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fictionalarchives · 2 days ago

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Ellie x Cowgirl!Reader

Finally worked up the courage to write, pls be nice this is the first piece of fiction I have ever written. I apologize in advance if this is the worst thing you have ever read.

Summary: Ellie hires cowgirl!reader as help for the farm, they can't escape the tension between them.

Warnings : 18+ mdni, smut, sub!ellie, f!reader, sub!ellie x dom!reader, scissoring/tribbing, fingering (e!recieving)

Wc: 1.9K

Ellie had been working the farm day and night, it was twice the work since Joel had passed a few years before. She’d kept the farm running, but it was tough on her own.

She could feel the ache starting to spread in her back to her legs as she worked tirelessly in the afternoon.

Things had been slow and she really needed to harvest all the crops and sell enough before winter came. She was already running low on money and it was only August, she was growing worried there wouldn't be enough to get through winter.

She needed to hire help soon, she wouldn't be able to get all the crops in time to sell at the market herself.

She knew she had gotten lucky when you rode into her farm looking for work. Especially in a town where women were taught to be teachers or housewives.

You definitely didn't look like the housewife type.

Wrangler jeans, boots, shotgun on your side and a wide brim hat. You looked like trouble.

Rough around the edges but you were willing to work and when not many people were.

Ellie couldn't afford to say no, August was coming to an end. She didn't even know how you managed to stumble across her farm. What were you doing so far from town? In the end she was just grateful you did.

Ellie realized you were more than a pretty face. You knew your way around a farm.

She was starting to feel like she was the help when you did double the work she would usually do in just a day.

Ellie was really trying to not get distracted, but every time you stepped near her she would get all flushed and forget what she was doing.

You liked making her blush it was quite the contrast to her appearance.

Brown wide brimmed hat, eyebrow scar, flannel sweaty and dirty from working the farm; she really didn't seem the blushing type. Yet here she was.

You really did need this job so you pretended not to notice, hiding your satisfaction at the fact that she felt it too. Whatever this tensions was.

You pushed down those same feelings when you made accidental eye contact, but it had a reaction on you, making you pull your own hat a little lower in an attempt to hide your own blush.

You needed to focus, you had already lost your last job too quickly and a harsh winter was making its way. You needed stability for once.

No matter how much you wanted Ellie, no matter how long it had been since you came across a woman like her.

Ellie caught you off guard asking suddenly

“Where are you stayin '?"

“Was planning on riding back into town and staying at the inn” you grumbled.

Ellie knew she shouldn’t, you looked like trouble after all but she offered you the spare room in her house.

What was the point of you spending money on an inn when she had space anyway?

“There’s an empty room upstairs I can fix up”

“Are you sure, I really don’t want to impose”

“No really, the earlier you're here to work the better” Ellie tried to play it off.

The truth is she was lonely in this big house.

She muttered something about dusting the room before heading upstairs.

You gave her an appreciative glance before grabbing what little things you owned and moving them upstairs.

You hoped you wouldn’t have to stay for too long, not wanting to take advantage of her kindness.

The room was cozy with gingham bedding, although it seemed as though it had been shut for ages.

Ellie seemed to have changed the sheets, and opened the windows. It was strange to meet someone like Ellie who welcome you with such hospitality.

After the bath Ellie had kindly drawn for you. You lay in the room’s bed feeling the night's breeze, trying not to think too hard about Ellie undressing for her own bath across the hall.

Eventually your exhaustion won over, sending you into an early slumber to the sounds of the quiet farm.

The morning chill pulled you out of bed early. You realized it was still dark but you weren't one for much sleep anyway, deciding you should probably do something nice to return the favor to Ellie.

Unfamiliar with her kitchen; but determined by the time Ellie padded down the steps you had already managed to make coffee, eggs and warmed some scones you found.

And what a sight for Ellie indeed, you setting the table like you were made to be in her kitchen, rough edges and all but you fit right in.

Waking up to breakfast ready was not something Ellie was used to. In fact she hadn’t shared breakfast with someone since Joel passed.

The thought made her chest ache just a bit. She hadn’t realized how much she missed this until you two were silently passing the salt back and forth.

Hand brushing when she handed you the jam for the scones, you pretended once again not to notice the pink spreading across her face and ears and sweeping down her neck.

The quiet view of the sun rising on the farm, and birds chirping suddenly reminding you it was really just the two you out here.

Ellie decided you would get straight to work harvesting strawberries and other fruits, then tending to the horses.

The morning was full of brushing past each other and stolen glances, just as the day before.

It was like a dance, Ellie hadn’t been with anyone in so long that it was impossible to ignore you.

You found it harder to ignore her. She smelled of strawberry and evergreen, impossible to ignore when she was near. Humming a tune to herself, totally unaware of the effect she was having on you.

Walking into the shed you realized she wasn’t as clueless as she had led you to believe wanted you when you leaned in behind her, hand brushing her waist when grabbing the shears. Ellie’s breath hitched, it was quiet but not unnoticed.

You continued on and went back to harvesting the strawberries that were ready for collecting, sweet and red.

Ellie stole another glance, she hadn’t been with a woman in years. She actually didn’t quite remember the last time.

She was aching.

But the stakes were higher here if she drove you away she was out of luck; it was already August. She kept telling herself this.

But how could she not imagine being with you when you were walking around looking like that?

Like you fit right into her life.

You were eternally grateful to her for hiring you, you had been drifting for years and you could see the possibilities of a stable life.

You decided it was only right for you to make dinner, show her you were capable of hospitality as well.

Ellie, who had survived on fruit and cereal despite having a farm, accepted with no hesitation.

Just glad to have a real meal again and someone to eat with.

You placed your hat on the hook in the entrance of the kitchen before getting to work, excited to cook in such a big kitchen with fresh ingredients.

“What can I help with?” Ellie asked quietly, she was still adjusting to your presence in her home.

“Sure could you dice the potatoes?”

Ellie silently began working. Pulling out what you would need to cook before she began har tasks.

Only the sounds of the farm could be heard as you two worked together.

You leaned over Ellie’s shoulder to get a better look at what she was doing when her breath faltered once again.

You took that as your sign to lean in to her, no longer caring about your lack of professionalism.

It was Déjà vu when your hand found her waist again, this time you whispered

“Is this okay?”

Ellie nodded quickly as if the opportunity would never arise again.

You began brushing a trail of kisses down her neck, her skin is salty with sweat from working all day. One hand making its way down the sides of her waist. Your free hand found Ellie’s hair tugging her up into a kiss. Gentler than she expected.

You were both breathing heavily, her smell overwhelming your senses.

You slipped your hand between her jeans and underwear, teasing her mound through the thin fabric. Ellie’s hips began to push into your palm searching for any sort of friction.

She began panting in your ear, she could hear you biting back sounds yourself.

She purposely began to push back into your center. Causing you to bite your lip. You still her hips with one hand.

You stop your other hand completely.

Ellie lets out a frustrated sound.

“Please” Ellie huffs out.

“Please what? Tell me what you want”

“Stop teasing”

Ellie grabs your hand and puts it inside her underwear.

“God” You rasp

“What?” She whispered.

“You're so wet, have you been working like this all day?”

Ellie can only moan in response when you begin sliding a finger between her folds, dragging her wetness up to circle her clit slowly.

Sliding a finger in her entrance, she continues bucking her hips into you.

You take off one side of her flannel and move to kiss down her shoulder.

Your own clit is aching rubbing against the fabric of your own underwear. Ellie’s desperate movement’s only making things worse. Your own hips involuntarily push back, the friction so good causing a quiet sounds to escape you.

You can feel her need getting more desperate

“Let me- Ellie huffs out frustrated

“Let me touch you” she gets out, so quiet it’s almost inaudible.

“No I can’t, we shouldn’t even be doing this”

In that moment Ellie forgot about everything important. It had been too long since Ellie had been with anyone. She didn't care about the work that needed to be done.

“Please”

She starts pushing back into you.

“Fuck- okay” You pant out.

Ellie slips out of your grasp turning around mouth back on yours more desperate this time, skin flushed hands trying to unbuckle your belt shamelessly.

“Lets go upstairs” you get out between kisses

She agrees you follow her up to her room.

Not getting anytime to take in your surroundings, she pushes you on the bed as she kisses you again this time more desperate.

She begins unfastening your belt again.

“Need help?” you ask unbuckling it with ease.

Ellie doesn’t have time to be embarrassed at her lack of dexterity, she just wants to feel you against her.

She tugs down your pants and underwear at the same time before parting her legs and slotting into yours.

Sinking into each other you both moan at the same time when you feel each other's centers make contact, Ellie wastes no time when she begins rocking her hips against you.

Your hands guide her hips against your own making sure she's hitting all the right spots.

Her moans were sinful. It was all too much and not enough at the same time.

It was so intimate like this, pressed against each other so sensitive.

Drawing Ellie closer you pulled her down into a lazy kiss, too focused on the pleasure to care.

Ellie was close, you could feel her hips stuttering. Crying out your name repeatedly.

“Yeah just like that keep ridin’ me, don’t hold back” you encouraged.

She was trying to last, she really was but that was it for her.

“Gonna cu-” Ellie cried out, eyes screwed shut hips moving frantically against your own.

With a broken sob she ground her hips one more time bringing you both to the edge.

You felt her body shudder before she collapsed into your arms.

Dazed, face red and flushed. Eyes shut.

The room smelled of sex, only the sounds of you both panting left. Dinner forgotten.

She shuddered as you traced a finger down her spine, this time it was your turn to draw the bath.

Hope that wasn’t awful, this is so far from perfect and maybe I could have spent more time on it but I wanted to just rip the bandaid off and get my first fic over with.

I knew if I worked on it until it was “perfect” I would never get anything done. There are probably too many commas. I'm uncomfortable with how unfamiliar writing is to me.

