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leclercandcozy · 20 days ago

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Monaco’s Busiest Flower Shop ╰┈➤ LN4

summary: when lando norris keeps coming into your flower shop, you’re determined to figure out why he needs that many orders.

[word count] 6.1k

a/n: hello!!! and welcome to my very first formula one fic 🙌🏻 I’ve been writing nhl fics for years now and i’ve decided it’s finally time to dip my toe into some new media! hope any devoted f1 readers and/or my previous followers take their time to check this out.

🎶 say you love me by fleetwood mac, message in a bottle by taylor swift + don’t dream it’s over by crowded house

lando norris has never been too fond about the smell of flowers.

it's not that there's anything wrong with the floral scent—it's just definitely, absolutely not for him. there's something about that light, almost crisp musty smell that rubs lando the wrong way.

or maybe it's perhaps what he associates with those smells. red roses? his primary school principal who very clearly had it out for lando. daisies? the single flower he picked for his 1st grade crush, and she threw the petals back in his face as some sort of childish rejection. lilies? his late grandmothers funeral. morbid, yes, but true.

so to say he was dreading walking into this monaco floral shop was an understatement. it's painted a pastel peach, windowsills just a few shades darker so that they stand out from the brick. not that you can really see them though, not with the abundance of flowers in the hanging window baskets.

lando has already passed the store twice in procrastination. the first time he claimed he needed a coffee from the cafe across the street—because if he had to go in a flower shop, he at least needed some caffeine to serve as a pick me up while he did so.

the second time—okay, well, the second time he didn't have a valid excuse. lando simply just kept trucking by like the peach coloured brick wasn't flashing at him. taunting him with its happy colour and girly smell.

it's just...it's his elderly neighbours birthday. his elderly neighbour who he adores and who always bakes cookies for him, and lando won't be home to wish her well because of traveling. and she loves flowers. lando knows this because they're always on her counter, and he can smell peonies on her clothes anytime she stops by for milk, pinching lando's cheek while she calls him adorable.

so he knows he has to do this. his displeasure towards the arrangements be damned. lando tells himself to man the hell up and do this one nice thing for the sweet woman across the hall.

lando inhales strongly, collecting as much monaco sea air as possible before entering the shop. the wooden door creaks as he pushes it open, and instantly lando is hit with a million pollen and petal particles.

"fuckin' hell." he mumbles to himself, voice barley audible as his green eyes trail around the shop. with something similar to a grimace on his face, lando takes in the overgrown space. flowers fill every available space, making it almost impossible for a normal folk—or clueless folk—like him to navigate through.

lando takes a step, and the floorboards groan under his weight, giving away how worn and aged this place is. it's been a flower shop for as long as lando has lived in monaco, and for a moment, he lets himself wonder how long before too. surely, years based on the way that the smell so practically oozing from the light blue striped wallpaper.

wallpaper he can barley see, mind you, due to the wall of roses.

"is there something I can help you find?"

lando blinks, head snapping away from a bright yellow bundle of...some kind of flower, and towards the direction of your voice.

there's a section of teal counter, an old fashioned register and company cards sitting on top, and that's where you are. you've got on a apron that's the same peach colour as the bricks outside. and your hair’s pulled back in an effortless kind of way, and lando already knows that you smell like the flowers all around.

he swallows roughly and blinks again.

you smile, almost in amusement, and that's when he realizes that he's been stroking a flower petal like a muppet. "sorry, yeah, actually."

lando weaves through the various display tables until he's at the counter. up close, he's able to get a proper look at you, and his mouth goes dry at the sight. you're ridiculously beautiful. like other worldly kind of beautiful that would make even the most charismatic and charming men fall to their knees.

also known as him.

lando pushes through the sudden school boy nerves that are threatening to climb up his throat, sending you a boyish—yet confident—grin. "I want to send my neighbour flowers for her birthday, but i've got no clue about flowers."

you hum, "okay, well, do you know what kind of flowers she likes?"

he sends you a sheepish look, palms flat on the counter top. "all of them."

you giggle and lando swears he could faint at the sound.

"all of them?"

"yeah," he nods, "I swear that lady is like a bloody flower enthusiast. she's always got them on her island." lando pauses, a smile pulling at his lips, "and her windowsill. and her balcony. and her bedroom surely."

your fingers drum along the counter in thought. lando notes that your nails are painted a pink. it reminds him of the monaco sunset.

"and how old is said neighbour."

he blows out a breath and then grins cheekily, "elderly."

"i'd go with something classic," you tell him after a moment. you reach for a binder tucked between the register and the wall. it's blue and decorated with uniformed stickers and sharpie notes. you flip it open, swiping through a few sheets.

you point to a flower lando has never heard of, but he leans in and looks like he understands anyways. maybe—just a possibility—he was doing it so he could be closer to you. and yup, you smell like a flower field.

"i'd also throw some carnation in there. it's a classic flower for a piece. and beautiful."

lando's eyes dart away from the book and meet yours. they're swimming with passion and eagerness. it's cute, and lando can't help but to smile like a lunatic—teeth on full display. "I trust you, do whatever you think will make her happy."

your smile widens, "what's your budget."

he purses his lips. he hasn't really even thought about it. how much do flowers even cost? a beat passes, "don't have one."

your eyes widen briefly before you manage to control yourself. you're well aware that monaco is full of rich and wealthy people—even if you're not familiar with every single face that walks into your shop—but hearing those words never fails to suprise you.

flowers are expensive, and someone as clueless about flowers as the man in front of you seems to be, would have no idea.

"okay, that's great." you grab a form from behind the counter and then reach for a pen. you click the top a few times, the sound audible over the radio playing softly in the background. "when do you want the flowers to arrive?"

he tells you the date and you neatly write it down.

"and what's the name of the recipient?"

repeat.

"and the name of the sender?" you question after jotting down the previous answer. your eyes flicker up towards his green ones, a hint of personal curiosity in your gaze.

he takes his bottom lip between his teeth in an attempt to contain the embarrassing grin wanting to take over his face. "lando."

"lando." you repeat.

"and your name?"

the pen in your hand almost falls away, your eyes quickly finding his once more. "y/n." you tell him timidly, warmth collecting high on your cheeks as he repeats your name, slowly, like he's testing out how it sounds.

his eyes don't stray from yours, gaze tense and fond in a way that makes you positively squirm. you clear your throat, ball tip of the pen hitting the paper once more. "and the address?"

lando recites his neighbours address with ease, and you write down it just as quick. you question him on a few more basic things; phone number for contact purposes, if he’d like a card with the arrangement, and if so what he’d like to say, and you even asked him what day he’d prefer for delivery.

he asks if you do the deliveries, and you get warm again—lando wants to bathe in the pink of your cheeks. you tell him you have a driver who does it for you.

after he signs his name on the form, you take it back from him, moving towards the register between you. it’s silent for moment while you presumably log in, nails tapping rhythmically on the screen while you do so.

“can't make her birthday?”

your question has lando momentarily confused, brows pulled tight. it’s only when you raise an eyebrow in silent amusement that lando remembers who he’s getting the arrangement for—and why he’s here in the first place.

“oh, right,” he swallows roughly, “no I can't, i'm traveling for work.”

you hum and shoot him a curious glance. “what do you do for work?”

he laughs once and breathy, eyes falling down towards the floorboards for a few moments. once he meets your gaze again, he notes that you haven’t look away—and you look more intrigued than before.

lando grins, “you're not going to believe me if I tell you.”

“are you putting on some kind of mysterious act?” your fingers halt on the screen—hovering over the baby breath button—and you squint hesitantly.

“depends?” he hisses through his teeth, “is it working?”

“I suppose so,” you breathe a sound that almost sounds like a laugh, eyes darting away before quickly darting back to his. “i'm definitely curious now.”

“wasn't before?”

you kiss your teeth to keep a fond smile from blossoming on your face. you’ve dealt with flirty customers before, obviously, but there’s something about the curly haired, gap toothed smiley one in front of you now that has you actually flustered.

you decide to not answer right away, clicking a few more flowers on your computer for the order print. finally, after what feels like an eternity for lando, you answer.

“you're cheeky,” you muse.

he’s still grinning. “it's a part of my charm.”

you bark a laugh, “I bet it is.”

the door creaks open, breaking whatever trance the both of you had been in. a customer, a few years older than you, walks in causally—moving towards some daffodils you’d potted this morning.

you clear your throat, looking away from lando’s green gaze, and back towards the till. he watches you click a few more buttons and type some codes in—and then the printer is whirling to life.

the customer picks a bouquet and moves to wait behind lando.

his heart pings at the time being interrupted.

“i'll just take your card information then,” you say promptly, “my machine takes a picture of it for billing, if that’s okay with you?”

lando slides his credit card over the counter, “yeah, sure. thank you.” he watches as you carefully take his card—like it’s made of gold—and place it on some fancy machine lando couldn’t even attempt to dissect. it makes a few clicking sounds, presumably capturing the information, and then you pass it back to him.

“all right, you're all set.” your fingers brush his when lando takes it back.

“I appreciate this.” lando shoots a glance over his shoulder once the guy starts impatiently tapping his foot. and look at that—he’s suddenly got the urge to punch out your next customer!! without hesitation, lando looks back at you, continuing like nothing. “I think I would've been completely lost without you.”

you grin, smoothing down the front of your apron like a nervous habit. “we'll, it is my job.”

“you're good at it,” he compliments with an earnest smirk.

it makes you laugh awkwardly, absentmindedly reaching out to straighten up the stack of local business pamphlets. you keep them there for weddings as it helps local venues get recognition. “i'm not sure one could really be good at taking information for a floral arrangement,” you mumble modestly.

“well I think you're great.” lando answers quickly.

the guy behind him clears his throat and lando has to stop his eyes from rolling to the back of his skull.

you smile politely and lando, despite the annoyance for the douche waiting in line, follows suit, his own toothy grin reappearing. “i'll be seeing you, y/n.”

—

almost a month passes before you see lando again. despite the hopes of him walking back through the front door of your flower shop again, you didn’t believe the day would come.

but here he is, clad in a branded sweatshirt and shorts with his curly hair all unruly like he’s been running his fingers through it on the way over.

lando has some dignity, so he pretends to look very interested in the rose display before letting his eyes wander in search of you. yeah well, that whole self dignity thing lasts 20 seconds before his sights are set on you in your peach apron.

you can’t help but grin once you feel his gaze land upon you. like him, you also wanted to seem casual, so as soon as you realized it was him walking through your door, you reached for a book, and flipped it open to a random page in some attempt to appear scholarly.

you can’t even remember if this book is yours or the delivery guys.

“back for more flowers?” you ask, eyes flickering up to his approaching figure.

lando grins, “yeah.” no.

you close the book and put it back in the half dusty corner you found it. “the neighbour again?” you question, placing your palms flat against the counter.

he rubs the back of his neck. “not this time, but she loved them so much—sent me cookies as a thank you and everything.”

“i'm offended that you didn't bring me one,” you tease him quickly and easily, making lando’s stomach do that funny drop you get on a carnival ride.

you log into the register and lando laughs, answering you with an impressed raise to his eyebrows, “they barley lasted 10 minutes.”

you snicker at that. opening up a new order form in his file, you ask—“so who are these ones for?”

lando almost curses aloud. he really hadn’t thought this far ahead. when he woke up this morning he had a plan. he really did. despite the jet lag he’s still battling from three weeks of consistent travel paired with inconsistent sleep, lando was going to get up early and come visit your shop.

he was going to turn on his natural flirtatious side and ask you to dinner or something just as chivalrous—perhaps the new cocktail lounge that opened up just down the street from your shop.

but then you asked him with a pretty smile if he was back for more flowers and he just said yes without a second to process the question.

you wait patiently, fingers still—and now a bit longer and painted a sky blue—for his answer. an answer that’s taking a suspiciously long time for a person who supposedly came in here to but flowers.

lando clears his throat, “my...sister.”

“your sister?”

“yeah,” he nods, “it's her graduation.” she’s only in second year at uni, you idiot.

your eyebrows draw together with confusion.“in august?”

lando rubs along the back of his tanned neck once more, and you pick up that it must be an anxious habit. “yeah,” he winces, eyes trickling back to yours from where they briefly settled on the worn wood beneath his feet. “i'm a little late.”

“alright well,” you exhale, bringing out that same binder from last time. “let's do something simple, and something that says sorry for the late arrangement.” your teasing tone has lando smiling softly. you don’t catch it, too busy flipping through the pages in search of the flower you’d thought of it your head.

“yeah,” he breathes, “sounds great.”

you make a little trumpet noise when you find the poppies, letting lando choose between the variety of colours. he picks orange, says it’s his favourite, and you think that, oddly enough, it suits him.

you repeat the same process as before, and when you ask for a delivery address, lando just spews out his own. it’s not like you’d know anyways—besides, he can’t tell you that his sister actually lives in the UK and will not be receiving these flowers period.

so yeah, his address will do.

“okay, these will only take me 20 minutes tops. would you prefer delivery again? or would you like me to text you when they’re done and you can come pick them up?”

lando stutters for a moment, the excitement that settles in his chest at the thought of seeing you again today almost too much for him to bear. “I’ll come back, if that’s okay with you?”

you grin with half amusement, “i’m definitely okay with that.” you print the order form and grab it from the printer once it’s finished up. “I’ll text your number on file when they’re done.”

and before he can’t say anything else, lando just smiles dreamily, “please.”

when you do text him 30 minutes later, he returns to the shop almost immediately after, a cheeky grin on his face and two takeaway cups of coffee in his hands, you can’t help but to accept one. it takes him another 20 minutes before he leaves again, both of you too distracted with learning about one another to notice the passing time.

—

a week and many daydreams of lando walking through the front door of the store later, does he actually walk into the shop. he's gotten a hair cut since the last time you saw him. it's neater, but still got that messy look that makes him look like the main love interest in a early 2000s rom com.

lando’s got a container in one hand and a smile on his face. unlike last time, he doesn’t even glance at the flowers, and instead makes a beeline right for you.

you’re fussing over some sunflowers that are beginning to wilt in a large mosaic vase set out in front of the large window—giving the shop most of the sunlight you crave.

