knuckled in the sheets. His face is pressed into the pillow, mouth open, tears and drool soaking the fabric. He's moaning your name over and over like a prayer.
Y/n. Y/n. Y/n.
So hot.
"You're so good." you tell him, picking up the pace. "You're so good to me. You work so hard. You take such good care of me. Now let me take care of you."
He sobs again. Nodding frantically into the pillow. His hips are pushing back to meet your thrusts now, desperate and uncontrollably, and he's so hard it's leaking onto the sheets but he hasn't even touched himself, hasn't even tried. He's just letting you use him, letting you fuck the stress right out of his body.
"Let go. I've got you."
He comes with a cry of your name. Ropes of it, hot and thick, painting the sheets under him. His whole body clenches around you一around the strap, around this moment, around the feeling of finally, finally letting someone else hold the weight.
You fuck him through it. Gentle. Lovingly. Until the last tremor runs through him and he goes completely limp.
And thenー finallyー he passes out.
Just like that. Face down on the bed, tears still wet on his cheeks, body finally relaxed for the first time in months. He's breathing deep and even, the way he hasn't breathed in weeks, and his pulse is slow and calm under your fingers when you check his wrist.
You clean him up. He doesn't stir. You wipe the tears from his face, the cum from his stomach, the lube from his thighs. You change the sheets around him—carefully, so carefully一and pull the blanket up to his chin.
He murmurs something in his sleep. Your name, maybe. Or l love you. Or both.
You kiss his forehead.
"Sleep well, honey."
He sleeps like a baby.
When he wakes up, the sun is streaming through the windows and the bed is empty and he panics.
What the fuck??
Where are you???
Fuck, he didn't made you breakfast—
He's on his feet before his brain catches up一stumbling, sore in a way that makes him pause for half a second...
Oh, right, last night, oh god—
And then he's moving again, grabbing the first thing he finds (your robe, pink, too small, he doesn't care) and following the smell.
Bacon.
Eggs.
Pancakes.
And you, standing at the stove in your pajamas, flipping pancakes like it's the most natural thing in the world.
He stops in the doorway.
"...Baby?"
You turn around. Smile. The smile that he loves more than anything in his miserable life.
"Morning, sleepyhead. Sit down. Breakfast is almost ready."
"But I— you— I always—"
"Yeah. I know. Today it's me. Sit."
He sits at the kitchen table and watch you cook.
He's confused. He's wearing your robe. He's sore. He doesn't know what the fuck is going on.
You set a plate in front of him. Pancakes. Bacon. Eggs over easy, just the way he likes them. A glass of orange juice. A cup of coffee—JUST ONE— fixed exactly the way he takes it.
He just... stares at it.
"lt's not going to eat itself."
"I—" His voice breaks. He tries again. "You made me breakfast."
"I did."
"But I always make you breakfast."
"I know."
"I'm supposed to— you shouldn't have to—"
You immediately rush to him, take his face in your hands, and kiss him. Soft. Sweet. Syrup from your lips sticking to his.
"l love you," you say against his mouth. "l love you and you're running yourself into an early grave and I'm not going to let that happen. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to eat this breakfast. Then you're going to take a shower. Then you're going to tell me what's been going on at work. And then we're going to figure out a schedule that doesn't involve you dying of sleep deprivation. Okay?"
"But the chores—"
"We'll split them."
"The bills—"
"We'll look at them together."
"l just want to give you everything," he whispers, and his eyes are wet again, and god, he's so tired of crying but he can't seem to stop. "You deserve the world. And I can't— I can't give you anything if I stop一"
You kiss him again. Harder this time.
"You are the world, you idiot. You're my world. And I need you alive in it. So eat your pancakes."
He laughs. It's wet and snotty and a little hysterical.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." He picks up his fork. Looks at the pancakes—perfectly golden, just the way he taught you一and his heart just skip a beat. "But I'm doing the dishes."
"Fine."
"And tomorrow I'm making you breakfast."
"Obviously."
"And tonight..." He pauses. Cheeks flushing pink. "Tonight can we... can we do that again? The... the thing. With the..."
You raise an eyebrow. Smile.
"You want me to peg you?"
He buries his face in his hands, "Oh my god."
"Is that a yes?"
"...Yes."
"Then sure. But only if you promise to sleep at least six hours every night this week."
"l promise."
"And eat lunch."
"l promise."
"And let me do the vacuuming sometimes."
"...I'll think about it."
You laugh and ruffle his hair and he leans into your touch like a starving man offered bread.
He's still a mess. But he's eating. He's sleeping. He's sitting at the table in your too small pink robe with syrup on his chin and a soreness in his body that's painful in a good way.
And when you sit down across from him with your own plate and your own coffee and your own smile, he looks at you like you're a miracle.
"Thank you," he says.
"For what?"
"For..." All of it. For not leaving him even when he's disgusting. "Everything."
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