Please give me advice. I have no clue what I'm doing, I don't know how to tag things, or add warnings properly, or make layouts I'm sort of just guessing. So tell me what I need to improve on please and how to go about it. Most importantly writing advice (my grammar is surely lacking) !

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nothoughtsjustficrecs · 3 hours ago

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Review Written for The K-Fic Collection.

Oh, this was just so genuinely lovely. And now I really want someone to hold me under the stars and softly tell me their stories 🥺.

Thank you for writing this story and sharing it with us!

When I was reading, I decided to write down my thoughts as I go, as I knew I'd forget otherwise. Below this is literally just the thoughts I wrote down because I do not have the brain power to convert them into actual fully coherent comments [I'll put them below a read more cut for the sake of spoilers and such].

“ it’s directions to a wetland park ” oooh that kind of bog. I literally thought reader was asking for a toilet break lol

“ You beam at him, eyes sparkling in the sun’s last rays of the day, like a pet showing its owner a present they brought back from the outside. ” aw, cute

“ “Not until tonight, I haven’t,” is his smooth answer; and before you know it, he’s pulling the shift into drive and pressing hard on the gas. ” we love that support!

“ “Explain it to me.” ” oh, that’s the sweetest thing you can say when talking to someone who studies words 🥺

“ He lowers his face so that his mouth is close, so close, right by your ear. Freeing one of his hands from your embrace, he tilts your chin up with his fingers ever so slightly, pointing at a faint cluster of stars somewhere above and to the right. You squint your eyes to focus better as Jeonghan softly begins his story. ” oh, I love this so much 🥺

“ “Just.. how perfectly nature fits within itself sometimes, like one big recurring metaphor. As if the mother of the universe finds her favorite verses in the stars and rewrites them over and over because she can’t get enough of them.” ” love this

“ “Personally, I think I’ve received the message pretty well through you.” ” YESSSSSS! Be brave and honest, my child!!!

“ There’s a sharp intake of air. You feel Jeonghan exhale a breath, tingling your skin, and his lips are so close they kiss the shell of your ear as they move.

“I agree. I guess we are yet another recreation of her favorite tale of love, then.” ” 🥺

“ “The duality of man.”

“The duality of man, indeed,” you murmur. ” indeed indeed (yes, I did mean to write that twice)

“ “That’s never been something to ask of me. It’s always been pure fact, like the origin of the word bog. Pine has different Latin roots, Orion chases the Pleiades, and I want you.” ” 🥺💗

I feel like the majority of my reaction to this fic has literally been 🥺 and I should probably try to be more eloquent on a fic that has language as a theme, but unfortunately, my brain does not want to word, so I apologise for that!

📋 the study of prosody | ft. yoon jeonghan

PREVIEW. pros·o·dy. noun. the patterns of stress and intonation in a language. an example of its use would be the study of the following phrases: i.) if you want me, ii.) if you want me, iii.) if you want me.

FEATURING. stargazer!yoon jeonghan x linguist!reader GENRE(S). yearning, fluff, friends to lovers, suggestive (minors beware.) LENGTH | WC. <20min | 3.4k words EXPLICITS. cursing, one (1) mention of a spider, r ends up on yjh’s lap, car makeout session, light marking, grinding, yjh calls r sweetheart, lowk sub!r & sub!yjh (they are so effing down bad for one another)

JAY’S MUSINGS. been in the Craziest jeonghan brainrot for So long. someone help. for my beloved ashi, @junplusone, as we will now unfortunately promptly disappear again as stem major curriculums pick up once more. i offer u my love thru begging jeonghan. tysm for beta-reading. (p.s. slightly inspired by @mochacoda's night d(r)ive!! there is so much love written into her words it consumes me whole. pls go take a look <3)

YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE. if you want me, you better speak up by ljh // understand by keshi // striptease by carwash // touch tank by quinnie // better half by jeonghan (ft. omoinotake)

i.) if you want me,

“Bog time?”

Jeonghan looks up from the GPS on his phone, an eyebrow quirked up at your out of the blue words. He has the address of a random park punched into the navigation, finger hovering over the Start Route button, but he easily swipes out of the tab as if it was a mere thought in the back of his mind.

“And what might you mean by,” he lazily curls two fingers in the air in quotation marks, “Bog time?”

To his question, you simply offer your phone to him. There’s a curve to his smile as he takes the device and stares at the screen; it’s directions to a wetland park about nine minutes out from your location, in some suburban neighborhood. Pictures show a few benches around the small pond and a trail leading behind to the forest.

You beam at him, eyes sparkling in the sun’s last rays of the day, like a pet showing its owner a present they brought back from the outside. “A bog! Have you ever been to one?”

Jeonghan hands you back your phone, fingers sliding against yours, and looks to the sky thoughtfully. He rests his hand on the steering wheel of his sleek black Toyota Camry, the leather glinting with shine, tapping his finger to a beat you wished you knew.

“Not until tonight, I haven’t,” is his smooth answer; and before you know it, he’s pulling the shift into drive and pressing hard on the gas.

Loving Yoon Jeonghan is easy.

It’s more of an afterthought for you at this point. You grab the last bag of his favorite chips at the convenience store? He’s planning his move to steal it as if you weren’t going to surrender it to him without a fight, but you play along anyway to indulge him. There’s a spider in the kitchen? He’s cheering you on for moral support as you grab a cup and some paper to trap it, but it takes one tremble of your hands for him to click his tongue, say you’re too slow, and get the job done for you.

His quick-witted, ever playful banter keeps you on your toes. You thrive in the presence of him like a sponge soaking up as much water as it can—except, unfortunately for you, you’re constantly on the verge of having it all flood out and drowning in it.

Because while loving Yoon Jeonghan is easy, wanting him is a whole different story.

Loving doesn’t result in an ache in your heart every time he talks about his latest date with someone. Loving doesn’t cause the burning pit in your stomach that surfaces when he leans over, just right, to whisper something only meant for your ears.

Love, to you, is the noun you hold for Jeonghan, stored in your hands when you light-heartedly swat him away with a tsk—and want is the verb that jumps out of you when he effortlessly catches your wrist in his hand, honey eyes gleaming in your lamp’s light.

“Yah, we’re here.”

His teasing tone snaps you out of your thoughts, and you blink in surprise. There’s no parking lot; his car is stalled on the side of the road, the headlights flickering for a moment before turning off.

“Where’s the bog?” you tilt your head in different directions, trying to get an unsuccessful glimpse of your surroundings.

Jeonghan snorts and pushes a lock of blonde hair behind his ear. “You tell me, dude. Can’t see shit out here.”

“Language,” you scold, before unlocking your side of the car and stepping out onto the sidewalk.

The neighborhood is quiet save for the occasional hoot of an owl and the wind’s loud escapades through the trees. You shiver and tuck yourself into the knitted sweater you had chosen for tonight, the wind picking up ever so slightly as if to mock your choice of clothing. Jeonghan is on your side before you can even think of yanking him out of the car, much to your dismay. He shuts your door and shines the flashlight of his phone onto the dewy lawn grass.

“What even is a bog?” Jeonghan queries as the two of you begin to walk in a seemingly random direction. “Just a wetland?”

“Basically, yeah. The thing we’re going too isn’t really a bog. More of a pond with some swamp aspects. I just think bog’s a funny word.”

Your shoes scrape against the cement. From Jeonghan’s light, you can see up ahead that just across the road is the sign from your Google Search, signifying your destination is close. Your eyes trace the trail winding behind it into the forest.

“Explain it to me.”

Startled, you glance back. Jeonghan’s face is faintly illuminated from the light bouncing off of you. If you were to focus well enough, you would be able to outline the slope of his cheekbone and the way some strands of his hair brushed against it ever so softly.

“The word bog? Are you serious? It’s really nothing,” you try to argue, turning back around.

“Come on. Try me.”

You heave a sigh. “Alright. If you want me to.”

“Yah. ‘Course I want you to.”

The air feels a little thicker now, but you swallow the feeling back and press forward as the grass gets taller. You wish it was warmer; maybe, if you were lucky, you’d be able to hear the night calls of a toad, or see fireflies milling about the shoreline.

“Gaelic origin, mostly. Just an adjective that describes something that’s soft and damp. There’s also some roots back to Ireland—they had a word that describes moist ground.”

While you’re explaining, Jeonghan carefully takes the lead, shining his flashlight onto the wooden sign marking the entrance to the trail and oncoming wetland. He hums in response.

“Nerd.”

You smack his shoulder blade.

“Ow—fuck, okay, I’m sorry!”

He’s laughing, and like the death of a star your anger explodes into oblivion, rolling your eyes good-naturedly as you shove him with your elbow. “You were the one who asked.”

“Ah, I suppose you’re right.” You glance at Jeonghan from within your peripherals while he speaks. There’s a flicker of surprise as you take note of his small smile that curls with an emotion you can’t quite read.

“Can’t help it, y’know,” he muses aloud. “To want is a cruel thing.”

ii.) if you want me,

Your breath evens as the concrete path gradually gives way to wooden boardwalk. The two of you walk quietly side by side, the water’s surface still and reflecting the moon’s light from above. Jeonghan had mentioned earlier that it was a waxing gibbous, and that a super moon would be occurring in a few nights’ time.

Moments were always stolen with Jeonghan—not because you two didn’t have the time for each other, but more so because you two seemed to have all the time in the world to spend in each other’s presence. Inseparable like the twin stars marked by the constellation dubbed Gemini, you grew so used to his existence that it took outrageously spontaneous adventures like this one to really cherish him.

Or, in this particular case, curse him and his ever observant nature.

“You want me to do what?”

“Just come here,” he urges, opening his arms a little wider.

Your hesitance is palpable, but ultimately, you relent, wiggling your way into his warm embrace. His hoodie is worn with seasons of journeys that you’ve accompanied him on, and it’s always been a comfort you’ve relied on for warmth.