“you're back,” you note, eyes closing in to the tupperware in his large hand. “and you've got...are those cookies?” you turn away from the flowers, gently crossing your arms just as lando comes to a stop.

he grins proudly, “I saved you some this time.”

the brief conversation about homemade cookies from his elderly neighbour crosses your mind, and your eyes widen in recognition. “you didn't need to do that,” you scold kindly, not yet taking the container lando is gesturing out to you. “I was only playing,” you admit shyly.

“it's no big deal,” he shrugs, smile growing once you timidly take the clear container that holds four cookies. “plus, it's a thank you for all your help.”

“well,” you laugh once as you walk towards the counter, placing the cookies down next to the register before turning back to lando. he’s not near the sunflowers like you expected. no, he’s followed you to the counter.

you smile shyly, “thank you for the treat.” lando runs his hand over his sweatshirt—it’s a chiller morning in monaco, oddly enough—and mumbles some kind of compliment.

your cheeks heat anyways. “have you only come here to bring me these?” you squint inquisitively after a beat passes, eyeing lando.

“what?” his voice cracks embarrassingly, leaving him no choice but to awkwardly clear his throat. “no.” yes. “I had to be in the area.” no he really didn’t. “met up with a friend for coffee,” oh did he now? “told him all about your shop.”

his awful lies are all worth it the second an appreciative look flashes over your face. “did you?”

“I did,” lando swallows roughly and shoves his hands into his pockets. “he said he'd have to check it out.”

your lips part, but the shrill noise of the mint green phone attached to the wall ringing stops whatever words you planned to say. you look away from the phone and back to lando, sending him a guilty smile. “duty calls. excuse me.”

he watches you round behind the counter and answer the phone. lando’s not too sure why he sticks around for the phone call to finish up. maybe it’s the way he’s too entranced watching you in your element to leave, or maybe because he still hasn’t asked you out, and was planning to do it today before the phone started to ring. lando’s not quite sure.

regardless, he’s still there once you’ve finished the call, and you send him a look. “everything okay?”

lando blinks, “I also came because I need another flower arrangement.” he wonders if you can actually smell the bullshit coming form his mouth.

“oh!” you emote, “really?”

“yeah, my race engineer is getting married.” no lando, actually, your race engineer has been married for 10 years.

your eyes flash, “race engineer huh? you work with cars?” you question while bringing up his file.

“something like that.”

you smile, nodding your head slowly like you don’t quite believe him. lando almost wants to shrink in on himself and hide from your gaze—but that means he wouldn’t be able to look at you, and that sounds downright dreadful.

“alright, well, let me get something together then.”

—

four days before lando needs to leave for the british grand prix, he's walking back through the front door of the peach painted brick building.

it's not like you were expecting him or anything, but you're not surprised when the door creaks open and you catch sight of a familiar head of curls. what does surprise you though is the two men he's with—you presume they are his friends.

your curious and intrigued eyes catch lando's. despite the smile he sends your way, you can see something that looks a lot like embarrassment coupled with annoyance twisted within his expression.

his friends though? they couldn't look further from annoyed if they tried. both tall men who look around lando's age, scan your overgrown floral shop with wide eyes and amused grins.

"hello." you swallow thickly as their gazes land on you. your body naturally wants to freeze in place, especially when lando's friends somehow grow more smug and excited at the sight of you.

"y/n, hi." lando speaks first, his greeting coming out in one long breathe of relief—like physically seeing you now is allowing him to finally exhale.

"hello," the one who previously stood on lando's left greets you, a teasing glint in his eyes that makes you heat up. you note that he's got a similar accent to lando. the guy leans against the counter—not intimidating, but rather casual—"so, you own this place, right? do your own arrangements?"

"I do," you nod, already itching to reach for your binder just to look busy. your eyes narrow, "do you need an arrangement?"

"I actually do," he says, inspecting one of your business cards next to the register. his eyes flicker back to yours, "it's my girlfriend and I's anniversary, so i'd like to get a few big arrangements."

the other friend walks up next to the other one, a wide smile of his face. he's got the same accent—you wonder if they all grew up together. "lando hasn't stopped talking about you and this place for weeks. and when george here mentioned his anniversary, we just knew we had to come see what all the hype was about."

your eyes flicker towards lando, who has now come to stand beside his two friends. lando's cheeks heat and his eyes briefly meet the floor like they've done many times in your shop.

"is that so?" you ask the nameless friend, a slight teasing tone to your voice that has lando grinning automatically. when he looks back up, his eyes naturally lock with yours.

he sends you a meek smile and it doesn't go unnoticed by his friends, the two giving one another a look as you return the gesture.

"don't listen to these muppets," lando grumbles, "they've been in one too many crashes."

you let out a quiet laugh, fiddling with the pocket of your peach apron. you force your eyes away from lando's familiar ones and back to george—or so you think the other one called him. "I've got a form to go over with you, if you'd actually like to place an order."

george smiles appropriately, "yes, thank you." like lando has seen you do before, you go through the entire process with george in a quick yet efficient manner, taking down his information and helping him pick out the florals for the two arrangements george plans on having delivered in two weeks time.

once it's all done and you've printed the order form, you turn your gaze back on lando, a half hidden smile instantly pulling on his lips as you do. "is there anything else I can help you guys with today?"

"i'm okay, thank you," his other friend grins and extends his large hand to you over the counter, "i'm alex."

you take his hand delicately and lando hates how a pang of jealousy hits his chest. alex is literally in a relationship you muppet. "y/n."

the process repeats with george, who makes some kind of lame joke that works in making you laugh in amusement. lando naturally shifts, practically shoving george out of the way so that he's the one closest to you instead.

"lando." you greet with a knowing smile, "are you getting anything today?"

"not today-"

alex interrupts before lando can continue further. "im sure he'll be back soon enough to place an order though," he knocks his shoulder into lando's teasingly, "he really loves your place."

"oh yeah, he really—"

"alright," lando smothers whatever annoying thing george was planning to add on to alex's comment. he sends both of his friends a warning look, "I'll meet you guys outside, yeah?"

the two of them snicker—alex even tosses his hands up in a mock surrender—while the two of them make their way back through the flower shop and in the direction of the door. before the door creaks back open to reveal the monaco skyline, both alex and george send you enthusiastic departures, followed by inaudible whispers and laughter.

silence fills the store once more. lando's face is still tinged red in a flustered and slightly embarrassed way, and it has a little giggle slipping from your lips.

lando's lips turn upwards immediately. "I'm sorry about them, again," he retorted his earlier apology. "they insisted on coming with me when I mentioned stopping by tonight."

well, not exactly the truth. in all honesty, george and alex had both grown sick and tired of hearing lando talk about you and your shop—constantly—and forced lando to bring them so they could see what all the fuss was about. on the way over to your shop, lando had made his friends promise to behave and not scare you away—because that's the last thing he needed.

but then they walked in, saw why lando was so fond of you, and all promises of good behaviour were left at the door.

"they're fine," you reassure truthfully, a small smile playing on your lips. "so there's really nothing for you today?"

lando ponders for a moment, lips pursed while his eyes dart around the shop. right next to the counter you've got a selection of pre-made arrangements, easy for grab and gos for last minute birthday dinners, and early morning stops. lando picks the one with the most orange and places it on the counter between you.

"i'll take these, actually."

your grin widens and in an attempt to conceal it, you duck your head, busying yourself with wrapping them in paper for departure.

after a beat, your gaze finds his once again, except this time, its swimming with hesitation and a pile of curiosity. you clear your throat, finishing the last fold on the arrangement, "so...are these for your girlfriend?"

lando's ears pick up the distaste and envy that laces your question, and his urge to smooth over the situation before you get the wrong idea comes automatically. "no,” he huffs, eyes searching yours, “no girlfriend here. if I did have one though, i'm not sure she'd appreciate how often I visit the nice pretty girl at the flower shop."

your eyes widen, “oh-wha-me?”

lando laughs softly while your shellshocked expression doesn’t waver. he palms the back of his neck, a teasing tinge to his tone. “you are the only one who works here, right?

“yes,” you breathe.

“then yes,” lando’s grin widens. “you.”

like clockwork, you duck your chin to hide your face and lando blushes—the two of you very much resembling nervous primary school children with crushes. we’ll, actually, that’s exactly what it feels like. and clearly, according to alex and george, it what it looks like as well.

lando pays for the orange flowers, and when you ask again who they’re for (this time), he just says one word: you.

lets just say, you keep them in the back office and grin like a manic anytime you go in there and catch sight of them.

—

after the whole buying flowers and gifting them to you exchange that happened two months ago, you never really expected to see lando again. well correction—you expected to see him, but you didn't expect him to keep buying arrangements.

oh, but did you ever assume incorrectly. sometimes it was twice a week he'd walk into your shop, a shy yet confident look to him while he ordered an arrangement for some random event—team dinners, galas or his mothers retirement party.

sometimes you wouldn't see him for three weeks. you didn't ask about his whereabouts—assuming he travels for work—but everytime without fail, his first day back in monaco, he'd come see you. smiling and with a pep in his step, always telling you in a quiet, intimate way that he missed you.

but that's all he says. much to your dismay, lando never asks you out. not to coffee or dinner or anything in between. it's gut wrenching, sure, and then you start overthinking every single interaction with lando. were you misreading the situation?

but then he'd come back all flirty and telling you he missed the smell of the shop and you'd think otherwise. plus, he keeps buying damn flowers.

so today when lando walks into your shop, you're determined to figure it all out—the flirting and the flowers and everything else that gets your heart thumping and mind wandering.

he waltzes right up to the counter that separates you from the rest of the shop, a cheeky smile on his face as he leans on top the counter with his elbows.

you raise a brow, “another arrangement?”

“you guessed it,” he smirks boyishly up at you.

you don’t move to grab the binder like you usually would, and that instantly has lando’s thick eyebrows furrowing. you continue to stare down at him, unamused. “who are these flowers for?”

lando blinks, stuttering while he tries to formulate some kind of plausible response. “ummmm...oscar.”

“who's oscar?”

“my friend.”

you make a noise, eyes narrowing in utter disbelief. “does oscar typically want flowers?”

much to your surprise, lando just shrugs a shoulder, and with his lips pursed, he tells you—“don't really know.”

you don’t answer. not right away. it’s now that you grab the sticker covered binder full of pages upon pages of different flowers, carefully flickering it open so that the cracked spine doesn’t obtain any further damage. you seem very calm, and that makes lando feel the complete opposite.

there’s something your eyes that has lando narrowing his gaze on you. you don’t look at him while you quickly and quietly fill out the information—after all, you’ve filled out enough of these for lando that you’ve got his damn phone number memorized.

finally, you turn your attention back to him. “and delivery adress?”

and it’s then. when lando easily recites that same adress he’s given you more times than you can count, does your curiosity come to a tilt. you softly drop the pen, “i've got a question lando.”

“yes?”

you kiss your teeth, “how come every single arrangement after the first one is being delivered to the same address?”

lando blinks a few times. swallows roughly twice. and then he lets out an awkward chuckle, finger absentmindedly stroking along a divet in the wood counter.

“would you believe me if I told you everyone I know all lives in the same place?” he grimaces, hopeful eyes twinkling with mischief.

your nose scrunches—half amused and half in confusion. “not too sure if i'd buy that.”

“no?”

“nope.” lando’s shoulders sag and an apologetic grin forms at your response. you let out a slow breath, crossing your arms over the apron lando has been dreaming about. he sees that peach colour everywhere now—it’s like a less than kind reminder of how badly he’s been fumbling you. for months now.

“you know you don't have to come in here and buy things all the time,” your voice is laced with masked disappointment, making lando frown. you continue softly, “it's okay if you want to just browse.”

“I don't want to browse.”

“oh?”

lando curses to himself, so softly that to you it simply sound like a heavy exhale. you wait patiently for his response, playing with your bottom lip between your teeth to keep any emotions at bay.

you watch with careful eyes as lando pushes off the counter, his back straightening. his eyes meet your again, and after a tension filled beat, he admits—“I really didn't like the smell of flowers, you know that?”

“i'm sorry to hear that,” your voice is cautious. confused. “why did you come here then?” a pause while your brain jogs with memories. “was the neighbour a real person or…?”

“shes real,” lando reassures you quickly, “and it was actually her birthday.”

“and the others?”

he takes a deep breath, and then finally, after months of months of practiced speeches in his bathroom mirror, and imagining this conversation while the country music you have playing in your shop plays through his headphones before a race, lando spews.

“my sister didn't graduate, no one was getting married and oscar is actually allergic to pollen.”

you complete idiot, he thinks. because instead of that clearing up any of your confusion—and why would it because what the hell?—lando’s words have only made your expression grow tighter. you blink, “so why'd you keep buying the flowers.”

“because of you.”

“me?”

okay, he thinks, this is it. it’s finally time.

lando’s plump lips part, “because I liked you or I still do.” he takes a deep breath, “like you.” when you don’t respond, he continues. “and I know that it's kind of crazy and i'm crazy and i disappear for weeks at a time and im flirty and have too much money to spend on floral arrangements for imaginary occasions…but I just wanted to come see you.”

“lando,” your shoulders drop, and lando’s heart does as well. is this rejection? has he been playing this weird, long game for months only to have misread the situation.

“you can kick me out,” he offers.

“no,” you shake your head softly, and the last thing lando’s sees is your shy smile before you lean over the expanse of the counter, and place a delicate kiss to his cheek. so close to the corner of his mouth that for a moment, lando’s knees go weak. “i'm not going to kick you out,” you promise as you drop back to your heels.

dazed and still reeling form the feeling of your soft mouth on his warm skin, lando can only manage to nod dumbly. “that's good.”

“and I like you too,” you grin, “and all your made up occasions.”

lando exhales with a wide smile, “that's really good.” and because he’s sure he’s finally got it right, lando takes his turn to lean over the teal painted counter, one large hand holding the side of your face while he brings his lips down to yours.

it’s not perfect in the sense of the movies, but it’s perfect for you and lando. you’re both grinning into it, making it hard to actual kiss like normal people, but somehow you still manage to capture one another’s mouths in fleeting, tender kisses.

you pull away after a few moments, a playful laugh passing through your kiss moistened lips. “you're a race car driver.”

lando blinks, forehead bumping your gently while his thumb strokes long your cheek. “huh?”

a giggle sounds between you and then your pressing another quick kiss to his mouth. “that's your job.”

his eyebrows tug down towards his noise while an amused look crosses his face. “how'd you figure it out?”

