my gosh, i love waking up to ____ stared following yunahism! like ohemgee you saw my account and thought i was interesting enough to wanna see again…? blush emoji even though i can’t. i love all my new mutuals, giddy emoji.
when i don’t feel like finishing my food, i like to pretend i’m in a survival show and we’re assigned to eat a gross meal and i’m the brave teammate and i go first and finish the whole plate so we win. i even do pretend gagging.
niki is so fine bc me personally, i would not let him get a breather. pussy will be the only thing he sees and tastes morning, noon, evening and night. i WOULD NOT get off that face and dih till he is at the brink of passing out.
the moment he opens his eyes in the morning? PUSSY.
he goes to pee? PUSSY.
he drinks water? PUSSY.
he wants to take a nap? too bad PUSSY.
he goes to grab himself a meal? that meal is PUSSY
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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