Just… never with him alongside it.

“There you go,” Jeonghan’s lips skim the crown of your hairline and you shudder, the motion backfiring on you when he only presses you closer to him. “Y’know, you usually know better than to wear the thinnest knitted sweater known to man on a night like this.”

“You could’ve just given me your hoodie, you know.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to do that. Then I’d be freezing. This is a win-win.”

“You’re insufferable,” you say, and bury yourself further against the fabric.

The self-proclaimed bog is forgotten as the two of you find more interesting things to take notice of. Once more, a comfortable quiet overtakes you two, with your eyes following the sway of a tree’s branches and Jeonghan focused on the sky above. A moment to journal about later, maybe, with a fern taken and pressed to be studied after it dried. Perhaps tonight you’d snag the formidable prickles of the pine tree nearby. You’d always be interested in how words took shape after nature, the conifer’s history included.

As if on cue, Jeonghan’s voice is pulling you out of your thoughts in asking about the tree before you two. You respond in turn about the specifics of the pine.

“Doesn’t that have another meaning? Pine?”

“Mhm,” you hum noncommittally. “The tree existed first, then the verb pine came about later; means to long for or seek after, similar to yearning. They both actually stem from two different Latin words—pine tree from pinus and pining from poena. Cool how they ended up as the same word though, huh?”

Jeonghan is surprisingly still for a while. Leaves rustle nearby, being stirred by the wind, and you bite your lip.

Even though he’s heard you ramble about nonsense background contexts of words a thousand times over, the silence scares you. Sometimes you still fear Jeonghan will be bored by your constant, monotone voice, as if he was only listening to reply rather than understand.

“Hey, look up. D’you see those three stars up there?”

You glance above the tree you’re studying and nod against the fabric of his hoodie. The three stars in question are a straight shot line, banded together diagonally like a belt. Above those, another group of stars come together to form the torso of a man, one arm held out to hold something akin to a bow.

“Orion and his belt,” you confirm. “You’ve told me his story before—the hunter who boasted about killing all animals, right? I remember arguing about the right myth to follow.”

“Yeah, well, there’s more to it,” Jeonghan chuckles and wraps his arms a smidge tighter around you. You try to ignore the electricity shooting through your veins, piercing your heart like a lightning strike.

He lowers his face so that his mouth is close, so close, right by your ear. Freeing one of his hands from your embrace, he tilts your chin up with his fingers ever so slightly, pointing at a faint cluster of stars somewhere above and to the right. You squint your eyes to focus better as Jeonghan softly begins his story.

“The Pleiades were seven sisters who were sought after by Orion. Their father was Atlas, the Titan condemned to holding up the sky, and once barred to his eternal punishment, Orion took this chance to begin his pursuit. He was persistent in his chase for the sisters, wanting to win any of their favors through any means possible. Zeus eventually had enough of Orion’s attempts and turned the Pleiades into doves to free them; however, they asked to be placed in the sky to be closer to their father. That’s how the constellation we know of now came to be formed. Unfortunately for them, Orion took to the skies soon after and continues to chase them to this day.”

It’s your turn to fall speechless. Something about the tale makes your bottom lip jut out in a solemn expression; eternal punishment of any form, be it to hold up the sky for forever or to be chased unwillingly by a hunter in various forms, makes your heart ache. You stubbornly hope there is an end to your own suffering, fingers shaking as Jeonghan pulls his hand away from cupping your face.

“Don’t worry, though,” he whispers; his tone is so gentle it has you leaning into him subconsciously. “The Pleiades are safe. All Orion can do is long for, or pine after them, as you so dutifully defined for me earlier.”

“I’m glad.” Your voice, low and full of emotion, is almost lost to the wind as it begins to surge. “Sometimes feelings just can’t be returned, no matter how much we desire them to be. I would want them to be happy.”

You stare woefully at the sisters. Jeonghan’s gaze remains fixated on you.

“Me too.”

iii.) if you want me.

As you stare up at Orion and the Pleiades, your gaze rests on the silhouette of the tree before the two of you. The branches sway in the wind, catching the breeze, and you trail the outline of the tree across the sky. From just the right angle, Orion seems to lean against the pine, his weight being supported by the sturdy evergreen like it had grown specifically for him to rest upon. The thought makes you smile.

“Isn’t it crazy?” comes your muffled murmur from against the material of his hoodie; Jeonghan makes a noise for you to continue.

“Just.. how perfectly nature fits within itself sometimes, like one big recurring metaphor. As if the mother of the universe finds her favorite verses in the stars and rewrites them over and over because she can’t get enough of them.”

The wind begins to die down; there’s no need for you to be bundled up within Jeonghan’s arms, but you stay, waiting with bated breath for his response.

“How so?”

Perhaps it’s the late hour that boldens you with no room for overthinking, your phones tucked neatly away in your pockets as to not distract you. Your heart is throwing itself against your ribcage as you muster up a confession.

“There’s so many tales like Orion and the Pleiades, as sad as it is. But there are just as many triumphs as there are tragedies, all recreated over and over. The universe—she’s trying to tell us something. She’s telling us to find love in each other, and therefore, in ourselves.”

You swallow back any possible regret and finish, “Personally, I think I’ve received the message pretty well through you.”

There’s a sharp intake of air. You feel Jeonghan exhale a breath, tingling your skin, and his lips are so close they kiss the shell of your ear as they move.

“I agree. I guess we are yet another recreation of her favorite tale of love, then.”

Something shifts in you; an unspoken agreement that has your head reeling when he doesn’t let you slip away from him on the way back to the car. Your fingers are grasped lightly in his, and soft giggles tumble out of you when he fumbles to open the door of your side. They fall silent as he slides in, adjusting the chair back and looking up at you expectantly. His hand is out for you to take.

“Well?” is all he says, and the single word’s implication hits you like a freight truck.

Aren’t you going to be with me?

The wind howls, delighted and amped up from the excitement swirling within you. Your hair whips around your face protectively, tears beginning to stain the apples of your cheeks. There is nothing in your mind except for the way Jeonghan’s wisps of blonde hair fall away from their place behind his ears. You ache to fix them.

“Are you sure?” is all you can croak out.

His eyes shine in the moonlight, and with no hesitation he replies, “Yes, if you want me.”

Your weight rests on his lap in a painfully easy manner. The car door clicks shut and is swiftly locked, and before you know it, Jeonghan’s hands are settled around your waist.

“Hi.” You squeak ever so eloquently.

Jeonghan has his face mere inches away from you. His nose tickles yours in a sheepish laugh. “Hi to you, too.”

“Did you mean it?” you blurt out with trembling fingers, daring to clutch onto the hem of his sweater as if he’ll blow away with no warning. “Are you serious about this?”

“I haven’t even said anything yet,” he teases. “Are you saying I’ve been implying something tonight?”

“I want to say so. I want to believe that you have been.”

The way your name falls off his tongue is pure silk, and you swear he’s reinvented a new meaning to it just now. Who knew that meanings could be born from different intonations?

“Please,” Jeonghan breathes your name again; it’s a borderline whine that rushes the air out of your lungs. “Just let me want you. I’ve been denied it for so long.”

The kiss that follows is searing, burning with the desire you’ve wrestled with shoving back into your throat until now. You aren’t entirely sure who’s lips pressed to who’s first, but what you are sure of is the moan that slips from Jeonghan’s mouth, his breathing harsh and ragged.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and you have half the mind to tell him to mind his language again when he interrupts you by squeezing your waist. “You’re so goddamn hot.”

Laughter bubbles out of you. Jeonghan glances up at you in surprise, his eyelashes fluttering with confusion. You giggle and cup his cheek.

“Weren’t you just versing poetry to me thirty seconds ago? What happened to that?”

He just shrugs and leans forward to press a feverish kiss to your lips. “The duality of man.”

“The duality of man, indeed,” you murmur.

Your fingernails scrape along his neck enticingly, tangling in the tufts of his blonde hair. You give an experimental tug and revel in the gasp he lets out, a whimper being drawn out of you.

Jeonghan tilts your chin up and begins to pepper your jawline with kisses, each more passionate than the last. He’s pushing your sweater’s neckline to the side by the time he reaches your collarbone, spurred on by your quiet moans and high intones of his name, nipping marks into your skin. Red blooms across your shoulders from his love bites.

“I didn’t know you were a biter,” you quip through gasps. “Should’ve figured, though.”

His fingers, running along your curves from under your sweater, suddenly pinch your butt. You yelp and whine at his antics while Jeonghan just laughs.

“Better than you, sweetheart,” he smirks, rubbing circles into your skin as a silent apology. “All bark, no bite.”

You kiss him to shut him up, tongue sliding against his before beginning to suck on his bottom lip. He tastes like the honey lemon tea you shared earlier at the cafe. You wonder if you taste the same.

A wave of heat scores through you at the thought, wanting nothing more than to eternally be enveloped by his scent, his taste, his everything. You don’t even realize how hard your hips are pressing into his until he breaks the kiss with a groan, bucking up into you with a delicious sigh.

You feel him, hard and hot and sorely needy, and you take the chance to grind back down against him, adoring the way his shuddering lips chase yours. The world is lost to you; all you know is Yoon Jeonghan, and he simply is enough.

“I want you,” you suddenly say, pausing to take in the sight below you.

His cheeks are flushed, yours no doubt no better, and his hoodie is barely hanging on to the lower half of his torso. Pale, muscled skin peeks out and tenses at your touch sliding up his abdomen. Jeonghan is glowing, and tears prick the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by emotion.

“I want you,” you repeat, lips ghosting his. “But I want you to want me, too. Do you?”

“Dumb question,” he whispers back. “That’s never been something to ask of me. It’s always been pure fact, like the origin of the word bog. Pine has different Latin roots, Orion chases the Pleiades, and I want you.”