“I googled you.”

he can’t help but to dip down and steal another kiss, muttering against your mouth—“cheeky girl.”

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comatosebunny09 · 23 days ago

Text

nightcap | sylus

sum: sorry for being horny on main. just needed an excuse to write something about his voice. cw: written with femme reader in mind but no gendered terms for genitalia, phone sex, guided masturbation, voice kink, praise, pet names, 1.9k wc, influenced by @threadbearsweater and their beautiful mind, only this went in the opposite direction, mdni tracklist: roar - the boyz

The phone rings once.

“Sweetheart,” he answers, voice warmed milk and honey in your earbuds. “Miss me already?”

You huff a quiet, subdued laugh. Roll your eyes, face turned towards the ceiling. “Maybe.”

Fabric shifts on the other end. Leather squeaks. He’s probably in his office. And then, he chuckles—that wretched, deep, rolling thing that threatens to drag you out to sea.

“You’re in bed, aren’t you? Couldn’t sleep?”

You suck your lip between your teeth. Instinctively shoot up on the bed, scanning for anything that would indicate he’s watching you. You relax when you find barren walls bathed in the amber creep of the setting sun.

Are you truly that predictable?

“So what if I can’t?”

A slow breath out. A smirk curling at the end of it. More rustling. He’s leaning back. Probably with the phone held in a cruelly massive hand to his ear, body in an easy slouch, features soft, almost boyish. Only with you.

“Well, since you went through all this trouble to contact me, you must be in need of a distraction.”

Your eyes flutter shut at the disarming pitch of his voice. The crackles of fire beneath. On an exhale, your muscles uncoil.

“Or maybe I do miss you.”

The declaration hangs in the air like a spider’s web subjected to a gale.

He’s quiet.

You stiffen, throat clicking as you swallow, wondering if you’ve said the wrong thing. But then—

“You shouldn’t say things like that when I can’t be there with you.”

It’s heavy with cruel intentions, coiling around your spine, barbs rooting themselves in your vertebrae. The feeling spiders through your extremities, making them tingle.

Laughing it off, you ask, “Why not?”

A constrained breath out follows. You picture his jaws rigid. Eyes shuttered. Brows knit. Fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Because I’ve been struggling to remain focused all day without you at my side.”

Your breath hitches at that. Subtle, but he catches it. Nothing makes it past him.

Fragments of a few nights prior piece themselves together in your mind. You could never forget the texture of those hands—that voice—burned into your skin.

Your silk robe falls open, crisp air on your bared midriff. Purely coincidental. Certainly not a consequence of your hand roving down your body to settle on your fluttering stomach.

Shallow breaths unfurl towards the ceiling. “Tell me something, Sylus.” Your tone is raspy with something unmistakable.

“Hmm?” A smile there. Intrigue. “Like what, sweetheart?”

“Anything. Just…talk to me.”

The pressure around you shifts as if he’s physically manifested in your hotel room. As if he’s commanded the particles to bend and warp to accommodate him.

Tinny static prickles between you for a moment longer before another creak. The soft clank of something set down on a hard surface—maybe a drink he’d been nursing before you called.

“I can’t stop thinking about how you looked in my kitchen. In my shirt with your hips moving like that. You knew I’d come in and want to ravage you all over again, didn’t you?”

You squeeze your thighs together to ward off a pleasant pulse. You nod to the slowly settling dimness like he can see you, your breath tight.

“I should’ve bent you over that counter. Tasted you. Reminded you of who you were made for. I was too gentle with you that morning. You didn’t want gentle, did you, sweetling?”

“Sylus.” His name sprawls out like a litany. The room spins. You blink rapidly through the golden haze, trying to keep your mind afloat.

“Hmm? What’s wrong?” His voice eases into something condescending. Halfway indulgent. Doting. “Does it hurt, sweet thing?”

You release a shaky, barely-there sound, thighs squeezing and unclenching as you roll from side to side, stomach dipping beneath your palm with each labored breath out. With each flutter of sensation like a moth testing its wings for the first time.

He clicks his tongue, followed by a laugh as fine as sawdust. “I can hear you fidgeting, sweetheart. Those pretty thighs pressing together. Your fingers pulling at the sheets.”

You glance at the hand beside your head, fisting the comforter. Of course he knows. You’ve been squirming since the first syllable left his mouth. You wouldn’t put it past him to have bugged your room, either.

“I hate being away from you,” you admit around a groan, face shielded by your hand scrubbing down it.

“I know. I can’t say I care much for the distance, either. But you’re not alone. I’m right here with you. Just focus on me.”

His timbre tapers into something dangerous. Something familiar. Your stomach tightens with anticipation. You find your body taut with every flicker of sound, every breath, every rustle of clothing.

“Touch yourself for me. Just your thighs for now. Nice and slow.”

And there it is. That tender instruction. A provocation.

Face hot, you heed him as if his voice threads around your hand like his Evol, guiding it himself.

Your fingers drag along the inner span of your thighs, and your breath shudders with each scrawl of your nails. They’re not quite where you want them. Where you need them. And they’re not his. But it’s satisfactory for now. Good enough to make you tremble.

“There she is. My good girl. You’re so good when you listen.”

“Sylus—” Sharpness carried on a hiss, your hips rucking up off the mattress to hump nothing.

“Shh.” If at all possible, his voice steeps lower. Your belly swoops with it. “No need to rush, my love. Let me help you.”

You melt against the sheets once more, though the tension refuses to unthread itself. Your knees fall open, softened from the husk of his voice, fingers tip-toeing further south. Close, heat radiating from between your legs, but not close enough to smother the fire.

“Lower,” he whispers, soothes. “Move your hand lower. But not completely there. Not yet.”

You graze the inner cut of one thigh. Shiver, abdomen clenched tight.

“Tease yourself. Just like I would if I were there. I wouldn’t give you what you wanted right away. I’d make you beg. Show me how much you crave me.”

Your hips undulate slowly, chasing the friction of shadows, of the phantom press of his body between your legs, a whimper caught in your throat.

“Mm. You’re responsive tonight, kitten. So sweet when you want something. I can practically see the look on your face right now. You’re biting your lip, aren’t you? Trying not to beg. So needy for me. So perfect.”

Fuck it.

You quake when your fingers dip lower, grazing where you swell. Where you burn with the imagery of his digits in place of yours. It’s a relief when your hand cups your sex. When your fingers press to the seam of it, a saturated patch already staining your underwear. Your head lolls back, lips parting with sticky breath in.

“When I have you in my arms again,” he continues, tone equally ragged as if the thought of you getting off unwinds him like a spool of thread, “I plan to make you forget everything.”

Twitching, sputtering, you press the heel of your palm against the apex of your thighs, and pleasure explodes in a flurry of phosphenes behind your shuttered lids.

“Everything?” you echo.

“Everything. Your job, your name, your body. You’ll only know the sound of my voice. The feel of my hands. My mouth. My body against yours. How good you’ll feel when I’m nestled deep inside you.”

His chair squeaks once more. He’s adjusting. Slinking down, legs spread. More than likely palming the thick throb of his cock, head back.

Breathless, so deliciously feverish, you hang onto every jittering breath, humping into your hand. Only the taste of his name sits on your tongue, spilling out in broken hymnals.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Just like that.”

His voice works as an anchor. Cinder blocks dragging you further below the murky surface towards the sea floor. You don’t want to come up.

“You’re doing so good for me.”

A buckle clinking breaks through the static, followed by a zipper tugged down. A groan rolling like thunder. Relief.

“I can hear it. Your breath hitches every time you come close. So gorgeous when you fall apart for me,” he drawls as if to draw the attention away from his own torment.

You’re guided by instinct now. A burning need to be filled, sated, shepherded by the deep curl of his voice. By the memory of his mouth on you. Eyes shining like rubies uncovered in a cave as he sank to his knees between your legs, spreading them apart with gentle strokes before rewarding you for your patience.

“You want to come, don’t you?” It’s hardly a question. More of a statement, tucked beneath the amusement blended with pleasure. “You want to come with my voice in your ears and my name in your throat.”

Your attempt at a ‘yes’ comes out as a fractured plea.

His breath corks in his throat. He’s holding himself back. Abstaining from his pleasure in pursuit of yours. Always so considerate, even with miles and oceans between you.

“Then come, sweetheart. Let go. Give it to me. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

That sparkling rush spiders up your body as you press more into your sex. As you grind against your palm. The sensation spires in your stomach, stretching itself taut like a steel wire.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, panting in tandem with you. “Come for me. Nice and loud, sweet girl.”

Aided by his voice and the imagery of him feeding his cock into his palm, the line snaps. Frays, leaving sparks of electricity in its wake.

You’re quiet at first. Until the pleasure rolls over you like waves retreating towards the sea. Your pelvis surging off the bed, you shudder through it, Sylus’ name rolling around in your mouth, and your eyes burning with a hot wash of tears.

He lures you down from the sky with gentle praise. Binds you to your skin, voice syrupy as whiskey left to chill in the freezer.

“That’s my girl. My princess. Breathe through it. So proud of you. So good for me.”

Feeling slowly returns to your fingers. You’re staring up at the ceiling when the phosphenes recede, the kaleidoscope of colors draining away to reveal your room bathed in a film of grey.

The sun’s fully seated itself beneath the horizon.

You blink sluggishly, your body reminding you of its weight as you sink into the mattress. “Sylus,” you finally breathe, curling onto your side into yourself.

“I know, sweetheart,” he pacifies, the lust making way for affection. “I miss you, too.”

Grabbing a pillow from the headboard, you hug it tight as if your lover will appear in its place if you squeeze hard enough.

“Sleep,” he tenderly instructs. “Dream of me. I’ll stay on the line.”

As if tuned to his command, your eyes slip shut, a tired smile rounding your lips. You nestle into the pillow, curled around it like a baby koala, Sylus’ voice still a delightful echo in your ear.

#sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus smut #sylus #love and deespace smut #love and deepspace sylus #lnds sylus #sylus qin #lads sylus #love and deepspace

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ladyofstarfall206 · 2 months ago

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Kitchen Staff

Summary: Azriel’s shadows help you prepare a very special breakfast.

Warnings: None

“Now where did I put that…” A puff of white flour hazes your vision and you sneeze, waving your hand about wildly to clear the particles from the air. Wisps of inky black shadow hand you a whisk, before attempting to measure out a portion of the contents within the flour sack. You say attempted because, in their haste, your volunteer sous chefs overshot the cup and spilled on the counter.

You smirk. “I hope you’re not this clumsy in the dungeons. I can’t imagine Azriel would be pleased if his captive got away because you forgot to tighten the restraints.”

The shadows seemed to shrink back, scattering to the corners of the House of Wind’s kitchen like children being scolded. Your heart ached in your chest and you held out your palm as a peace offering. “Hey. Come here.”

The shadows slowly inched forward until they were curled up in your palm, eventually coiling around your wrists and working their way up your arm. A chuckle escaped you when you felt the cool touch of their featheight kisses against the shell of your ear. “I’m sorry guys, we’re just on a tight schedule. Azriel is due home today from Autumn and I haven’t even got these pastries in the oven yet.”

It was a debated topic among even those closest to Azriel, weather or not his shadows abided in his will alone or if they were autonomous beings. From what your experienced, they seemed to have their own agenda, as a handful of them always opted to stay behind with you whenever Azriel went out on missions. At first, he tried to force them along, but they disobeyed. You’ll never forget the shocked expression on his face when he came to that realization: they had disobeyed him for the first time. To this day, remaining by your side in his absence is the only scenario in which the shadows have gone against the will of their singer. Not long after that, the bond snapped, and Azriel informed you of the tongue lashing his shadows had given him for being slower to perceive you as his mate than they had been.

They knew. They always did. They were the only ones privy to the long nights their master had spent alone in the dark over the centuries. The only beings to know the truth behind his excuses of working late to avoid going to Rita’s when the Inner Circle had invited him. The only ones to stand with him in the corner of the crowded living room during Winter Solstice. They were the darkness that finally covered the mirror in Azriel’s bedroom when he’d spent too long standing before it, glaring daggers at the reflection of his scarred hands.

His shadows were only entities who understood his internal plea for a mate. For someone to love him in the way his brothers got to experience with their mates. A female whose warm embrace he could find comfort in at the end of the day, whose laughter would brighten the dull space within him, and whose heart would sing to his in a sacred bond. That is what he found in you, and he was thrilled.

By extension, so were his shadows, which is why you came downstairs this morning to find a cookbook flipped to a raspberry pastry recipe layed out on the counter.

“So they heard us talking last night. And you were worried it’d be too soon for you to propose to accept the bond.” Cassian grinned when he walked in behind you, a mug of tea appearing before him. “You could just have the house make it for you.”

“Yeah, but I think the gesture would be more personal if I made them myself.” You glanced at the shadows, who were mashing a bowl of raspberries and sugar into a thick filling. “I think they wanted to help. They did go through the trouble of pointing out Azriel’s favorite dessert to me, after all.”

You began to hum softly while kneading the dough, absently watching the purple sunrise crest the mountain tops through the window. Rhys already had the cabin set up for you and Az, a shiver of anticipation running up your spine at the thought. Delicious possibilities for the next two weeks flashed through your mind, biting your bottom lip to prevent the smirk from breaking through. Until—

“Ow!” Cassian stumbled back, clutching his pinky. “One of those bastards bit me… or scratched me. Or whatever the hell they do.”

You laughed, pushing past the pouting general to fill the pastry shells and place them in the oven. “They’re not yours Cass.”

“I just wanted a taste of the filling.” He crossed his arms.

“If there’s any left, you’re welcome to them. Now I’ve got to set up. Az will be home soon.”

Cassian lingered, a smug expression plastered across his features. He open his mouth, no doubt aiming to utter a vulgar comment, when the Shadows shut the door in his face.

…

Azriel wasn’t sure he’d ever flown so quickly in his life, or that a three day mission to the Autumn court could feel so gut wrenching. Every moment that he was away from you left his soul aching, the golden tether pulling unbearably tight and demanding your closeness. He missed it all; your scent, your touch, your smile. His body practically vibrated by the time he landed on the balcony of the House of Wind and his stray shadows met him at the door.

“Love?” He called out, scanning the interior of the sitting room. Azriel furrowed a brow when his shadows began drifting towards the kitchen, seemingly gesturing for him to follow them there. “Are you—“

Azriel’s words died in his throat and he halted where he stood. Auburn rose petals, courtesy of his shadows, created a path to where you stood, holding a tray of the pastries that would seal both of your fates.