A sigh escapes you, and you let yourself press once more to him, answering his confession with a kiss.

I want you. Your body, made by the universe, retells your story over and over as it moves in time with his own. I want you and I want you to want me and I want us.

Jeonghan eagerly kisses you in return as if to say, Go ahead then, take me. Take it all. I want you.

Take everything in me, and leave nothing left but us.

#the k fic collection review #chee chats about: the study of prosody by ppyopulii #svt rec #svt fanfic #f: seventeen #p: yoon jeonghan x reader #g: fluff #g: friends to lovers #g: suggestive #r: sfw #wc: up to 5k

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lilliezzzzz-fics · 1 day ago

Text

Yours, Bitterly

pairing: rival café owner!yuki x café owner!reader author's note: wow, okay! when i posted the who would read post, i did not expect as much love as it got. now, a week or so later (so sorry for that, by the way >_>) it's here. first full yuki fic, and i hope i did the idea justice. thank u all, so so much and please enjoy !!! tags: cafe AU, rivals-to-lovers, romcom energy, fluff, slowburn if u squint, profanities, gender-neutral reader, no use of y/n warnings: google translated italian, not really as passive aggressive as i wanted </3, semi-rushed ending (im sorry) word count: 5.6k ♬ won't you call me back? a playlist

Italian mornings usually, if not always, begin with whispers and a still-steaming cappuccino.

“Hai sentito?” Have you heard?

“Il ragazzo accanto al bar,” a woman murmurs, a hushed and conspiratorial hum—coated by the morning sun that glimmers through your paned glass windows, “dice che il suo caffè è migliore di quello di questo posto.” He says his coffee is better than this place's.

Maybe it's something in the way she whispers it. Or maybe, it's the way she says it like it might be true, but it makes you jolt. The steamed milk pitcher you were holding slips in your grasp, and the rosetta you were making gets sliced apart by the middle. You hiss at the mangled mess that was supposed to be a cappuccino. It'll have to do.

“Your coffee, Signora,” you say, placing the porcelain mug on her table with a tone that's just shy of sincere. She thanks you, before eyeing her just-slightly-mangled coffee.

You walk away before she can say anything.

Have you heard of the boy-next-door she was whispering about? No. If you were being honest, you haven't even spared a glance towards his establishment since the—what, five? six?—months since he opened it, but the fact that he's very proudly boasting that his coffee is better than yours without a shred of respect for the fact that you’ve been working at this café for longer than he's had his own café open tells you more than enough about his person.

“Gossip getting to you?” Antonío, your new hire, asks. A still-in-training barista whose resume was questionable at best. His movements, that just a second ago were busy with washing mugs still just to turn to face you.

You let out a groan, “no. Or, maybe a little, like— if his coffee is so much better, why not just go to his café? Mio Dio.”

Subconsciously, you wipe your hands on your apron. A gathering of flour, espresso dust, and the kind of invisible grime that comes with years of work on the fabric. Maybe you silently wish the subtle tinge of annoyance gets wiped off too.

“They probably know it’s not, I mean, they're here aren't they?” he offers with a grin, twirling on his heel as the bell above the door chimes. “Buongiorno!”

You take this moment to slip outside, grabbing a piece of chalk on the way. It lands somewhere between your pointer, middle finger, and your thumb, white dust sticking against your sweaty fingertips.

The sun hits you like an oil burn, just less pain and more sweat. The pavement practically sears your soles as your shoes stick to it with every step—and you eye the neighbouring cafés chalkboard.

There it is, written in slanted, messy handwriting that looks like it's trying a little too hard to be cursive: better coffee than the guy next door. The asshole even added it in Italian underneath. Haters really don't discriminate, huh.

Grabbing a tissue from one of the outside tables, you wipe away the friendly advertisement you wrote on when you opened. Instead of the best cappuccino to start your day!, you write down something more like: don't listen to our neighbour, he's jealous of our homebrew. And of course, fueled by pure pettiness and annoyance, you add a lop-sided heart.

The chalk squeaks as you finish the last curl of the heart. You blow gently at the board—partly to clear the dust, partly to cool your nerves—but mostly to see the text in all its sun-soaked, only slightly smudged, petty glory.

You head back inside as Antonío calls your name, something about the register acting up again, which it never even does, he’s just slightly inexperienced, and as affectionately as a boss can say to their employee, just slightly dumb. He knows you don’t mean it in any harmful way though. You hope.

Lunch rush comes and goes with customers entering and exiting the café like a school of fish in a stream, some commenting on your little advert, some not. But by the end of it, you feel your shoulders sag like someone’s thrown a boulder atop them. You reach behind your back, your fingers finding the neat bow you’d made this morning, entangling themselves with the ribbon.

Then Antonío snorts. A quiet, trying-to-hide-it kind of snort. You turn your head to face him, and the very amused expression he has on his face.

“What?”

“Don’t look now,” he says, already looking himself, “but he’s standing outside his café, arms crossed, reading what you wrote.”

You raise a brow, “and who is this specific he you’re talking about?”

“The boy next-door. His name’s Yuki, by the way—” he throws you a quick glance, “you never even bothered to ask.”

You freeze, hand still mid-tie at your apron.

You definitely don’t look.

“What kind of smiling?” you ask, as casually as humanly possible, though you know that Antonío hears the crack in your voice as nervosity creeps up on you.

“Eh, he looks kinda fond, if I’m being honest,” he tilts his head like he’s inspecting an animal, or something in a museum, hand holding his chin, “like… He thinks it’s cute, or something.”

“Cu—” you cut yourself off just to replay the word in your head. A little bewildered, because you don’t even know what this Yuki guy looks like, and also almost a little offended, “cute? Seriously?”

“Totally serious.”

“Weirdo.”

Strutting over to the sign hanging by your door, you flip it to “CHIUSO PER PAUSA” even though you absolutely are not supposed to be closed for a break. The sun gleams through the paned glass just enough to blind you for a moment, missing the way Yuki steps away once he spots you in the doorway.

“This is like the start of some shitty romcom,” Antonío calls out from behind the counter, smiling audibly in the way he sing-songs it.

“Just take the damn break. Be back in ten.”

“You got it boss!”

Then the backdoor creaks open, and firmly shuts close seconds after. As it does, you deflate into a chair that creaks with age and use, old polish worn off from the sides. Your hands trail down the splintered wood, the grained feeling etching into your fingertips as a way to relax—or at the very least convince your body to do so.

Yuki. Around your age, you presume; and a baker too, maybe. He has a café, so it'd be weird for him not to be proficient with his culinary skills. His name isn't Italian, though. Makes you wonder, who is he, really?

The ten minutes slip by quicker than you'd like them to, like sand through the palm of your hand, and Antonío comes back just a minute late—raving about some rumour that he heard in passing. You flip the sign, and get back to work.

You don’t hear anything or see anything from Yuki the rest of the day.

The dawn is brushed a dusty pink and blue as you make your way to the café. It’s, what, like five o’clock? And while Antonío would be opening, you thought it’d be a nice change of pace for you to open instead. So you sent him a short message about half an hour ago, and he replied with a simple thumbs up—so you took that as a you’re good to go.

The streets are mostly empty, save for the occasional cat stretching across sun-warmed cobblestone, or the soft clatter of someone else starting their day.

It's a familiar path that you follow to work, signs covered by stickers leading the way. You're about to turn the corner, and that’s when you hear it—the scrape of chalk on a chalkboard.

You blink.

Then just let your eyes catch on a figure, and it’s him. Yuki.

Just across the way, crouched in front of his own café, not knowing the dawn is all golden and syrupy, painting him in warm tones as if he's straight out of the Renaissance. His hair’s a little messy, probably still tousled from sleep, while wearing a hoodie and shorts, mismatched socks peeking out from worn sneakers, and he’s scribbling something on his chalkboard with full concentration—tongue poking ever so slightly out between his lips.

You feel the way your heart stutters between your ribs, and you’d like to imagine it's something like frustration or annoyance.

Logically, you know it isn’t, but your pride insists it is. Your fist clenches around your keys just the bit tighter, and they jingle. Loudly. As if they’re just screaming for attention. But he doesn’t look—thank the Gods for that.

You don’t realize you’ve stopped walking until you hear a very familiar voice behind you.

“What are you—? Wait.” A pause. Then, a very dramatic gasp, “oh— oh my god!”

You physically jump, your soul ascending into the heavens and your heart jittering even quicker, and you whip your head around to see the culprit of the disturbance, even if you already know who it is.

Antonío, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, is standing two steps behind you, staring wide-eyed in the same direction you were.

“What are you doing? Be quiet!” you hiss, jabbing a finger into his chest, brows knitting together.

Antonío raises both hands like he’s being arrested, but the grin on his face is anything but innocent.

“Oh my god,” he stage whispers, this time with emphasis on each syllable like he’s narrating a scandal, “you were staring at Yuki.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes as if to quietly contemplate your life choices. “Was not.”

You throw a quick glance over your shoulder to make sure Yuki hasn’t noticed.

He hasn’t. He's still crouched over the chalkboard, tissues to wipe off mistakes slowly piling up beside him. It's a little funny, the way he just sort of blends into the atmosphere but still stands out. His face—barely hidden by his hair, covered in chalky powder and sweat, so focused on his tasks. So oblivious to your stares, even as you're just a few metres away.

“You like him,” Antonío muses, delighted. “You like the enemy barista.”

“He is not—!”

“You like the enemy barista. With the messy hair, and the horrible handwriting—”

“You are being so dramatic,” you bite out, stuffing your keys into your pocket a little harder than necessary.

“Am I? Or am I simply observing that you are standing frozen in the middle of the street at five-fifteen in the morning, watching him like a sad little Victorian ghost?”

“Do you want to get fired?”

He beams. “You won’t, though.”

You grumble something unintelligible under your breath and finally tear your eyes away from Yuki to shove open the café door, the little brass bell above it jingling as you step inside. The air that meets you is cool and still, and smells like old espresso grounds and cinnamon from the pastries you didn’t get around to cleaning yesterday.

Antonío follows you in, grabbing his apron off of the hook at the back. “So, what are we writing on our chalkboard today? A love confession? A sonnet? Maybe some love sick poem about how pretty he is?”

You drag a hand down your face. “I am going to kill you.”

He laughs, a mix of amusement and teasing. Too proud in the fact he's getting to you this bad. “Sure, but only after you write something petty and flirty on our chalkboard. Then you'll see that you're in love.”

You glare at him, throwing daggers at his smirking, too-happy face. Then you, a little grudgingly, glance toward the front windows, where the sunlight is just starting to creep in—basting the walls with an orange-y yellow tint. And you can’t help it, you look back out toward Yuki’s board.

He's standing now. Stretching, arms high above his head, shirt lifting just enough to expose the smallest sliver of his stomach.

When you see that, you stop dead in your tracks, your heartbeat too loud and too quick. You desperately try to hide the heat that rushes to your cheeks.

“Oh my god,” Antonío wheezes, doubling over. “You’re doomed.”

“I am not doomed,” you snap, fumbling with the bow you try to tie around your back, “for all you know, I could've been watching for—I don't know—intel? Maybe I was stealing his handwriting to forge his signature for a resignation notice.”

Antonío blinks at you, face blank for just a second, before bursting out in laughter that makes you wince.

“Whatever you say, Boss.”

When you step out to write on your own chalkboard for the day, you peek over at what Yuki’s written. His writing’s still slanted and trying too hard, but it's softer—not as rushed or pointed as yesterday's. We've got homebrew that's original. Unlike a certain neighbour. And a winking face that almost morphs into itself the harder you look. Well, now you know that art is not Yuki's strong suit.

Better pastries than the guy next door can ever dream of making is what you settle for. You don't really have time for more thinking about it than you've already done; you're opening in just a few minutes and you doubt that Antonío’s even turned on the coffee machine.

Outside the sun rises to a beautiful peak that rests barely above the skyline, and people begin trickling in. Someone comments on the chalkboard feud with a snicker just under their breath. Someone else says they’ve tried both cafés and refuses to pick a side. You can barely hold your face straight as people smile and ask you about it, a polite just friendly banter escaping your mouth each and every time.

Just about when the afternoon arrives, the delivery man does as well, knocking at your backdoor, list in hand and two too heavy bags of what you can only assume is flour thrown over his shoulder. He looks more than exhausted, sweat beading just ‘round his brow.

“This the place? Caffè Yume?” he asks, squinting at the paper and glancing up.

“Uh, no. That’s the one next door,” you say, pointing vaguely past the wall.

He frowns, shrugs, and drops the bags anyway. “Close enough.”

Then, the guy just has the nerve to leave. Murmuring something about him not having the energy to figure this all out, or something along those lines anyway, leaving you to stand all alone in the backroom of your café staring down two bags of flour like they’re suspects. Or worse—culprits, forcing you to interact with Yuki.

You peek your head around the corner of the open door leading to the café. Antonío’s leaning onto the counter, seemingly bored out of his mind as no customers pool in. Staring blankly at the wall in front of him, adorned with photos in black-and-white, not moved once since they’d been first put up.

“Antonío?” you call, and you see his blonde locks flip around as he turns.

“Yeah?”

“Could you come and help me with something, please?”

Before long, his blonde curls peek out from the side of the door frame, followed by his face, then his body—eyes wide like a curious puppy.

“What's up?” He murmurs, shuffling from the side of the doorframe to stand straight, eyeing the bags.

“These,” you begin, unintentionally with a twitch in your brow, “are not ours. Could you be so kind as to get them over to Caffe Yumé while I keep an eye on things here?”

If you weren't looking at him so intently, you'd miss the faint smirk that crept up on his lips just for a second.

“I,” he drags out the letter with an amused lilt in his voice, “I actually have an appointment—yup, yeah. Appointment. Y’know, doctor… stuff. So, I can't. You gotta.”

“You never told me about that.”

“It, uhh. It slipped my mind!” He grins, “but it's the afternoon anyway, we barely get customers. You can do it, can't you?”

You bite back the sigh that threatens to escape your lungs, teeth bristling against one another.

“Fuckin’... Fine! Fine, fine, fine. I’ll do it.” You walk past Antonío, shoulders brushing as you pick up the bags. “Just… Whatever. Don’t leave until I come back.”

You adjust your grip on the flour bags, arms protesting with every shift, and step out into the alley. The door creaks shut behind you, far too final, like the gates of some ancient temple locking you into your fate.

The sun’s still out, but it feels darker here, like the shadows are conspiring. The air thickens. Maybe with tension. Or pollen. Or your rapidly spiraling anxiety.

The distance between your café and his is embarrassingly short—ten steps, twelve if you drag your feet—but it stretches like a tightrope. And you're not sure what waits at the other end: confrontation? awkward small talk? the soft smile of a boy you might sort of hate and maybe also sort of want to kiss? (Though realistically you’d never admit that to anyone, not even yourself.)

The bags thump against your legs. You grit your teeth.

“Fuckin’ flour of destiny,” you mutter lowly, as if not to let the shadows hear.

A pigeon watches from the rooftop, entirely too judgmental. It flies away before you can look back at it.

By the time you reach Caffè Yume’s back entrance, your nerves are humming like bees under your skin. You raise a hand to knock—and immediately lower it again. Because what if he opens the door? Because what if he answers? Like, actually opens the door and stands there and says a word and looks at you with his face? You didn’t think that far. You didn’t plan a face. Maybe you should just drop the bags and run away to not let him see you.

However, you don’t get that far in your thoughts because before you can do anything, the door swings open. Leaving you to stagger backwards so as to not get hit by it.

And there he is. The man, the myth, the enemy barista—Yuki.

He looks like he’s just gotten out of a war with a pile of dough, flour coating his cheek and his hair’s messy in a way that just barely seems accidental. His hoodie sleeves, the same hoodie from this morning, are bunched up to his elbows, showing off his forearms; tense from work.

“Oh,” he says, blinking at you, eyes flicking to the bags in your arms. “Hi.”

There’s a beat. One painfully, almost excruciatingly long beat.

“I think you got my flour,” he says.

And he’s smiling.

You blink back at him. Heart thumping loudly in your chest, “oh. Uh, yeah. Got it from the delivery man. He— he got our cafés mixed up.”

A far-too-awkward and far-too-not you laugh escapes your lungs, and you let the bags drop at the top step to his backdoor. By the Gods, what are you doing?

“Right. Yeah, figures,” Yuki mutters with a smile, grabbing a bag and heaving it over his shoulder with a soft grunt, “thought it took him too long to get it over here. Was just about to run out, too.”

A nod. Stale, smiling too flatly. “Yup.”

Then as he’s heaving the second bag through the door, he pauses as if to think; a pout growing on his lips, “wait a second, aren’t you the owner of il sole e le stelle?”

The thump of your heart stills. Eyes widening, you exhale. Inhale. Hope that somehow the ground swallows you whole. Curse Antonío for making you do this.

“...Yeah.”

“You gotta get better at insulting me.”

“Huh?”

“You can do better, no? Come on, ‘better pastries than the guy next door can ever dream of making’ is weak,” Yuki pauses, almost for dramatic effect, “not even something about my coffee? Or about how my outdoor furniture is half-way to death?”

“Not that—” you sigh, “I’m just… Get better at insulting you?”

He nods. Then smiles, like it’s just so clear and not a weird thing to say in the slightest. “Exactly.”

And before you get to tell him how absurd that actually sounds, someone calls his name in a thick italian accent and he whips around.

“You’ll think of something better by then,” he says, already halfway through the door.

And when he’s gone, you just stand still in the humid italian alley with your eyes glued on his backdoor. Not because of how ugly it is, because yes, while it is surely the ugliest door you’ve ever seen, it’s not that. Rather, it’s for the slight, almost impossible chance that he’ll open it again. That he’ll step out and see you again. That he’ll smile at you like that again—

When you swing the backdoor to your own café open, it slams against the wall with unintentional force. Antonío startles, and you hear that by the rustle of porcelain in the sink and the incoherent curses following suit.

“Tonío,” you call out, un-tying and re-tying the bow on your back, “how the hell do I insult someone better?”

If you had a nickel for every time you had to interact with Yuki due to unforeseen circumstances, you’d have two very annoying nickels.

Sure, it was like a week ago since you first talked to him. Face-to-face, that is. But the fact that you already have to interact with him a week later, and against your own will at that? That’s not ideal. Not to you, anyway. You could always jump out of the sweets festival, but it’s been tradition for il sole e le stelle to enter it. Even before you had ownership over the place. Il sole e le stelle always enters.

And apparently, so does Caffé Yume.

Either way, there is someone who apparently thinks the situation is ideal. Or, you’d assume so, with how he’s grinning at the invitation note like his prayers for it have been answered.

“We’re sharing a booth! With your crush, too!” Antonío practically beams, twirling around, “and— and we set up today? Like, today today?”

You’re wrists deep into soapy water, washing out coffee stained mugs, “not my crush,” you bite out, “but yes. It’s today. In an hour.”

He smirks, “Suuuure, totally not your crush. What’s that thing they say? Denial is a river in Egypt—”

“Oh my god, lay off it!” You groan, splashing water over his apron. He only lets out a boyish laugh.

La Sagra del Dolci, the sweets festival, is always held in mid-July for three days. When the weather is the warmest and the park is the greenest it is the entire year, different booths line the park with treats of all different sorts being offered. The only bad thing about it is how absolutely horrible it is actually getting everything ready.