“Azriel… will you be my mate?” Your voice was so soft, as if you’d be concerned that he’d respond with anything less than a resounding yes, and the hope shining in your eyes nearly made him fall to his knees.

The Shadowsinger walked towards you on shaking legs, raising a palm to cradle your cheek. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

#acotar #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel

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malereadermaniac · 1 year ago

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૮ • ﻌ - ა Moon Cycles ~ Alpha!Bokuto x Omega!Male!Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Plot: 1 fic split into two! p1: Bokuto's ruts & p2: Your heats

Warnings: Nsfw / MDNI ~ amab m!reader / FDNI

Bokuto's Rut(s):

Entering your apartment, all of your senses were immediately overwhelmed and dominated by your alpha's intoxicating pheromones making every particle of air in your apartment feel heavy and thick. Luckily, you were smart enough to have placed scent patches over your scent glands before going home to an alpha who had to take the day off due to his rut; preventing Bokuto's musky scent of sweat and leather from triggering your own heat early, however that didn't prevent the inhalation of his strong scent, which had already started to make you feel woozy. Quickly throwing your keys onto the counter and stripping off your jacket, you make your way urgently towards the bedroom - your inner omega screaming to aid your poor, hormone-ridden alpha.

The moment you opened the door, the intensity of your Alpha's pheromones had doubled, forcing a blush to hit your face and your blood to rush to certain areas. Your eyes darted to the naked volleyball player on your bed, a discarded and leaking fleshlight tossed beside him while the muscular man lay on the bed in a starfish position; his body sweating profusely as the alpha was panting, lightly pink in the face. It didn't take long for Bokuto to notice you, or rather your comforting scent which you hadn't even noticed you were releasing. You smiled at your exhausted-looking alpha as he perked his body up, using his built arms as leverage to hold him up, a lovestruck yet lustful smile on his face; the alpha's veiny, hard dick twitching at the sight of you.

You both let instinct drive you to the position you were now in, your bottom half completely naked with your dress shirt unbuttoned, your smaller body laying on top of Bokuto's, your body cooling off the Alpha who had been boiling alive since this morning. The usually strong and effortlessly dominant alpha was reduced to a trembling, hot mess as the pit in his stomach was eating away at him, his eyes begging you to do something instead of his mouth; as the only words he was capable of barely saying were "O-mega", "Fuu-ck" and "Good". You gently ran your hands over Bokuto's muscular, olive body, soothing him as you grind your dick against his much larger one - The alpha groans as his masculine, rough hands are almost magnetically pulled towards your soft ass, gripping at the plush skin and pushing you to grind against him harder; desperate for any form of pleasure from the omega he had been craving all day, his omega.

"Shhhh... I'm here, alpha" you coo as you gently lick at Bokuto's very wet scent gland when the man tries (and fails) to string a sentence together, too overwhelmed by the burn of his rut.

The sounds that erupted out of Bokuto when you re-adjusted so that your slick-leaking ass was grinding against his alphan cock were to die for. Along with the usually spikey hair of your alpha, which was now drenched in sweat and sticking to his forehead, and his panting, sexy face, the sight was heavenly.

Again, you're ever so glad for that scent patch on you, because you get to consciously remember Bokuto's ruts, and boy were you lucky to experience them. The first round is always the most effort for you, the alpha worn down by his useless attempts at pleasuring himself throughout the day, along with his intense rut, having tired him out; meaning that you have to do all the work for your cute alpha as to not keep him in discomfort any longer. Riding him was always fun though, despite how tiring it could get; Bokuto's firm grip on your ass and waist grounded you and him as you ride his massive cock like no tomorrow, the veiny thing pounding against your prostate and kissing your walls so nicely as your dick bounces onto Bokuto's abs - you give him quite the show, pity he barely ever remembers it after his cycle. After the alpha finally knots your tightening hole, his body finally starts to cool down, the gnawing ache in his stomach dissipating as he locks his body within yours and absolutely fills you with his thick, fertile cum - but that's just the start of his rut, not only do you have more rounds that day, but you have an average 4 more days left in the week! Nevertheless, after Bokuto falls asleep and finally slips out of you, you use up the rest of your energy to make the starving alpha something to eat; your silly alpha having spent the day trying to relieve his rut rather than eating! After the Alpha wakes up conscious and digs into whatever delicious meal you'd prepared for him, that's when the roles reverse. The rest of the rounds that night pretty much go the same, the alpha manhandling you into multiple different positions as you let Bokuto fuck you absolutely senseless, his knot having locked the two of you together at least 4 more times that night alone and your neck and body looking like they've been mauled by a dog from the number of lovebites and hickeys all over you.

short Bokuto-rut headcannons:

His nests are made really poorly (like most alpha's are), just a shit ton of your clothing spread around the bed with various bodily fluids soaking them - not even a blanket in sight... Typical of alphas, only thinking of what gratifies them rather than their comfort or their omega's comfort!

Bokuto's a real kisser during his ruts as well. He's a clingy alpha who just wants to show his love for you, and that love is multiplied by 100 when lust is mixed into it! That man will be thrusting into you while you're in an uncomfortable mating press with cum on your face and he will still kiss you deeply with tongue - you can't be mad though, it is quite sweet, and it relaxes your body, which is very needed after what this flexible man puts you through during his cycle!

Breeding. Kink. Need I say more? Yes I do. Of course, all alphas want to breed their omega, especially during their rut. But holy shit does Bokuto not stop mentioning it during his - whether he's doing the deep and whispers in your ear "Gonna get you full of my pups, pretty boy", or roaring "Take my fucking cum, babe! GET FUCKIN KNOCKED UP" as he's knotting you, or even during aftercare as the man rubs your abdomen gently and blurts out baby names; Bokuto is always mentioning knocking you up

Near the end of his Rut, Bokuto likes nothing more than laying you in his shitty nest and eating you out for hours... His thick tongue making you cum as he devours plenty of the tasty slick you just keep on producing

Oh and after his rut? Bokuto is literally the perfect boyfriend, more than he already is! Need an icepack? Done. Food? He's whipping ten meals up in the kitchen. The volleyball player apologises if he was too rough as he kisses you gently and gives you a massage. And when this man returns to practice, fucking hell does he look like he's glowing, professing to everyone how he has the best omega in the world which he loves more than anything (and gloating that he gets the best action ever, but he doesn't mention that part)

Your Heat(s):

Bokuto can always tell when you're in pre-heat, he knows his omega too well, so he's already taken the week off work even though you deny the fact that you're going into heat - despite your constant, slightly flushed complexion and your lack of control over your pheromone. So when you start to nest, Bokuto is ready to go! That man has breakfast bars and 6 bottles of water ready on your nightstands and has started releasing a comforting scent of leather and musk before you even start to call for him!

Once the muscular alpha hears your whiny call for him, Bokuto gets instantly hard; making his way towards your shared room as he struggles to strip his joggers and shirt while walking. But just because the man is eager to pleasure you until you pass out, that doesn't mean he wants to rush things - and that includes his teasing.

"Aw... are you okay, baby? What do you need?" The volleyball player would coo at you in a very slightly mocking tone as he makes his way towards your nest. Bokuto would gently hold your searing face in his huge hand and caress your cheek with his thumb as he smiles at your pout, holding back a laugh.

"Shut up... please just hurryy~" You whine, reaching out to touch your alpha, rubbing your hand down his naked abs and towards his cock which was standing loud and proud.

After a little more teasing, Bokuto decides to show mercy, noticing how your panting increases in pace, how your scent of sweet, intoxicating caramel fills the room, and how your knees tremble on the bed as slick gushes out of your hole. Because of your rapturous heat, your vision is hazy and time slows down yet speeds up at the same time, so you had really no clue as to how you ended up with your legs up on Bokuto's broad, muscular shoulders, his dick already in you and moans spewing out of your mouth as if you were in pain. But you sure as hell didn't mind that, as long as your alpha was soothing the pain searing across your body and making you feel pleasure beyond that of this world - you really couldn't give a fuck if you knew what was happening or not.

Sweat, musk, cum and a harmonious mix of your pheromones and Bokuto's filled the air, adjacent to the sounds of sweaty skin slapping against sweaty skin. All that was coming out of your mouth were the words "Alpha" or "Good" or "Yes" along with plenty of different whines, moans, and whimpers which sounded straight-up pornographic, and your sounds worked beautifully well with Bokuto's loud roars of pleasure and groans and moans - his dirty talk on another level as he drills his dick into you in missionary. After making your vision go white, your infertile cum shooting all over your body and Bokuto's rock-hard abs, your alpha ensured that you caught your breath and forced you to drink some water - the sweet, caring man not even giving a shit about the fact that his dick was still hard as shit and that he hadn't cum yet; which was a surprise by the fact that your sloppily, slicked-up hole, tight, boiling walls and sexy moans and look was usually a cocktail for disaster with Bokuto. But Bokuto would experience the immense pleasure of knotting an omega in your next round - and not just an omega, but you, his bonded, mated omega which he loved more than life itself.

With that said, once you had caught your breath and the heat began to pool in your stomach once more, Bokuto took that as a sign to use his rough, massive hands to re-position you. With your arms hugging one of the many pillows in your nest and your chin resting on it, Bokuto was kneeling on the bed behind you; both of his massive arms wrapped around your waist as he pounded into you like a fucking animal. With your knees spread and your back arching downwards towards the bed as Bokuto's fat dick drilled against your pleasure spot, you moaned and cried out your alpha's name like a mantra - your dick dangling below you, your dickhead lightly rubbing against the best, sending shivers down your spine. All you could hear were Bokuto's rough grunts and moans of your name in your ear along with his hips smacking against your plump ass in the background - your voice raspy and airy from how much you had been using it. Along with some dirty talk (along the lines of "Fuck baby, so fuckin' good and tight for your alpha aren't ya?") Bokuto would raspily groan out an "FUCK- Gonna fuckin' cum-! Gonna knot you- omega- my fuckin' omega-" - Bokuto would become the opposite of his cute, gentle self when he was so close to his orgasm, and fuck, you loved it. You could feel the alpha's knot swell, his already huge cock becoming even harder to take, but your heat was helping you make space for him - but you still couldn't just idly sit and take it!

"HAAAA~ Soo big, alpha! TOO- BIG!~" You cry whorishly, the immense pleasure flooding your body at an alpha knotting you making you overwhelmed, forcing your body to move around and try to escape the overstimulating pleasure - however, that is a) not easily done and b) painful as shit for the both of you.

"SHIT-! Don't move while I knot you, [Name]!" Bokuto groans, the pain and pleasure of his knot forcing into you pushing him over the edge.

To keep you in place, the massive alpha pushes his whole arm down on your neck and his massive, rough palm on the arch of your back to keep you in your place, to take his viscous seed like a good omega. With Bokuto's knot swelling to full mast, the man's grip tightens around you as he shoots his huge load, filling you up and cooling your heat down to a mild kindle despite the searing temperature of your alpha's cum. You on the other hand were screaming your head off with moans from the immense pleasure of an alpha knotting you (especially during your heat), your cocklet shooting ropes of thin jizz onto the bed below you as your walls clamped down on Bokuto even tighter. Panting was all that could be heard in the room as the two of you lay down together, your massive alpha crushing you beneath him, but you couldn't complain. Bokuto gently started to kiss you once he was able to think of anything other than the pleasure of cumming inside of you, nipping at the bite's he'd left on you and licking at your exhausted scent gland, admiring the mating mark on it.

short Heat headcannons:

It's basically instinct for the two of you to like the fact that, as an alpha, Bokuto is larger than you as his omega - which isn't hard with the man being fucking huge. But my lord does that little size kink go fucking haywire during your heats - Bokuto loves to look at how his hands hold your waist, not entirely but just enough, while you in your heat-drunk haze think about how the massive man could literally crush you in his grip - the though making your dick twitch. The man isn't even that much larger than you! But give him an inch and he'll talk a mile (or whatever that saying is)

Scenting is one of your big things during heat. In an sfw-way you scent everything that Bokuto owns before you go into heat, and you grab anything that smells remotely like him for your nest. But when the man is fucking you until your last breath, you can't get enough of your alpha's scent - practically begging him to rub his scent gland against yours

That's another thing, your usually snarky or even bratty behaviour goes out the window during your heat, your body controlling your words and behaviour; resulting in pretty begs from your mouth which stroke Bokuto's ego ever so nicely, who's he to deny you of whatever it is that you desire?

Bokuto's aftercare is also top-notch, In between rounds the man is cooling you off and cleaning you while ensuring that you eat and drink. Near the end of your heat, when it's more lukewarm, Bokuto draws a bath and bathes with you, caressing your body softly and scrubbing the smell of sex off of your skin. But your heat is forced into its final hurrah when Bokuto uses his long, masculine fingers to clean your loosened-up hole of his thick cum, his comments of knocking you up sending you over the edge and into the final hour of your cycle~

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pretentious-blonde · 5 months ago

Text

unrecognisable

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve's father gets in his head, and he takes it out on the one person who has only ever asked him to love her

warnings: toxic parents, arguments, crying, MEAN steve, hurt steve (i'm sorry)

a/n: im sorry (again), i wrote this on two separate five hour train journeys, so i apologise to the elderly gentleman opposite me for witnessing the five stages of grief i went through. @allergictosoup thought about you, so buckle up

welcome to pt. 7, can be read as a standalone

next part

series masterlist

Flour dusts every surface of the Harrington kitchen. Particles drifting through the air in soft swirls that settle on the counter, some even managing to make their way onto the tiled floor.

You’re not even sure how it got this out of hand. One minute, you and Steve were diligently following a cookie recipe—or, maybe it was muffins—and the next, he was downright threatening you.

It felt almost unfair how he leveraged his height to corner you, using the same relentless technique he must have honed on his high school basketball team—leaving you with no room to slip past him.

You’re cornered against the fridge, glancing for your closest escape route, your cheeks hurting from nervous laughter.

“Come on, honey,” he croons, voice dripping with mischief as he edges closer, a devilish glint in his eye. “Usually, you like my cream.”

For a split second, your brain short-circuits.

“Ugh, Steve!” you shriek, scandalised and horrified, your laughter bursting out before you can stop it. Your hands fly up, shoving at his chest as he boxes you in. “You did not just say that!”

But he only smiles wider, utterly unrepentant, eyes twinkling as he takes in your exasperated expression. He gasps in mock horror as you smear some of the flour residue on his shirt.

“Oh, that’s how we’re playing, huh?”

“It is,” you declare as you gaze up at him smugly, a fresh, white handprint marring his navy polo.

“Alright,” he bends his arms to engulf you, whipped cream at the ready. “You asked for it.”

You duck under his shoulder and dart toward the counter, squealing when his other hand snakes around your waist. “Steve Harrington, if you get that on me I—”

He smirks, hold in you tighter, leaning in like he’s about to whisper a secret.

“Too late.”

Before you know it, he swipes a small dollop of cream onto your cheek. You shriek, raising your hands as if to grab him, but he’s faster. Dodging your retaliatory swing, he nearly collides with the kitchen island, laughter echoing off the walls.

“Ok—please! You win!” You finally beg, giggling.

His grin spreads across his face, and for a moment, you think he’s going to comply. Then he arches a brow, stepping closer, feigning another attack.

“I swear to God, if you so much as—”

The phone rings, slicing through the chaos. You both freeze, breathless.

“Saved by the bell,” he says smugly, using his pinky to flick a tiny dab of cream onto the tip of your nose as a final victory.

You huff, wiping it away with the back of your hand, but you’re still smiling. He grabs a kitchen towel on his way to the wall-mounted phone, wiping his hands as he picks it up.

You watch him. Even with his disheveled appearance, he’s effortlessly stunning. There’s something boyish about him in the aftermath of his teasing, his eyes alight with mischief as he takes in your irritated expression.

He doesn’t look the least bit sorry—and if he apologised now, you wouldn’t believe him for a second.

“Harrington residence,” he answers as he tucks it against his shoulder, still slightly winded from the physical exertion.

It only takes a few seconds. A muffled voice crackles through the line, and just like that, it all drains away.

In an instant, his entire demeanor shifts—shoulders tightening, brow furrowing, the remnants of his smile vanishing without a trace.

“Oh… hey, Dad.”

He straightens as if bracing for impact, his hand raking through his hair in that telltale nervous tic you’ve come to know all too well. The motion is restless, almost absent-minded, but it betrays everything he isn’t saying.

“No, yeah, of course,” he says. “Thought you were coming back Thursday?” A pause. You hear a faint rumble of a voice from the other end, and Steve nods like his dad can see him. “Yeah… I’ll take care of it. Sure.”

He hangs up, his fingers lingering on the phone for just a second longer. When he turns around, the corner of his mouth moves in what might pass for a grin if you weren’t paying attention.

But you are.

You’d heard about his parents in passing, though any mention of them was always met with a swift change of subject. It was clear the topic was a sore spot, and you never pressed—some wounds were better left untouched. There was an unspoken understanding between you: his parents had never been his greatest supporters, but he didn’t dwell on it. He had Robin, the kids, and now you—a mismatched, unconventional family where, despite everything, he had found a place to belong.

“Steve?” you ask gently.

“Hey, honey.” He clears his throat, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Gotta drop you home, okay?”

His voice is casual—almost too casual, the kind of forced nonchalance that immediately sets you on edge.

“Wait, what? Why?”

“My parents are coming home… in a few hours.” He gestures around the flour-strewn kitchen. “They’re, uh, back early. You know how they get about the house.”

There’s something in the way he speaks, a little too even, too measured, as if he’s trying to smooth over something. Your brows knit together, suspicion flickering in your eyes as you search his face for cracks in the façade.

“Oh,” you decide not to press. “Alright, well, I can help clean? We haven’t even started actually baking yet, so...”

No. Absolutely not.

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” He shakes his head, a hint of that lopsided grin returning. “I’ve got this. I’ll save you some, okay?”

“Are you sure?” You study his expression, noting the strain just beneath the surface. He’s definitely not as relaxed as he’s pretending to be, but he’s trying.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he insists, stepping closer to place a gentle hand on your shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Think I can handle a little cleaning.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, your heart gives a little flip. For a moment, it feels almost normal again, lips sugary sweet on yours.

“Come on,” he says, grabbing your coat and guiding you toward the front door. “I’ll drive. Promise I’m not a fan of this either.”

There’s a flicker of humour in his eyes as he helps you slip your arms into the sleeves. But it still feels as though he is ushering you out of the place.

“Hm, fine. But you better not eat all of them.” You tell him, trying to coax out a real smile. “They were a joint effort.”

“I won’t,” he says with a grin that’s almost genuine. “Promise.”

You can’t shake the worry in the back of your mind, but he’s doing such a good job acting like everything’s fine that you decide not to push.

He’s Steve, after all—he’s handled plenty. If he says he’s got this, he probably does.

He hurries around the living room, heart hammering in his chest. He’s in overdrive, picking up discarded socks, tossing them into a laundry basket, and wiping away streaks of flour on the table.

There’s still residue smudged on the hardwood and batter-encrusted mixing bowls cluttering the counter, but he couldn’t bring himself to ignore the muffins. You were so excited about them in the first place.

He promised he’d finish them for you, so he popped them in the oven anyway, cranking the temperature and muttering a silent prayer that they’ll actually turn out okay. It feels ridiculous, making time to bake when he knows his parents are about to walk through that door and nitpick every speck of dust they can find.

But he can’t help it. He pictures your smile, the way you’d probably tease him about being sentimental, and he clings to that for a second.

He hears tires crunch against the gravel. A breath catches in his throat.

They’re here.

The front door opens. Footsteps in the hall. He steels himself, leaning against the counter like he’s cool, collected—like he hasn't spent the last two hours in a panic.

“Steven?”

He hates that name—so formal, so stiff. Only ever used by his father, and therefore only said with coldness.

“In here.” Steve replies.

Mr. Harrington appears with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes skim the room with mild disinterest, like he’s barely registering the baking utensils piled near the sink.

“You’ve certainly left your mark,” he remarks flatly, setting the bag on a chair. “We leave you alone for a couple weeks and this is what happens to the house?” He shakes his head. “The house you don’t pay for.”

Steve swallows, cheeks warming already. He has no rebuttal for that, and it stings.

“I was gonna clean up,” he starts, rubbing at a flour stain on his shirt. “Just... got caught up in the baking.”

His dad’s eyes flick to the mess, then settles on the oven.

“Baking?” The sarcasm is mild, but pointed. “Sounds productive.”

A defensive retort swells in his chest. He’s too worked up to let it slide.

“I was—doing it with someone.” He mutters out. His father’s gaze flicks to him, bored. “My girlfriend,” Steve adds. “The one I told you about?”

There’s no real surprise on Mr. Harrington’s face, just the slightest arch of his brows—barely a sign of acknowledgement. Steve feels a sharp sting of irritation. He’s mentioned your name before, more than once—dropped it casually in passing, threaded it into brief phone calls, even muttered it during those rare, fleeting visits.

And yet, it’s clear now that none of it stuck.

“She still around?”

The question stings more than it should.

“Yes,” Steve says, jaw tightening. “She’s still around.”

Mr. Harrington gives a dismissive shrug, dropping the bag onto a chair.

“Huh.” He glances at the flour smears on Steve’s shirt, then back to the general state of the kitchen. “I assume this girlfriend of yours is the one with the real job, right?”

“She’s a journalist at the Hawkins Post,” he clarifies as he exhales slowly. “It’s not like—”

“Right, an office job,” his dad cuts in. “Something stable. Maybe you could take a page out of her book. Instead of playing clerk at that Family Video.”

The words sink into him like tiny barbs. Sharp and painful.

“It’s a job,” he fires back, voice tight. “I’m making money.”

“Making money,” his father echoes flatly, “sure. Must be enough to keep you rolling in dough.” He glances to his son after the ill joke, eyes dull, as if he’s reading a newspaper he doesn’t care about. “Could be worse, I guess. You could be back at that ice cream place.”

A hot surge of anger flares in his chest, impossible to ignore. It burns at his father’s indifference, the way he effortlessly dismisses things that matter to him. But there’s another touch of resentment, small but undeniable, curling at the edges of his frustration.

Toward you.

He loves that you’re driven—admires it, even. The way you carve your own path, the independence you wear. Your own place, your own ambitions. It’s everything he wants for you, everything he respects.

But sometimes, it does make him feel like he’s lagging behind, stuck in some endless game of catch-up. And hearing his father throw it in his face? That’s just twisting the knife.

“Where’s Mom?” he blurts, hoping to derail the conversation.

“Meeting me in Evansville,” his father replies, running a hand through his hair. “I won’t be here long, so you can relax. You won’t have me breathing down your neck for more than a day or two.”

Relax. Yeah, right.

He shifts on his feet, hating how resentment twists in his core.

He doesn’t want his dad around, but there’s also that pang of disappointment—like he’s never worth sticking around for anyway. Mr. Harrington rolls up his sleeves, staring at his flour-stained clothes with faint distaste.

“You should probably change,” he remarks. “You look awful.”

Before Steve can speak, the oven timer goes off with a shrill beep, making him jump. He strides over, turning it off and tugging the tray of muffins from the oven. They’re a little golden around the edges—exactly how you wanted them.

For a second, he imagines you here, teasing him about his shirt or the bit of flour in his hair.

You’d probably know exactly how to handle this.

He sets them on the cooling rack, the scent of vanilla lingering in the air. Behind him, his father is already rifling through his bag, not even sparing the fresh-baked goods a glance.

Embarrassment prickles at the back of his neck, creeping in like a noose tightening around his throat. He can feel his father’s presence, the weight of his judgment making his hands tremble as he carefully decants them.

He almost regrets letting you pick the pink casings. They stand out—bright, cheerful, undeniably soft. He remembers the way you squealed in the shopping aisle, eyes alight with excitement, how you turned to him with that look—the one he could never say no to.

And so, of course, he agreed.

Because it made you happy. Because that was enough.

But now, under his father’s silent scrutiny, those same bright casings feel like a spotlight, like something he should be embarrassed about. They’re not the kind of thing his father would ever see as ‘manly.’

He hates that he thinks that.

He hates that he has to think that.

“Hope you didn’t make a huge batch,” Mr. Harrington says absently. “Seems like a waste if it’s just you.”

Steve’s grip on the rack tightens, but he forces a deep breath.

“They’re not for you,” he mutters under his breath.

He almost regrets speaking up—pushing back never gets him anywhere. It never has. But he can’t help himself.

“Hm.” His dad barely reacts. It’s the sort of non-answer that grates on his nerves more than an outright insult. “Anyway,” he continues, “go get changed. I’ve got some calls to make.”

Steve hesitates, his eyes sweeping over the kitchen. It still needs a proper cleaning, but that can wait. Right now, all he wants is to get out of there—to put as much distance between himself and this moment as possible.

There’s resentment. It’s pointed at his father for being so dismissive, but there’s a traitorous thread pointed at you, too—at how you seem to have your life figured out, while he’s still stuck in this stupid loop of disappointment.

“Fine,” he mutters. He tosses the potholder onto the counter and trudges out of the kitchen.

Climbing the stairs, he tries to ignore the storm of frustration swirling in his head. He’s so tired of feeling inadequate. So damn tired of just bored disapproval in his dad’s eyes.

And if he’s honest, it scares him how easily that frustration can twist into resentment toward you—as if you being successful somehow makes him look worse.

He stumbles into the house, shoulders heavy under the weight of a long shift. The overhead lights in the hallway feel too bright as he heads straight for the shower. His clothes reek faintly of the store—a scent he’s gotten so used to, he hardly notices it anymore.

But it’s there. And he knows his dad smells it, too.

Steve tries not to think about it, tries not to think about him, as the hot water cascades over his tired muscles. Tonight’s supposed to be his night—your night. You’d made plans to see that new movie you were buzzing about, something you’d both been looking forward to.

He’s been distant this week, but only because he doesn’t want to drag you into this—doesn’t want you to see just how bad it’s gotten with his dad living under the same roof again.

Water off, towel around his waist, he pads back into his bedroom and rifles through his drawers for something decent to wear. Jeans, clean shirt, maybe that jacket you said you liked. He checks himself in the mirror, fusses with his hair—he just wants to look put together.

He’s about to slip on his jacket when he hears the door open behind him. Turning, he sees his father standing in the doorway, arms crossed, scanning the room like he’s taking inventory.

“Hey,” Mr. Harrington says, clearing his throat. “I’m off.”

“Yeah… alright.” He nods, tries to keep his tone light. “Talk later.”

He goes back to checking his pockets for his keys, wallet—waiting for his dad to leave. But the older man remains planted, gaze still on him. Eventually, he stills, looking back.

What now?

“Listen.” His father sighs, pressing his lips together. “I’ve spoken to your mother, and we’ve both agreed that when we’re all back here, it would be a good idea to have a discussion. A proper discussion.”

Steve’s gut sinks. He forces a calm he doesn’t feel.

“About what?”

“Come on,” his father says, giving him a flat stare. “You’re not stupid.”

“No, about what?” Steve’s jaw clenches.

“It’s just….” He pauses. ”You have no direction.” Mr. Harrington exhales, like even speaking to Steve is a chore. “No goals, nothing you’re striving for.”

Those words dig in like glass splinters. Steve forces himself to breathe, reminding himself of all the good things in his life—you, his friends, the sense of contentment he’s so close to finding.

“Listen, Dad,” he starts, voice tight, “it’s not like I’m not happy.”

His father’s mouth twists, disbelief etched into every line of his face.

“I don’t understand how that can be true.”

“Well, lucky for you,” he swallows, holding back the flash of anger clawing at his throat, “you don’t have to understand.”

Mr. Harrington’s gaze narrows. “It’s that girl, isn’t it?”

“What about her?” Steve’s heart thumps, a little jolt of protectiveness sparking to life.

His father waves a hand dismissively. “Let me know how long that lasts.”

“Now I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Jesus, Steven,” his father cuts him off, “wake up and think for a second. That girl is going places. You think she’s gonna stay in Hawkins forever?”

He feels something twist. He doesn’t want to consider it, but the thought’s already worming into his head, even with your prior reassurance.

You’re so damn ambitious, so ready to chase the next big thing. You moved to Hawkins on your own—who’s to say you wouldn’t move again if it meant climbing the ladder?

His silence stretches, and that seems to spur his father on.