You think you’ve seen Antonío try and proceed to fail to set up the parasol about five times, and then when you decided that it was too sad of a sight and you switched tasks, he just sighed and told you that he’s getting the baked goods out instead.

So, here you are. Abandoned, warm, with a fourth of your booth still lying unpacked on the ground.

The other half is, of course, Yukis. He's not here yet, and his gear is lying on the opposite side of yours.

You try not to glance at his stuff. Really, you do.

But his neat little set-up boxes and the branding you've grown familiar with on his paper coffee cups, even the crooked corner of his folded-up signboard—all of it taunts you. He’s not even here and you already feel vaguely outmatched.

You grunt as you shove a crate of biscotti beneath the table, wiping your brow with the edge of your sleeve. The heat’s not even at its worst yet and you’re already sweat-stuck and irritated.

Then—

“Hey,” a voice says behind you, far too casual for the heat or the situation or the general mess that is you and your thoughts.

You turn, too quickly, almost tripping over a cardboard box labeled MERINGHE, DO NOT CRUSH in the process. And there he is.

Yuki. Of course. Who else?

Hoodie tied around his waist, box in his arms like it weighs nothing even though it definitely looks like it’s filled with either bricks or espresso machines. There’s flour smudged near his jaw again, it's almost as if it's his trademark at this point.

“You’re late,” you say, because that’s the first thing your brain coughs up. “Your booth is a disaster.”

He raises a brow. “...Good morning to you too.”

You shift your weight onto your hip, squinting at him, “So, no snarky chalkboard message today?”

Yuki grins. “Oh, don’t worry. I brought the board.”

You narrow your eyes.

He sets the box down and gestures vaguely to where his chalkboard will eventually go. “I haven’t decided on the message yet. I’m thinking… ‘Two cafés. One booth. Place your bets.’”

“That’s really stupid.”

“Awful, right?” he exclaims far too cheerfully for a guy who came up with the sentence. “You’ll come up with something better to insult me with, though. Won’t you?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Because you were going to say something like your handwriting is already offensive enough, but that would be giving him what he wants.

He winks—wait, winks???—and ducks behind his side of the booth before you can say anything.

You hate him.

Or, you think you hate him.

But your heart is doing something very un-hate-like.

And you really, really need to finish setting up.

So the two of you work in silence, Antonío coming back with your baked goods to only disappear moments later after he sees Yuki standing two steps away from you. Sometimes, he makes you wonder how in the world you even hired him in the first place.

Then, between the fumbling to get the coffee strainer working and finding the cooler for your milk, your fingers brush.

Not like in a dramatic, slow-motion movie moment. It’s dumb. You’re both reaching for the same milk crate, and your fingers just—touch. Brief, warm, calloused.

You both freeze.

“Well,” Yuki huffs, like he didn’t just short-circuit your central nervous system. “I guess we’re fated to be together.”

You shoot him a glare, more defensive than threatening. “Do you ever say normal things?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, already moving, busying himself with his mugs, “but only to people who don’t look like they’ll punch me when I flirt.”

Words fail you, not only that, but when you try to speak you only sputter. You’re not even sure what you meant to say, but the words are jammed up somewhere behind your ribs and in your throat. And he’s already turned back around, setting up his espresso machine like the interaction didn’t happen at all.

The festival starts slow, like always. Locals milling around, couples with tiny paper cups of gelato, teenagers snapping photos of pink croissants. Your booth gets a few early birds—someone orders a cappuccino and a slice of Caffé Yume’s mochi. You slide the plate across the counter with a practiced smile, trying not to think about how Yuki’s presence is a whole awareness just to your left.

He keeps up a steady rhythm behind his side of the booth. Calm, efficient. He hands over espresso shots and little coffee cake samples with the kind of soft-spoken charm that makes people smile without realizing it.

It’s irritating. And unfair. And fine.

He’s fine. Whatever.

You finally let yourself glance at his chalkboard, the white text almost blinding in the sun's gleam. He’s written: Today's special: tolerating each other. With biscotti.

Underneath it, in a different handwriting, distinctly Antonío’s in the way he loops his o’s, a small heart drawn next to support your local enemies-to-lovers arc!

He wants to be killed, surely. Unintentionally, at the sight of his sentence, you make a noise in your throat that sounds like steam escaping from a pressure valve. Yuki hears it. He glances over. Smiles, slow and conspiratorial.

And you just sigh. It's gonna be a long three days. God help you.

The next two days go… fine, actually. Which is suspicious in and of itself.

Morning light spilling over coffee lids, lazy chatter weaving through the air, and moments where your hands almost touch again.

Nothing major happens. No arguments. No collisions.

Just you and him. And the tension between you that slowly melts and bubbles up into something else entirely.

You arrive at the park late, today. The sun’s still not risen, the morning a soft orange, but it’s late enough that you feel remorseful for it. You shuffle past the other booths in the park, getting to yours and Yukis, where he’s already sitting and waiting with the daily newspaper in hand. Not really reading, rather occupying himself.

“I— I’m so sorry,” you puff out, catching your breath, “I totally didn’t realise the time, and I—”

“Jesus. Calm yourself,” he laughs, smiling at you. “Antonío set up your half before leaving, you’re fine.”

And yeah, he did. Your half is already done, with your pastries lining the display and the coffee machine—somehow—is up and humming. Yuki folds the newspaper too neatly, leaving it in the chair he was sitting in as he stands up beside you.

“Now fix your hair before our customers think you’re some hobo.”

You roll your eyes at him, partially because he’s annoying but also to hide the flutter in your chest. He slides over a cup of coffee to you as you do, with a grin, and a quiet, you’ll need it.

Customers filter in. A couple asks for a pastry “from the place with the cute barista,” and you’re not sure which of you they meant. Yuki winks anyway. Antonío eventually returns with a tote full of napkins he absolutely did not need to buy. And still, you and Yuki work side by side, rhythms synced like two parts of a machine you didn’t realize you were building together. His arms brushes against yours, and you let it.

But, then around midday, Yuki disappears.

No words exchanged, no warning. Just somewhere when the sun sits high and the customer count is even higher, you’re about to ask for some help when his side is just empty. No trace of him, not even his apron left behind.

You promise you try not to panic. But you can’t help that the feeling of being responsible for the entire booth scares you, just a little. Trying to keep it running. That was not what you expected to have to do.

After fumbling around giving your customers their coffee, and accidentally dropping a croissant when hurrying because the line is too long, he comes back.

He doesn’t apologise until you ask him why he left, saying he had to do something important. You don’t pry, but you really really want to.

The booth closes late on the last day. The sky’s all navy blue and star-pinned, and your legs ache from standing for twelve hours straight. But everything’s packed up. The table’s wiped down. Antonío took the last of the leftovers and shouted something about celebratory pizza before disappearing into the crowd.

And you and Yuki are still here.

Standing there in the hush that comes after it all ends, like some kind of... aftertaste.

He stretches, bones cracking, hoodie tied loose around his waist again. “Not bad for three days. Could’ve gone worse.”

You hum, distracted. Watching him. Or maybe thinking about what it'll feel like tomorrow, when you're not working side by side. When it's just your chalkboards again. Your cafés. Your silence.

You swallow. Hard.

“I, um,” you start. And your heart’s already doing the thing. That thumping-too-loud thing. “Can I—say something stupid?”

Yuki turns to look at you, brows raised, amused. “You’ve got a solid track record. Might as well commit.”

You huff out a laugh, nervous. Then you just blurt it.

“I don’t want to go back to writing dumb chalkboard messages just to mess with you.”

He blinks. “Okay…”

“I don’t want to flirt through pastry puns and passive-aggressive chalkboard messages,” you rush on, voice quick and awkward and too honest to stop. “I want you. Not the version behind a booth. Just… you.”

Your mouth is dry. Your hands won’t stop fidgeting.

“And I’m sorry, I know you probably don’t feel the same, I just couldn’t leave without saying it because it’s been driving me crazy and I think you’re maybe the most irritating, infuriating person I’ve ever met and also I think I’m sort of in love with you—”

“Thank God,” Yuki breathes, and you freeze mid-ramble.

“What?”

He lets his shoulders sag, eyes wide with a kind of bright, stunned relief. “I’ve been flirting with you for the entire three days, and you’ve just… Brushed it off. I thought you were just immune. Or cruel. Or like tragically oblivious.”

Yuki grins, and it’s crooked and gorgeous and so stupidly smug. “Someone finally confessed,” he mutters just enough to let you hear. “It only took a shared booth and the threat of separation anxiety.”

You laugh, quietly, “God, I thought you just… Flirted with every person you talk to. I didn’t realise.”

“You do now.”

And he cups your cheek with his palm and it still smells like coffee and sugar. Then he steps in close—just enough for you to feel the warmth off his skin—and kisses you.

It’s warm, and his lips are soft and taste like caramel. Clumsy, a little too eager. Your noses bump. You laugh into it.

But he’s here, and holding you, not with petty comments about your cafés but with love. And you’re happy with that.

You’re happy with that.

©lilliezzzzz-fics: please don't copy or distribute my work on any platform

credits: @/cafekitsune for the dividers <3

author's note (again): (˶°ㅁ°)!! i hope this lived up to expectations... thank u for reading!!

taglist: @toodeepintofandoms @milessunflowers

#♬ snapshot #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #yuki tsunoda x reader #yuki tsunoda x you #yuki tsunoda x gn!reader #f1 x gn!reader

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fivestaralien · 9 hours ago

Text

cinnamon chai's and unexpected meetings

-> non idol!changbin x gn!reader

warnings+”: none! fluff

word count: 3036

notes ִֶָ ࣪˖ its finally here!!! stays secret gift exchange!! thank you so much for creating this and having me be apart of something so fun!! @starlostastronaut I had a lot of fun doing this!! I had May @minniebbang !! I tried so hard to fit a little bit of angst but I couldn't figure out how to write it into this so for that I am sorry but I really hope you like this little guy. July has been such a bad month for me medically so I'm sorry if this feels a bit rushed. I didn't want to let anyone down and tried to write something fun while going through the absolute most physically and mentally. pls let me know what you think and if I missed anything!! as always please stay safe and take care of yourselves<3

The heat is coming down hard when you park at the new cafe you’ve been meaning to try. You wipe at your forehead and quickly make your way inside. Air conditioning envelopes you the second you walk in and you welcome it with open arms. The atmosphere is cozy and the decorations are fun and adorable. Nothing over the top but just enough to feel inviting.