“Girls like that always want more. They need someone who’s going to add to their life, not drag them down. And from the looks of things right now, you don’t exactly have much to offer.”

Steve’s throat tightens as he tries not to let his father’s words sink too deep. But he can’t help it—he’s suddenly thinking about all the things you love: work, reading, writing, devouring books at an alarming rate.

And him?

He can’t remember the last time he touched a novel. He’s thinking about the times you’ve told him about your articles in excited detail, and he just nodded along, telling you it sounded amazing, without any real critique to give.

What if that’s not enough?

He's had these thoughts before, but now, they seem harder to push away. Especially with his own flesh and blood repeating them back to him.

His father’s watching him, expression grim, like he’s waiting for a reaction. And finally, Steve snaps out of it, forcing his voice to remain steady.

“Dad, seriously, can we not do this right now?”

“Clearly, there’s no good time to figure this out.” Mr. Harrington’s mouth sets in a hard line. “Your mother and I want you to find a new job. A real job.”

“I’m not doing that,” Steve says, voice shaky with suppressed fury.

He likes his job, even though he moans about it non-stop. He likes that it’s easy enough to leave behind at the end of the day so he can spend time with you.

He knew that he shouldn’t have pushed back, it never works out in his favour. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him from the words that spilled out of his father at that moment. Years of resentment leading up to one of the worst interactions he could have ever imagined.

“Just—look at yourself, Steven! You can’t stick with anything—sports, school, friends—all of it, you just quit the second it’s not convenient. Basketball, football, every damn team you tried out for—quit when it got hard. Remember that?”

“And don’t get me started on the so-called friendships you let fade. You can’t keep anyone close. You can’t even hold on to the people you claimed were so important to you back in high school. They’re all moving on, building real futures—and you’re just stuck in the past.

“And college? Jesus, don’t even try defending yourself there. Do you have any idea how humiliating it is for your mother and me to tell people our son couldn’t get the grades to even apply? Now here you are, wasting away in some run-down video store. I mean—for God’s sake–-you could’ve at least found a respectable job if you weren’t going to stick with school. But no—you’re working a job any clueless teenager could do, living here, making nothing of yourself, with no plan for the future.

“You know what that looks like to everyone else? It looks embarrassing. And I’m sick to death of explaining it to people. I’m sick of defending you when there’s nothing to defend.

“So here’s the deal. You have three months—three, Steven—to figure your life out. Find a job with some kind of respect attached to it, or at least prove you’re trying for something better than that worthless retail gig. Because if you can’t pull yourself together by then, you’re out of this house for good. I’m done watching you throw your life away.”

Then he turns on his heel and slams the bedroom door behind him, the sound reverberating in Steve’s ears long after he’s gone. Completely shattering him in the process.

For a moment, he just stands there, chest heaving.

It feels like the entire room has shrunk around him, the walls pressing closer, threatening to suffocate him. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, white-knuckled.

He thinks of you—your voice in his head telling him to breathe, that he’s got this, that he’s enough. But it’s drowned out by the echo of his father’s voice, the condemning words bouncing around his skull.

All at once, he can’t contain it. He roars in frustration, snatching up the first thing within reach—some old textbook—and hurling it across the room. It hits the wall with a dull thud, slides to the floor.

The sight of it fuels him, and in a blind rush, he tears at the piles of clothes on his bed, toppling anything and everything, yanking drawers open only to slam them shut again. He barely registers the sting in his hands when he punches the wardrobe door, the hollow crack echoing in the small space.

His breathing is ragged, tears hot behind his eyes, though he refuses to let them fall. He can’t stand the thought of crying because of that man, can’t bear the humiliation of it. But it’s all so overwhelming—the heartbreak of possibly losing you, the fear that maybe his father’s right, the suffocating knowledge that he has nowhere else to go.

After a minute—two, maybe three—he sinks to his knees in the midst of the chaos. His chest aches, his throat tight. He stares at the scattered clothes, the overturned laundry basket, the scattered tapes and magazines.

Tears threaten to rise again, and he sucks in a sharp breath, willing them back. There’s no point—no way he’ll be seeing you tonight, or maybe ever again. Not after this. Not after it had been made so clear to him.

You were never going to stick around.

He stays in his room for a long time, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the house around him. Eventually, he drags himself downstairs, peeking into the hallway just to make sure his father is gone.

The silence is suffocating.

He sinks onto the couch, eyes unfocused on the flickering TV screen, and wonders how the hell he’s supposed to get through the next few months.

Steve had never been one to leave you hanging. That was the first clue something was off.

It’s Friday—your day. The one evening you both set aside, no matter what. By the end of the week, you’re both drained, desperate to shake off work and just be together.

Your schedules don’t always line up—his weekend shifts, your late nights—but Fridays are non-negotiable. You made sure of that, telling your boss it was the only evening you needed off.

You’d spent the whole afternoon daydreaming about it, picturing whispered commentary during the previews—because Steve could never quite keep his mouth shut. He always had something to say, too eager to share his thoughts, even when it earned him a few irritated shushes from strangers. He’d turn to you with that sheepish blush, murmuring an apology before inevitably doing it again. And maybe, if he’d remembered, he would’ve brought the muffins you baked earlier that week.

When he didn’t show, you lingered outside the theatre, wrapping your jacket tighter around your torso. You’d picked out a dress he’d once admitted was his favourite, fussed with your hair until it looked just right. It felt silly standing there alone, trying not to look too disappointed as other couples filed in.

But Steve was never late, much less a no-show. It just didn’t happen.

By the time you reach your car you are more concerned than frustrated. Maybe he’s with his father—he barely hid how tense it made him. It’s possible he’s sick, lying in bed refusing to call because he hates worrying you. Hell, he’s a big baby sometimes—always trying to hide his vulnerability. You tell yourself it’s something along those lines as you start the engine.

The drive to his house feels longer than usual. Every turn builds a knot in your throat, and your brain sprints through every worst-case scenario. It was a gift and a curse to have such an overactive mind.

But when you pull up, there it is: Steve’s car, parked at a slight angle like he always does. No sign of his parents’ vehicles, though. The driveway is eerily empty otherwise. You turn the key, nerves skittering through your chest.

Knocking on the door yields no response. Yet the windows glow with gentle lamplight—a habit you once teased him about. ‘Conserve energy,’ you’d nag. He’d roll his eyes but always hit the switch when leaving. The fact that they’re still on now makes your pulse spike. Peering through the window, you see no movement.

“Steve?” you call softly, tapping on the glass.

Still nothing.

Worry nudges you into action. You crouch down, lift the door mat, and fish out the spare key—the same key you’ve begged him to hide somewhere else at least a dozen times.

Your heart hammers as you open the door, the familiar creak of the hinges echoing in the silent entryway.

“Steve?” you try again, growing more confused.

You shouldn’t have to break into your own boyfriend’s place just to find him. Yet here you are, turning on your heel at every shadow, hoping to see him emerge from the corner with some sheepish grin and a perfectly reasonable explanation.

But of course, life would never be that kind.

He sits hunched on the couch, his body all stiff angles and clenched fists. Usually, you’d see him sprawled comfortably, a grin tugging at his lips, something soft in his eyes whenever he looked at you.

But tonight, there’s nothing soft about him—his posture is wound tight, like a spring ready to snap. The air crackles with a tension so thick you can practically feel it pressing on your skin.

You step deeper into the living room, heart thudding heavily in your chest. He’s always been the sweet one, the one who’d drop everything just to see you smile. But now, that warmth is nowhere to be found, replaced by something guarded. Something scary.

A word you thought would never have been possible to describe your Steve.

“Steve?” Your voice comes out quieter than you intended, thick with caution.

His gaze stays fixed on the floor for a long moment before he finally sighs.

“Yes?”

He sounded hollow, like he was done with you. Like he didn’t even have the energy for this conversation.

“Where were you?” You ask with uncertainty, hating how small your voice sounds, but you’re too unsettled to hide it. “... I waited.”

“Sorry,” he rubs his temples, though it doesn’t feel like an apology, it feels like a statement. Something he is supposed to say. “Didn’t feel like going.”

Your stomach twists, a sting of hurt blooming in your chest.

He never talks to you like this. Ever.

“Uh, okay,” you say, trying to keep your tone steady despite the ache behind your ribs. “When were you going to tell me?”

His only answer is a ragged breath, and then he drags his hands down his face, the weight of the entire week pressing on his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he mutters, “I had other things going on, okay?”

Every syllable strikes like a blow, and you can practically see the frustration rolling off him in waves. Your own pulse thrums as you struggle to navigate what is happening, feeling fully out of your depth.

“So you wasted my time because you can’t pick up the phone?” you ask, trying your best not to let your voice shake—but it does anyway.

At that, he finally looks up, his eyes meeting yours. You expect to find the tender brown gaze you know so well, but instead, you see anger there—a bitterness you barely recognise.

“Oh,” he snaps, “because your time is so important?”

His words lance right through you, and a flush of heat crawls up your neck. This isn’t the Steve who calls you pet names or who leaves little notes around your apartment just to make you smile. This person feels like a stranger, and you can’t even hide the waver in your voice as you press forward.

“Steve,” you whisper, “what is this?”

He sucks in a sharp breath, scrubbing his fingers over his scalp as though trying to ground himself. You see something flicker in his eyes—anxious, irritated.

“Can’t I have one bad day without you being on my case?”

The words punch the air from your lungs. A bad day?

Of course he can have a bad day. But that is not what this feels like. His anger is directed at you. You have not the faintest idea as of why, and that thought unsettles you as he is not letting you in to fix it.

“I’m not trying to be on your case,” you say, voice filled with a confusion that’s fast morphing into desperation. “I’m trying to get you to talk to me.”

His lips curl in a scoff. “Yeah, well, not everything needs to be talked about to death.”

A tremor of frustration flutters through your stomach. Why on earth is he acting like this?

“I’m not trying to talk it to death,” you manage, forcing each word out carefully, “I’m trying to understand.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want you to.”

He levels you with a stare so intense it makes your heart pound. Each word is laced with a fury you can feel, and it’s so unlike the man you know that it sends your mind reeling.

Before you can reply, he shoves himself up from the couch, stalking toward the hallway like he can’t stand to be in the same room as you. You’re left in the sudden void of his absence, your pulse thrumming in your ears. You lurch forward, catching him by the arm, your grip gentle but urgent.

“Is this about your parents?” you ask, breath hitching. You know enough about his situation to deduce that fact, it would be the only logical explanation. “You know this isn’t the way —”

He twists away from your touch so violently that you stagger back, a jolt of invisible pain shooting up your arm. Alarm flares in your chest as you see his eyes—there’s a dullness in them, a coldness that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

“Isn’t the way what?” he challenges, voice shaking with pent-up rage. “No, seriously—what is it? Am I not handling this in the right way?”

You want to tell him no. You want to tell him that this is not the right way to handle it. But the way he is staring at you lets you know that your pleas will fall on deaf ears.

You can see just how worn down he is. That expression—something’s building into a storm inside him. But his voice is sharp, slicing through the empathy you’re trying to offer. He hurls more words at you, each one stinging deeper than the last.

“You want me to cry on your shoulder?” he hisses, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Let you tell me how I should feel? You’re always right, after all.”

It’s like a punch to the gut. You reel back, tears prickling at your eyes. He’s never spoken to you like this—like you’re the enemy. You were supposed to be a team. A unit that supported each other—talked to each other—not whatever this was.

This was scary.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you say, your voice cracking.

His laugh is hollow, painful to hear. Almost mocking in tone, like you were too dumb to figure it out already.

“Oh, you know exactly what I mean, sweetheart. Always gotta be the smartest person in the room, right? Always got the perfect words, the perfect answer… like you’ve got life all figured out.”

You feel raw, exposed, like he’s peeling back layer after layer just to wound you.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t even seem to care about the words falling out of his mouth.

“Where is this coming from?” you plead, practically choking on your words. Inside, your heart is tearing.

This is the same man who used to beg to spend every moment with you. The same man who waited for you after your shift with candy in the glove box. The same man who showed up to your apartment whenever he got the slightest inkling that something was wrong.

Now, there’s nothing but resentment in his eyes. Nothing recognisable as yours.

“You think I don’t see how you look at me sometimes?” He swallows hard, his throat bobbing, anger carving lines into his features. “Like I’m some fucking idiot—some dumbass wasting his time working minimum wage while you’re off playing reporter, living on your own like you’re so fucking independent.”

Your breath stutters, and a stinging heat blooms behind your eyes, tears threatening to spill. You’ve fought so hard for your career, your home—and he’s always been proud of you. Always your number one supporter, even when it got too tough for you to carry on your own.

At least, you thought he was.

“You know how hard I worked for that, Steve,” you manage to say, your voice trembling.

“Oh yeah, and you make sure everyone knows it, don’t you?” He barks a harsh, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “Perfect job, perfect apartment. Well, congratulations, sweetheart—you did it. You’re better than the rest of us.”

His words feel like a knife twisting. This bitterness, this rage—it’s as if he has been pushed so far that he desperately needs an outlet, and you’re the only one here.

You’re the scapegoat.

You’re the collateral damage.

“Is that what you think?” you ask in disbelief. “That I—what? Look down on you?”

He meets your gaze, and for just a second, you see the flicker of something else—pain, exhaustion, maybe even fear. Then his jaw sets, and he spits out the words like their poison.

“I think you pity me.”

A silence runs through the room, lingering in the air after his words.

For a moment, you see the fragile boy beneath his anger: the same kid who once prowled the halls of Hawkins High with a chip on his shoulder, always desperate for approval but never sure how to earn it.

You remember how he confessed, quietly one night, that he’d been bad in high school. But you never imagined this—the cruel sneer, the razor-sharp tone, the venom in his stare. Willing to risk it all in the heat of the moment.

“Steve, if you feel that way, maybe we can—”

“Don’t fucking analyse me!” he snarls, the word cracking across the room. “I’m not one of your leads for you to pick apart.”

The accusation stings, but before you can gather yourself, he lashes out, swinging a kick toward the coffee table. The impact jolts the furniture with a dull thud, sending it skidding a few inches across the floor. It’s not aimed at you, but the fury in the motion makes your stomach lurch.

You flinch—an involuntary reaction, your hands instinctively shifting, breath catching in your throat.

Everything seems to stop for him in that instant.

His anger halts, mid-flow, eyes widening at the sight of your trembling form. You can practically see the realisation crash over him.

You’re scared. Of him.

He’s never seen that kind of fear on your face before—and it hits him like a freight train, knocking the breath from his lungs. For the first time in his life, he truly understands what it means to have someone be afraid of him, and the realisation sinks in his stomach like lead.

“Wait,” he breathes, voice shifting from explosive rage to desperate remorse. “Angel, wait—”

Your eyes sting with tears you refuse to let fall, but the shock and hurt are already etched across your features. You take an unsteady step back, and he tries to reach for you, fingers twitching with regret.

“Please don’t be scared— I didn’t—” His words tumbled over each other, pleading, panicked. He moves closer again, arm half-extended.

“Don’t,” you repeat, your voice thicker this time, harsher. “Don’t you dare touch me after that.”

The words cut through him like broken glass. You can see it in the way he staggers a little, anguish flickering across his face as he tries to gather himself.

“Listen,” he starts, voice trembling, “I—”

“No,” you say firmly, turning away, each step feeling like it’s taking every ounce of will you have left. He follows, heart thudding, panic rising.

“Please—” he calls, voice strangled. “You said you wanted to talk—let’s talk. We can talk for however long—just—”

You’re already at the door, blinking back tears. Your hand is on the knob, and you glance over your shoulder, voice shaking with anger and hurt.

“I’m going home, Steve. I’m leaving.”

“No, don’t—” He begs, chest tight, desperation thrumming like a live wire under his skin. “Please don’t go.”

But it’s too late. You slip out the door, and his heart seizes. He charges after you, no shoes on his feet, stumbling into the cool night air. The gravel bites at his soles, but he barely feels it, his voice cracked and hollow as he calls after you.

“Come on, sweetheart—we never fight like this,” he pleads, each word drenched in remorse. “Please—we don’t do this.”

You grip your car door, shooting him a look brimming with hurt, tears still shimmering in your eyes.

“You know what else we don’t do?” you manage, voice raw, unsteady.

His face crumples. He already knows what you’re about to say. Knows it’s true.

“We don’t use each other as punching bags when our feelings get hurt,” you continue, anger and betrayal bleeding through every word. “Grow the fuck up, Steve.”

You slide into your car, turning the key as he watches, frozen in the driveway, his heart pounding so hard it drowns out everything else. The engine roars to life. He wants to scream, wants to beg you not to leave, but the words stick in his throat.

The tires crunch against the asphalt, and then you’re gone—taillights disappearing around the corner, leaving him standing there in the silent darkness, a chill sinking through his bones.

His father was right in some aspects—that you would leave. But Steve never thought that he would be the one to make you go.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #stranger things x reader #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things imagine #steve harrington angst #stranger things fic #stranger things x you

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zylcd · 7 days ago

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Revolutionizing the Road: The Rise of Automotive LCD Screens

In the modern automotive industry, the role of display technology has transformed dramatically. What was once a simple analog dashboard has evolved into a fully digital command center, thanks to the widespread adoption of automotive LCD screens. These sleek, vibrant, and functional displays are now standard in most vehicles—from entry-level sedans to high-end luxury cars—and they’re redefining how drivers interact with their vehicles.

Enhanced User Experience Behind the Wheel

Automotive LCD screens provide critical real-time information in a clear, customizable format. Traditional needle gauges are now replaced by high-resolution TFT LCD displays that offer dynamic interfaces for speed, RPM, fuel, battery levels, navigation, and more. Many automakers have adopted instrument cluster LCD panels that can be reconfigured to suit driver preferences, enhancing both safety and comfort.

Center stack displays—those in the middle of the dashboard—have also embraced advanced touch screen LCD panels that integrate climate control, media, navigation, and vehicle settings into a single, intuitive interface. These screens often support multi-touch functionality and high brightness levels to remain visible in all lighting conditions.

Smart Connectivity and Entertainment

Today’s drivers expect their cars to be as connected as their smartphones. LCD modules play a key role in enabling seamless connectivity through Apple CarPlay, Android Auto, and proprietary infotainment systems. Rear-seat entertainment systems often rely on high-resolution LCD monitors to provide passengers with video playback, gaming, or internet browsing.

Advanced vehicles also include head-up displays (HUDs), which project key driving data onto a transparent LCD screen on the windshield—minimizing distractions and improving safety.

Durability and Adaptation to Harsh Conditions

Automotive LCD screens must operate reliably in challenging environments. From freezing winters to sweltering summers, these screens are engineered to withstand wide temperature ranges, humidity, dust, and constant vibration. Most displays are designed with automotive-grade LCD panels, enhanced backlighting, anti-glare coatings, and optical bonding for improved visibility and robustness.

Additionally, touch screen panels are optimized to respond accurately even when the driver is wearing gloves, a crucial feature for cold-weather markets.

Market Trends and Innovations

The global demand for automotive display modules is rapidly growing. According to industry reports, the automotive display market is projected to exceed $30 billion by 2030, driven by the surge in electric vehicles (EVs), autonomous driving systems, and luxury features.

Manufacturers are now integrating OLED and transparent LCD displays into concept and next-gen vehicles. Curved and flexible displays are also gaining traction, offering futuristic designs and immersive interfaces that adapt to the car’s interior geometry.

For more LCD display information,click here.

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sylvialabtronuk · 1 year ago

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Dual Flow Particle Counter

Labtron Dual flow particle counter is a six channel microcomputer controlled unit The particle size channels of this device range from 0.3 µm to 10.0 µm, allowing for precise measurement across a broad spectrum of particle sizes. It operates at two different flow rates, 2.83 L/min and 50 mL/min, providing flexibility for various testing scenarios.it has data display modes of Counts, Counts/m3, Counts/ft3 it has the3 A built-in printer with multiple print modes allows for versatile documentation of air quality data, enhancing reporting and record-keeping. Large data storage capacity ensures extensive historical data can be retained.The date and time display provides precise context for readings, and a rechargeable battery offers portability and extended operational time.

#air particle counter #chemical lab equipment #dust particle counter

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labtronorg · 2 years ago

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Portable Airborne Particle Counter

Explore our range of portable airborne particle counters. Make sure of the air's quality and safety with accurate measurements. Visit us now! Labtron.org.

#Portable airborne particle counters #air particle counting #environmental monitoring #labtron #Analytical Instruments

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winwintea · 7 months ago

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mutual affection

PAIRING ↬ physics student!park jisung x fem!reader

TAGS ↬ FLUFF!!! the cheese is so cheesing here, way too many physics puns, you might cringe but here it is, i love park jisung, love love love him

SUMMARY ↬ sometimes, love isn’t theoretical—it’s proven, one note at a time.

WORD COUNT ↬ 2.6k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ↬ wow i’m a nerd. MEERRY CHRISTMAS @polarisjisung THIS ONE IS FOR YOU MY LOVE <33

PLAYLIST ↬ rhinestone eyes - gorillaz; swan - miyeon; song 2 - blur; missing you - ftisland;

JISUNG TAPPED HIS PEN AGAINST HIS NOTEBOOK RHYTHMICALLY,

pretending to take notes as the professor droned on about Schrödinger's Equation. It wasn’t that he disliked quantum mechanics—he loved it—but today, the equations felt heavier than usual. His eyes wandered to the person sitting next to him—you.

You were furiously scribbling in your notebook, not writing notes but...drawing? Jisung squinted. Was that a...cat? No, two cats. One inside a box labeled "alive" and the other "dead." He felt a grin tugging at his lips before he could stop himself.

A faint chuckle escaped, and he ducked his head, mortified, as you glanced his way. He was sure he’d blown his cover—who laughs during a physics lecture? But instead of being annoyed, your lips began to form a small smirk.

“Like what you see?” you whispered, sliding your notebook slightly closer to him.

Jisung blinked. Was this a test? A joke? Chenle said he always had trouble talking to women. Something about playing too much League and not touching grass. But it wasn’t his fault! And Chenle was wrong. He did touch grass. He hesitated but gave you an awkward nod, his brain scrambling for something to say. “It’s, uh... creative. Schrödinger would be impressed.”

You snorted softly, flipping the notebook his way completely. Beneath the doodle, you wrote:

"Your turn."

Jisung froze. Your turn? What was he supposed to draw? He glanced back at you, but you were already watching the professor again, feigning disinterest, though the corner of your mouth continued to twitch with amusement.

Heart pounding, Jisung picked up his pen. Drawing wasn’t exactly his forte, but he couldn’t just pass up the challenge. He quickly sketched a stick figure version of himself, complete with messy hair and oversized glasses, holding a comically oversized Geiger counter pointed at the box.

Next to the drawing, he added:

“Should I open it or...?”

He slid the notebook back your way, staring straight ahead, willing himself not to blush. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw you lean over to inspect his work. There was a brief pause, and then—you laughed. Not just a quiet chuckle but an actual laugh, soft and melodic.

“That’s not bad,” you whispered, your tone teasing. “Stick figures are an underrated art form.”

Jisung risked a glance your way, only to find you grinning at him, eyes bright with amusement. For the first time, he smiled back without overthinking it.

As the lecture continued, neither of you paid much attention to the professor. Instead, your notebook became the canvas for the beginning of a tradition—tiny doodles, puns, and inside jokes that somehow made quantum mechanics infinitely more interesting.

Jisung couldn’t explain it, but as he scribbled out a little equation to accompany his next doodle, he felt a strange, unfamiliar excitement bubbling in his chest. For the first time, class didn’t feel so dull anymore.

It started with Schrödinger’s cat, but it didn’t stop there. For the next lecture, Jisung was prepared. He had a small stack of sticky notes tucked into his notebook, ready for whatever you might throw at him.

You were already scribbling something when he slid into his seat. The professor began discussing wave-particle duality, but Jisung’s focus was on the tiny folded note you flicked onto his desk.

He cautiously unfolded it. Written in neat handwriting was:

“Are you made of copper and tellurium? Because you’re Cu-Te.”

Jisung nearly choked on air, covering his mouth to stifle a laugh. He could feel the tips of his ears heating up as he turned to look at you. You were staring straight ahead, pen twirling between your fingers, but your smirk gave you away.

He scribbled back quickly:

“Are you a black hole? Because you’ve got some serious pull.”

You took the note, bit your lip to keep from laughing, and scribbled something before passing it back.

“Careful, Park. You might reach escape velocity at this rate.”

For the rest of the lecture, neither of you could keep straight faces. Jisung felt lighter than he had in weeks.

Two lectures later, during a painfully long discussion on thermodynamic entropy, Jisung felt like his brain was melting. Next to him, you seemed to be having the same struggle.

He noticed you sketching again, your tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. A few minutes later, you nudged his elbow and slid a folded scrap paper toward him.

He opened it to find an absolutely ridiculous cartoon: a dramatic black hole with wild hair and glasses that looked suspiciously like the professor’s. Around it, little stick figures were being sucked into the gravitational pull, textbooks flying everywhere.

At the bottom, you’d scrawled:

“Entropy? More like ENTRAP-Y.”

Jisung clamped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking as he tried (and failed) to contain his laughter. The professor paused, eyes squinting at the two of you, and Jisung froze in shock.

When the professor turned back to the whiteboard, Jisung quickly scribbled a response:

“I think I just lost three brain cells to this singularity.”

You snorted quietly, and for the rest of the class, both of you avoided eye contact to prevent another laughing fit.

It wasn’t always jokes. At some point, the notes started to change.

One afternoon, after a particularly rough group presentation where Jisung stumbled over his words more than once, he slumped into his usual seat next to you, clutching his notebook like a shield.

You didn’t say anything at first, just slid a folded piece of paper onto his desk.

“You did great today. Public speaking is the worst, but you made your point, and honestly, half the class was lost after the second slide anyway.”

Jisung stared at the note for a long moment before writing back.

“Thanks. I always feel like I’m messing up. Group projects make it ten times worse because I’m scared I’ll let everyone down.”

You read it, your expression softening before you wrote back:

“I get that. But hey, if we ever have to do a project together, I’ll handle the talking, and you can handle the math. Deal?”

Jisung’s chest felt warm in a way he couldn’t quite describe.

“Deal.”

It was late in the semester, the kind of day where the sunlight streamed through the classroom windows just right, making everything feel a little softer. The professor was lecturing about particle accelerators, and Jisung was genuinely trying to focus—until he noticed you scribbling on a slip of paper.

You passed it to him without looking up.

“If you could work anywhere in the world, where would it be?”

Jisung hesitated. No one had ever asked him that before—not seriously, anyway.

“NASA, probably. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had this strange obsession with space. It feels like there’s so much to discover, you know?”

You grinned when you read his response.

“That’s so cool. I’d want to be there too. Maybe one day we’ll run into each other in the cafeteria, arguing about quarks over sandwiches.”

Jisung smiled, his heart doing this weird fluttery thing that he couldn’t quite explain.

“I’d argue that up quarks are superior, but I’d let you win. Probably.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, scribbled something back, and slid the note over.

“You’d let me win? Park Jisung, are you challenging me to a quark debate?”

For the rest of class, Jisung couldn’t stop smiling.

Each note became a little window into your world and a bridge into his. It wasn’t just the jokes or the sketches—it was the little truths tucked between the lines. And every time he unfolded a piece of paper from you, Jisung felt a little less like an awkward physics student and a little more like…someone special.

Jisung’s head was spinning as he shoved his notebook into his backpack. The lecture had just ended, and while most of the class was still debating the finer points of entropy, his focus was on the small scrap of paper tucked between the pages of his notes.

It wasn’t supposed to leave his bag. It was just…a silly thought he’d scribbled down late at night when he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

But as he hurried to pack up, the folded note slipped loose and landed on your desk.

He didn’t notice until he was halfway out the door.

You were still sitting, absently flipping through your notes, when your gaze fell on the scrap of paper. You picked it up and unfolded it, eyebrows raising at the messy handwriting:

“I think the Doppler effect explains why my heart races whenever you’re near.”

You froze. The edges of the paper trembled in your fingers as the words sank in, and your cheeks warmed instantly.

“Jisung?” you called out instinctively, but he was already gone, lost in the crowd of students exiting the lecture hall.

Heart pounding, you hesitated for a moment before grabbing your pen. On the back of the note, you wrote carefully:

“Newton’s Third Law says every action has an equal and opposite reaction. I feel the same way.”

The next lecture couldn’t come fast enough.