It’s packed to the brim with people and almost all of the tables were taken. You look at the menu as you wait in line and then after about fifteen minutes you finally get to order. After the barista puts your drink in you try to spot an open seat to wait.

You spot a table with a couple open seats. Someone sits there with their back facing you, hood pulled over their head. A few seconds of contemplation later, you carefully maneuver your way over.

“Sorry to bother but do you mind if I sit here while I wait for my order?”

Your heart skips a beat when the stranger looks up to meet your eyes. His dark black hair falls just above the rim of his glasses, eyes curious yet cautious as he looks you over. He then reaches up to remove his earphones and you realize he didn’t hear so you ask him again.

“Mind if I sit while I wait?” You point to the chair.

“Not at all.” He sends you a small smile then puts his earphones back in.

You thank him and then scroll through your phone until your order is called. Thanking the man again, you get your drink and then leave to go back home.

The next day you find yourself coming back and it is just as packed, if not even more. Only out of curiosity do you glance over at the table you sat at yesterday. To your surprise you see the same man sitting there, hood up just the same too. You take the risk and walk up to his table again after ordering the same drink as yesterday.

“Hi,” the man looks up from his notebook with a surprised look on his face, “can I sit here again?”

“Of course,” he looks out the window then back at you, “what did you order?”

You’re surprised by the question but perk up at the fact that you don’t have to sit here awkwardly while you wait.

“I got the cinnamon chai. What about you?”

“Iced americano. Are the chai’s good? I’ve been wanting to try and branch out of my basic order.”

You smile,” I think they are! The subtle spice keeps me coming back.”

He hums in response then begins writing something in the notebook laid out in front of him. You glance down at it to see a bunch of different work out plans scribbled down. When you look back up you take the opportunity to really look at him.

You could tell just by looking at his back earlier that he worked out. His hoodie doing little to hide the way his biceps bugle against the fabric. You look out the window before he could catch you staring and then you hear your order being called in the mix of a few others and stand up.

“Thanks for letting me sit with you again. Sorry that I keep disrupting.”

“You aren’t and I don’t mind.” He smiles up at you.

All of last night, you couldn’t stop thinking about the man at the coffee shop. How kind he was to you even though you for sure were bothering him. His curly hair was always a little messy but in a cute way. Even his voice caught you by surprise by how velvety and deep it is.

You weren’t able to go back for the next couple of days and when you do eventually find yourself walking through the tall doors, your eyes immediately go to the left corner. To your disappointment the table is empty. So, after you get your order you leave.

Your head is pounding as you walk into the cafe a few days later. Nothing sounded better than a hot chai so that’s exactly what you ordered. Since the weather is a lot cooler today you needed to warm up a bit.

It’s busy as always so you look for a certain table and hide the smile that tries to shine when you see him sitting there in his usual hoodie. Before you could even say anything he looks over his shoulder, a sparkle in his eyes as they meet yours that nearly makes you trip over yourself. Suddenly your headache is nowhere to be seen.

“Need a place to sit?” He smirks up at you.

“Only if you don’t mind?”

“Course not.”

Instead of sitting adjacent to him like you usually would, you decide to be a little bold and sit across from him. When you sit down you notice an iced chai placed in front of him. The condensation dripping down the sides makes you think he has been here for a while.

“What did you get this time?” You ask, gesturing to the half empty drink.

“The cinnamon chai. It took me a minute to get used to the flavor but I am really enjoying it.”

The excitement on your face says it all, “I’m glad I could help expand your flavor palate.”

He laughs then takes a sip of his drink, not once breaking eye contact. You look out the window to try and calm your racing heart and see giant rain clouds looming over the area. A few seconds later it starts pouring rain and lightning strikes not too far. The thunder booms soon after, making you jump a little.

“You okay?” The man asks, eyebrow slightly furrowed.

You nod your head and then look to the pick up counter as your order is called, “just wasn’t expecting it. I wish I had brought my umbrella.”

“Here,” he reaches down a little and pulls out an umbrella, “use mine. I have an extra one in my car.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah don’t worry about it.” He smiles at you as he passes the umbrella to you.

“How will I get this back to you?” You ask after standing up.

He turns slightly in his seat, resting his elbow casually on the back of his chair, a playful smile etched onto his face, “guess you’ll have to come back tomorrow.” His confidence leaves you startled and you can tell he is enjoying how flustered you are getting.

“I guess I will.” Your voice is a little shaky so you clear your throat, "I'm Y/N by the way. I don't think we have formally introduced ourselves.

He stands up and extends his arm out, leaving his hand open for you to shake. You're not surprised by the rough feeling of callouses but you are surprised by how gentle his grip is.

“Changbin.” His smile is so effortless it makes butterflies erupt in your stomach.

The rain is even worse the next day and you once again forgot your own umbrella. You are so grateful for Changbins’ umbrella that is sitting on your passenger's seat as you pull up to the cafe. Quickly you make your way inside, shaking the umbrella and closing it before passing through the doors.

Changbin is at your usual table and heat rushes up your neck when you see two drinks in front of him. Just from the color alone you know it’s your usual and it makes you like him more than you already do. It’s crazy to you how fast you have caught feelings when it’s only your fourth time being around him. Something about how kind and easy going he is pulls you to want to learn more and more.

“You didn’t have to get me a drink.” You voice when pulling out your chair and sitting across from him.

“I didn’t, this one is also for me.” The glint in his eyes tells you he’s kidding but you decide to play along.

“Oh, and here I thought you were trying to woo me.”

Changbin lights up at the implication,” would it be wrong if I was?”

“No.” You take a sip of your drink to try and hide your smile.

The both of you chatted for what felt like hours. Talking about the small things at first and eventually getting into the deeper things. Changbin never pushed too far if you didn’t feel like sharing and vice versa. It had been a while since you were able to be so open with someone and it felt good.

You learn that he is a personal trainer and does music producing on the side for fun. He has a few close friends that he hangs out with often and he is really close to his family, which you really liked. In your past relationship, your partner always talked badly about their friends and family just because, which never sat right with you.

Changbin tells you about his past relationship briefly. He fell first and fell harder but she just strung him along until she found someone else. Since then he has been trying to better himself and focus on finding someone who wants the same things as him.

“What kind of things would that be? You know, for research purposes.”

Changbin huffs out a laugh, “someone who is kind and honest, respectful towards others and definitely has a good sense of humor. Someone to help me expand my drink palate wouldn’t hurt either.”

Your stomach flutters.

“What about you? What do you look for?” He throws the question right back at you.

“I don’t like my time being wasted so knowing what you want is pretty important. Someone who doesn’t take themselves too seriously, but knows when to tone it down and is able to have serious conversations. I also want someone who is honest. I’ve had my fair share of liars and I don’t tolerate those kinds of people anymore.”

Changbin listens intently, nodding his head along with everything you’re saying. He can’t help but get a little excited over the similarities between the both of you. You are definitely his type and hearing what you are looking for just solidifies to him that he wants to get to know you better.

“Stop me if I am reading things wrong,” Changbin takes a breath before asking, “but, would you maybe want to go out sometime? You know, outside of this cafe.��

“I’d really like that actually.” You confess way too quickly.

By the time you are getting ready to leave you exchange numbers.The rain is still coming down heavily so Changbin tells you not to worry about giving his umbrella back and opens the door for you when you both exit. He gently takes the umbrella from your hand, holding it above your head for you as he walks you to your car.

“Thank you for the drink and walking me to my car. You didn’t have to do that.” You smile at him while taking the umbrella back.

“Of course and no need to thank me. I wanted to. I’ll see you on Sunday then?”

You nod, “yeah. Now hurry and go back inside before you get soaked!”

Changbin laughs and you wave goodbye after getting into your car. You wait until he dips back into the cafe to finally make your way out of the parking lot and back home, your stomach fluttering the entire drive.

The weather is finally clearing up and you are almost to the bowling alley you and Changbin had agreed to meet at. The two of you had been texting non stop since you last saw him and your heart felt so full. You’ve never had such an easy time getting to know someone. The conversations flow so easily and a few days ago he suggested taking you out for a first date.

Of course you couldn’t say no and when you were throwing date ideas back and forth, you decided that bowling could be really fun. Which leads you to where you are now. Your heart beats out of your chest when you see Changbin leaning against his car, waiting for you. He looks up from his phone when you park across from him and he instantly has a smile on his face.

“Hey! You look really pretty.” He states.

“What? Shut up.” You lightly hit his bicep and look down as you feel heat rushing up your neck.

He looks you up and down with a soft smile, “I never say something I don’t mean. Come on, let's go inside.”

You follow him into the building and are immediately met with loud noises and the smell of food. Changbin pays for a lane and you both get your shoes and bowling balls before walking over to it. You watch as he is about to put your names but then he turns towards you.

“Do you want to go first?”

“Oh no, you should probably go first. I wouldn't want to intimidate you with my skills.” You tease.

Changbin's eyes light up and he lets out a small laugh. He turns back to the little tablet to put your name first and his second.

“Come on then. Show me what you got.”

Your first turn you bowl is a strike. Looking back at Changbin you can tell he is not going to go easy on you. When he takes his first turn he also gets a strike and the competitiveness in the both of you lights up.