Jisung didn’t sleep much the night before class. The realization that he’d left that note behind had haunted him. Maybe you’d thrown it away. Maybe you’d laughed at it.

But when he walked into the lecture hall the next day, you were already there. Sitting in your usual seat, you looked up as he approached, and your smile was soft—almost shy.

“Hey,” you said, sliding a small folded note across the desk.

Jisung swallowed nervously, hands trembling slightly as he opened it.

Newton’s Third Law. Equal and opposite reaction.

His eyes scanned the words once, twice, before he finally dared to meet your gaze. You were biting your lip, your eyes bright with anticipation.

Jisung’s voice came out barely above a whisper. “You—You feel the same?”

You nodded. “It’s simple physics, Park. Cause and effect.”

He let out a breathless laugh, hand coming up to cover his face as his shoulders shook slightly. “I can’t believe you’re using physics laws to confess to me right now.”

“Technically, you started it,” you said with a grin.

It was the end of a particularly brutal thermodynamics lecture. Jisung’s brain was fried, and judging by your furrowed brow, you weren’t faring much better.

The professor dismissed the class, and everyone packed up sluggishly. Jisung hesitated as he glanced at you, still scribbling something in your notes.

“See you later?” you said casually, but Jisung didn’t respond.

Instead, he slid a small, carefully folded piece of paper onto your desk before rushing out the door.

You blinked after him, confused, before carefully unfolding the note.

It was a Feynman diagram.

But instead of particle interactions, Jisung had mapped out…you and him.

At one vertex was a little stick figure of him, labeled “Jisung”, and at another, a tiny doodle of you labeled “(Y/N)”. Between the two were arrows labeled “Shared Jokes”, “Physics Puns”, and “Mutual Nerdiness”, and tiny hearts scattered along the connections.

At the bottom, in small, slightly wobbly handwriting, he’d written:

“I like you.”

Your face felt like it was on fire, but you couldn’t stop the wide smile spreading across your lips.

When you walked out of the lecture hall, Jisung was leaning against the wall, clutching the strap of his backpack like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

“Jisung,” you said softly, holding up the note.

He shifted nervously, avoiding your gaze. “I, um…I thought it might be easier to…you know…diagram it out.”

You laughed—a soft, delighted sound—and pulled out your pen.

Carefully, right at the bottom of his diagram, you added a new arrow connecting your doodle to his.

“Mutual Affection.”

You held it up so he could see, and Jisung’s eyes widened. His lips parted slightly in surprise before breaking into the brightest smile you’d ever seen.

“So…you like me too?” he asked quietly, voice trembling just a little.

“I think it’s safe to say we’ve reached a stable equilibrium,” you said with a grin.

He laughed—a sound full of relief and joy—and for a moment, the two of you just stood there, smiling at each other in the middle of the crowded hallway.

Physics could explain a lot of things, but this? The way Jisung’s heart felt like it was about to escape his chest, the way your eyes would crinkle when you smiled at him—this felt like a force of nature all its own.

By the time midterms had passed and the days grew shorter, the notes between you and Jisung had shifted. There were still plenty of physics jokes and ridiculous doodles—like the time he drew you both as photons bouncing off a reflective surface—but now there were softer words, too.

Between derivatives and integrals, you’d find little sentences scribbled in his neat handwriting:

“I hope you’re eating enough today.”

“You looked really pretty in the lab yesterday.”

“The universe is expanding, but I think my feelings for you are growing faster.”

In return, you wrote him notes on sticky tabs and slipped them into his textbook:

“Don’t stay up too late studying tonight. Even electrons need rest.”

One afternoon, after a particularly chaotic study session in the library, Jisung passed you a folded note with a tiny sketch of two orbiting electrons, labeled “You” and “Me”, with a little heart in the nucleus.

Underneath, he’d written:

“Stable bond achieved.”

You laughed softly, clutching the note like it was precious cargo.

“Park Jisung, you’re ridiculous,” you whispered.

He grinned, cheeks turning pink. “But you like it, right?”

You leaned over, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. “I like you.”

Jisung turned bright red and nearly dropped his pen.

The lecture hall was unnervingly silent during your final exam. The only sounds were the scratch of pencils on paper and the faint ticking of the clock.

You were halfway through a particularly frustrating question on thermodynamic efficiency when your calculator, which you’d been using furiously, clicked slightly as you pressed down on the buttons.

You frowned, turning it over—and noticed a tiny piece of folded paper tucked neatly into the battery compartment.

Your eyes darted up to scan the room. Jisung was a few rows ahead, hunched over his paper, completely engrossed in his work.

Heart racing, you carefully unfolded the note beneath the desk.

It was a small sketch, drawn with the same endearing messiness Jisung always brought to his doodles.

At the top, a hand-drawn banner read: “You’re the best experiment I’ve ever run.”

Below it, a sketch of the two of you: you with your hair tied back, him with his glasses askew and a shy smile. Little stars and hearts floated around the cartoon versions of yourselves, and at the bottom, he’d written:

“Hypothesis: Spending time with you improves my mood exponentially. Conclusion: Hypothesis confirmed.”

You pressed your hand over your mouth to hide your smile, your face heating up as tears pricked the corners of your eyes.

Carefully, you scribbled on the back with your pencil:

“Conclusion peer-reviewed and verified. Park Jisung, you’re my favorite discovery.”

When the exam ended, and everyone started filing out, you caught up to him in the hallway.

“Hey, Newton,” you said softly.

Jisung turned, his nervous smile flickering into something brighter when he saw you holding up the note.

“Did you…did you find it?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I did.” You stepped closer, holding the paper gently between your fingers. “You know, I think you might be my best result yet.”

Jisung let out a soft laugh, cheeks flushed pink. “Does that mean we’ve achieved optimal conditions?”

You grinned, reaching out to intertwine your fingers with his. “Definitely. Stable equilibrium achieved.”

TAGLIST ↬ @lyvhie @aquaphoenixz @galacticnct @yizhrt @polarisjisung @multifandomania @spacejip @peterm4rker @viasdreams

#nct #nct dream #nct dream fic #nct fluff #park jisung #nct jisung #jisung park #park jisung fic #park jisung fluff #jisung fic #nct fic #nct scenarios #nct angst #nct x reader #jisung x reader #park jisung x reader

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thelov3lybookworm · 26 days ago

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Alone (part 2)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: The morning is bleak, business as usual. Nothing new. Nothing fun. Until someone decides to make it fun.

•○●⛦●○•

Word Count: 1568

Warnings: just yn being depresso espresso and done with life and az lol, some vague descriptions of the previous part i think, and kidnapping teehee 🤭 ig you could also say angst? idk tho lol you decide

A/n: GUESS WHOS BACK MY GUYSSSSSSSS 🥹🥹🥹 ive been SO DESPERATE TO WRITE SOMETHING THE PAST FEW MONTHS but couldnt cus of exams and stuff and then had a bit of writers block lol but OMG IM SO HAPPY RN

this is like. a sequel to Alone, a ficlet id written for starfall week hehe. ALTHOUGH THIS IS A SEQUEL, IT CAN STILL BE READ AS A STANDALONE!! so go ahead and pls comment hehehehe i love reading comments <3

this purely exists because of the amazing people who commented on the previous part, and also people who asked to be tagged in part 2 hehe: @blessthepizzaman @vanserrasimp @sophieliz and @saltedcoffeescotch

ANYWAYS, ENJOYYYY!!!🥳🥳🥳

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Brows furrowed, Y/n pushed her face into the pillow, her annoyance slowly rising.

Why did every morning have to start with sunrise? Why couldn’t she wake up and it be night outside for once?

This had become a routine, almost. Her, lying in bed, then glaring out the window at the sun that didn’t seem to care, and then rolling as far away from the rays as she could without tumbling over. Nothing was fun anymore. Nothing to be excited about, nothing new. Only fatigued nothingness remained.

The only time she left her bed was when the rumbling in her stomach became too loud to ignore.

Which, as was evident by the slow but steady feeling of her stomach starting to cramp up, Y/n figured would be happening sooner rather than later.

Lungs expanding, air filling them, Y/n shoved the covers off of her body, scowling at the soft material, then swung her legs over the side of the bed, huffing. A small moment passed, and then two, as she stared down at the grainy planks of wood.

Somewhere outside the small apartment she had rented out a week after starfall, children played amongst themselves. The sounds of loud, free and innocent laughter that would have made her smile once now only served to grate against her nerves.

Eyes closed, breathe in, breathe out.

A flick of her wrist, and the house was covered in a sound barrier, suddenly silencing any and all sounds that before penetrated the walls. Quietly, Y/n stood, pushing strands of hair away from her face and then tying it up in a bun with the small strip of leather lying on her bedside table.

Feet bare, Y/n traipsed down the hallway to the kitchen, trying to remember if there were any leftovers she could have as she splashed her face with cold water from the tap. But the clean, empty counters told her that no, there were no leftovers.

Checking the cabinets, Y/n realised that the two slices of bread she had stored away to eat someday when there was nothing to eat had caught mold and now looked like the sadistic announcement of doom.

Pulling her lower lip between her teeth, trying desperately to find something, anything to satiate her needs for the day, she looked around. But alas, not even a dust particle dared to show face.

Having had her mental health on a downward tumble the past few weeks, Y/n disliked doing anything, much less cook for herself the first thing in the morning, and so, caving, she walked back out and towards the main door of the apartment, pulling off her thick coat from the corner where a lone shoe cabinet stood haphazardly.

It had been one of the things the homeowner had left for her in the partially furnished house. Granted, it looked older than the mother herself, much like everything else in the building, but it held up, and that was all that mattered.

It wasn’t that Y/n couldn’t afford to rent better living quarters. She could probably buy around three of the buildings in the area and still live out her life comfortably from what she had acquired. It was just that she didn’t want to get anything fancy.

What was the point in pretty things, anyway?

After all, she had lived her whole life bathed in riches and jewels and luxury, and yet, the thing that mattered most in life stayed just out of reach. All the warmth she craved, the comfort, the feeling of belonging, remained contained in books and soft bedding.

All the love she craved right in front of her eyes. Always there, never hers.

Glancing in the small mirror covered in questionable stains that for some reason refused to budge when taken to with a rag and soap, Y/n deemed her hair to be… fine, for an errand that was meant to be quick. She just had to walk a few blocks down, grab a few necessities, bread, and maybe a cup of coffee from the shop across the street that always tasted way more watered down than it should, and then it was just her and the comfort of the apartment against the world.

Preparing herself mentally, Y/n quickly pushed her feet into the boots set in the corner, tugging up the hood of her jacket, and pulled open the door. As she stepped outside and began to lock the door, a stale breeze from the cracked window in the far end tickled her nose, making her scrunch her face in distaste.

She always wished they would repair the thing, because not only did it make her cold sometimes, it often brought in smells of alcohol and everything else that disgusted her, and she hated it with every fibre in her being.

Not to mention, the stench also reminded her of cold nights alone on a high peak, surrounded by lights and glitter and stars, bottles and tears and liquid that made her throw up in the Sidra when walking all by herself in the snow while a party raged in her wake.

Y/n shook her head, shoving the icicles on her hands into her pockets as she walked down the steps, glad no neighbour of her seemed to be out and about.

Going unnoticed in the streets was almost too easy, considering she blended well in with the crowds of people going to work. All of them wearing dark coats, so bleak and ordinary. It would be a lie to claim she did not prefer this over the fur and jewels her friends decked themselves in.

Well, most of them anyways.

The tiny little building of the bakery was easy to spot, not because of the peeling colours and cracked steps, but because of the scented smoke billowing out of the chimney first thing in the morning, announcing the making of new, fresh bread.

The door creaked open under Y/n’s stiff fingers, blasting her in the face with the warm whiff of freshly produced goods, and she sighed, letting the door fall shut behind her. Instantly, the air warmed up her skin.

The bakery was fairly crowded, mostly filled with some buying smaller packages of cakes and muffins to eat on the go, and others bringing bigger packs of bread, likely to feed their families. Ignoring all that, Y/n walked over to the small old lady behind the counter, calling out orders at the younger female running about in the back visible through a small window, likely baking more.

"Good morning, darling. What can I get for you today?"

Y/n tried her best to offer her a smile, she really did, but she was ready to bet her small toe that it looked more like a grimace than anything else. "Just a roll of white bread, please."

The lady quickly put the bread in a brown paper bag, then paused, before adding in a small muffin. Y/n began to protest, but one wink from the lady and a secretive smile later, Y/n once more stood in the bustling streets of Velaris’ almost forgotten square.

Its on the house. You look like you could use a bit of sweetness, child.

The words were so simple, yet they swirled around Y/n’s mind like a whirlpool.

Maybe I do need some sweetness.

With the thoughts in her mind, Y/n began trekking back to the ramshackle apartment. One foot in front of the other, an occasional sidestep, and repeat. Until a pit opened up in her stomach, making her pause.

Y/n looked up, scanning her surroundings. Nothing out of the ordinary, and yet…

Am I just hungry?

She continued on, shaking off the concerns. But with each step, the pit deepened, spreading, and encompassed all her insides with unshakable dread.

Maybe… this isn’t hunger.

But just as she had the world breaking intervention from the mother, there was a crunch behind her. A whoosh, and then a bag was thrown over her head.

The first thing she noticed, even in her panic- aside from the sudden darkness, of course- was the stench coming from the threadbare bag.

A stench she, as part of the inner circle and one of the more skilled chemical researchers of Prythian, was quite familiar with.

Faebane.

Faebane, mixed with something more…acrid, something she recognised but couldn’t quite put a finger on, but knew it was meant to put someone in a deep, uninterruptible slumber for the very least of a day, or something similar to that.

Way to go down, I guess.

Y/n decided, then and there, as the bag tightened on her head and she was pulled back and to the side towards her captor- and what she assumed was into the small, dark alleyway, away from sight- that she wouldn’t fight back. What was the point in trying to overthrow someone who undeniably had you in captivity?

At least I can say I went with dignity. No kicking feet and screaming.

The bag tightened, and tightened, and tightened, and gradually, her head became lighter, and whatever limited vision she had began fading, her limbs loosening, falling limp. With barely any consciousness left in her, she felt her body being jostled, thrown over someone’s shoulder, maybe, before the person started walking off.

Into an adventure, I hope.

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ACOTAR taglist <3

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