“Want to make a bet? Make this more interesting?” He suggests and you don’t think twice before nodding.

“The loser has to pay for ice cream after.”

He puts his hand out for you to shake to make a deal and you gladly take it. His hand is just like you remember. Rough in some places but somehow still soft. It’s your turn next and you hit nine pins but easily come back by making it a spare.

Changbin gets another strike and you wanted to rub that smug look off of his face the second he turned around to walk back. You get up and purposefully brush your shoulder against him, lightly knocking him to the side and your heart flutters at the sound of his laugh.

“Playing dirty I see.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You flip your hair over your shoulder and get ready for your next turn.

Back and forth you both get strikes and spares and by the time there is only one round left you are beating Changbin by three points.

You hold the ball up to your chest and right before you could wind it back, you feel a warm presence suddenly behind you. Changbin leans near your ear, “good luck.” Then he walks back to the booth seat. You stand there, rigid for a few seconds then take a deep breath.

After you release the ball, you hold your breath as it starts to curve slightly and then smile when you hit all the pins down. Changbin is still standing behind you, ball in hand. You already know that there is no way for him to win, but his determination as he rolls the ball perfectly is really attractive. He knocks down all buy one and easily throws for a spare.

He walks back with a knowing look on his handsome face and you can't help but laugh a little bit.

“So ice cream on you then?” You playfully tease and your heart warms at his smile.

“I wouldn’t have let you pay for it anyway.”

You roll your eyes and then follow him to give your bowling shoes back. Changbin holds the door open for you and then you make your way over to an ice cream shop in his car, which was just down the street. It’s a cute little corner shop that has a lot of colorful decor. The line isn’t too long and Changbin asks which flavor you would like. You look at the options and tell him which one and then he asks for you to find a seat while he waits in line. There weren't that many tables so the only ones available that you could see were outside and you didn’t feel like being outside alone.

“I don’t mind waiting with you.” You smile up at him.

Changbin smiles back easily, “How long have you been bowling? You are way too good for that to be your first few times at least.”

“I used to go with my family a lot. It was something that everyone enjoyed so it was an easy thing to get us all together. What about you?”

“My friends and I have been going for years. I also just love bowling.” He tells you and then you are next to order.

After getting your respective ice creams, Changbin holds the door open, letting you lead the way to pick which table you want to sit at. Once settled you get straight back into your previous conversation and before you know it, it’s nearly ten pm. Your ice creams are gone and the smiles never leave your faces.

“How are you feeling? Are you cold?” Changbin asks after seeing you slightly shiver.

“Oh, maybe a little but I’m fine, really.”

Changbin shakes his head before slightly jogging to his car. You watch as he pulls his signature hoodie from the backseat and you nearly faint. He comes back and instead of just handing it to you, he carefully places it around your shoulders.

“Thank you.” Your voice is quiet and cheeks warm.

“Of course,” he looks at you with a twinkle in his eyes, “I’ve had a really good time tonight.”

“Me too. Thank you by the way, for paying for everything. You really didn’t have to.”

“Stop that. You don’t have to keep thanking me. I wanted to and hopefully I can do it in the future too.” Changbin looks at his hands sheepishly. His cheeks also heating up a little.

You wait until he looks up at you to answer, “I’d really like that.”

main masterlists , skz masterlist

#stay's secret gift exchange #kpop imagines #stray kids imagines #kpop fluff #stray kids fluff #changbin fluff #changbin imagines #skz imagines #skz fluff

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silverx721-real · 3 days ago

Text

Light Up The Night

AN: This took me forever to write, it feels like it's been so long since I've done fanfic, idk if it's good or not lmao. I honestly went on quite the ramble, it's almost twice as long as I planned for it to be but I really enjoyed writing it! So I hope you guys enjoy reading it :}

Let me know if I missed any tags!

Inspiration: Light Up The Night by Jamie Berry, Robert Edwards & Andrew Griffiths

Lightly edited, probably still rough anyway.

Word Count: 5542

MDNI

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Charlie created a new weekly event for everyone to attend. This is one of the few times you and Alastor really get to spend time together, so you decide to make it special with a little surprise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sweat dripped from your head onto the freshly placed wooden floorboard, threatening to stain all the hard work you had done over the past week. Sitting back on your legs, you let out a deep sigh, wiping the sweat from your forehead as you took in the finally finished project before you.

The dance floor splayed out underneath your body, stretching across the floor and filling out from the wall to the center of the room. Six long, hard days of blood, sweat, a lot of tears and swearing, and labour, and you had finally finished it. Or… Mostly finished it. The wooden slats still needed a sanding and a coat of polish, but that was going to have to wait until after tonight’s party. You doubted anyone would get a splinter on its debut night.

A part of you wished you had more time, but tonight was ‘Fun Friday’, a weekly event hosted by Charlie at the Hazbin Hotel every Friday night. It was a place for people to come and mingle without the pressures of working towards redemption, a place where people can choose to break the ice and make friends willingly. You frequented these nights, happy to have a way to unwind and destress from the week, leaning softly into the weekend. You had even made a few friends this way yourself, some of which were none other than famous pornstar Angel Dust, the bartender of the hotel, Husk, the hotel maid, Niffty, and the hotel facility manager and powerful Overlord, Alastor. Most of your friends were, in fact, the staff. What that said about you, you weren’t sure, nor did you care, as you enjoyed their company all the same, and you hoped they, in turn, enjoyed yours.

Shrugging off the thought, you started packing up your tools and other items, doing a quick clean of the room, tidying loose wooden planks and vacuuming the carpet as you had promised Charlie you would. She had loved the idea of adding a dance floor to the ‘entertainment hall’ as she called it, but had been curious as to why you had so suddenly wanted to implement such a thing. All you had said to her was ‘It’s a surprise.’

Of course, Charlie had taken that to mean a surprise for everyone, but in reality, you were only planning on surprising one demon in particular… Alastor.

A smile appears on your lips for just a moment as your mind wanders to the red-dressed demon. Calling Alastor a friend was the truth of course. You would even dare go as far to say you were good friends with him. But it also wouldn’t be a lie if someone stated you had feelings for the demon. A crush, if you will. A big, silly, sometimes overwhelming crush.

Of course, you’d never admit such things to anyone, lest the truth of your heart find the Radio Demon’s ears and ruin your otherwise perfect friendship. You knew what he thought of such feelings, and you wouldn’t risk ruining what you had over something that you knew would never be. So, you swallowed your feelings, and kept yourself contempt with your current status of ‘friends’. Which felt surprisingly easy to do with how little time you got to spend with him. Being a hotel manager and a reigning overlord of Hell, Alastor was often quite busy, which meant your time spent together was rare, but all the more special, to you at least.

Even still, you couldn’t help but find yourself doing small things for him, to try and make his days even a little easier. Whether it was saving him a seat at Husk’s bar, or preparing his coffee in the morning before you left the kitchen. Maybe you grabbed a newspaper for him while you were in town, or complimented his attire whenever he fidgeted with his clothes. Small things, things friends would do, of course.

One of the few times you really got to meet up and talk with him were at these Fun Friday events, which is how you two even met in the first place. You couldn’t help but be drawn to his charming self, finding comfort in having long, meaningful discussions with him. Discussions of moral, right and wrong, music and dance. You both seemed to agree on pretty much everything. It really felt like he understood you, in a way others had never been able to properly grasp.

Of the many deep conversations you and Alastor had shared, the most recent one had been about music and dance. It was clear how much Alastor loved to dance, you could see it in the way his eyes shined while he reminisced dancing when he was alive, or with Mimzy, or anyone else who would dare dance with him now. Which was practically no one unless he grabbed them while on the floor himself. If you had to guess, you would say it had to have been at least a decade since his last swing. You wanted to fix that, to give him back a piece of his past. Plus the thought of getting to dance with him made you dizzy with joy.

Hands on your hips, you stared at the results of 6 days of hard labour in front of you. Small things.

‘Wow! This looks amazing!’ You turned as Charlie entered the now freshly vacuumed room, her eyes sparkling at the new addition, ‘I can’t believe you got this done so soon! I-I never doubted you of course-’

‘It’s fine.’ You chuckled, giving the demon princess a warm smile, ‘I know what you mean, I also doubted I’d get it done in time. Technically I didn’t, but it’s up to code, so it should be fine for one night. I can polish it off over the next week.’

Charlie nodded her head in agreement, her eyes not breaking from all your hard work, ‘I can’t wait for everyone else to see this tonight! I just know it’s gonna be a big hit!’

‘I hope so.’ You smiled, hefting the tools in your hand, your arm starting to get tired.

‘I know so.’ Charlie grabbed your other hand, now bouncing with energy, ‘Ohhh I can’t wait I can’t wait! Fun Friday can’t come fast enough!’

And with that, she was bouncing out the door. You sighed to yourself, shaking your head as you pulled the door closed, hoping the other hotel residents would have the decency to wait until tonight before entering the room.

‘And what are we up to, hm?’ You nearly jumped out of your skin at the voice, curses flying out into the hallway as you rushed to hide your toolbox. The familiar radio static filled the air as Alastor phased in next to you, his eyes full of curiosity and entertainment as he watched you recompose yourself.

‘Alastor. What the fuck?!’ You shoot him a glare, playful but stern, ‘You can’t just scare me like that.’

The Radio Demon chuckled down at you, leaning down and smiling as he tilted his head, his eyes glancing down at the poorly hidden toolbox, ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy.’ Your tone was mocking as you rolled your eyes, doing your best to hide your surprise, your shoulders slumping in relief at his presence, ‘What are you up to?’

The Radio Demon gave a fake laugh, straightening and waving his hand to his chest as he threw his head back, ‘Just seeing what has Charlie so excited, that is all.’

You huffed, pouting at him, ‘Well that’s for me to know, and for you to find out later tonight.’

‘Ohh, tonight hm?’ He placed his hands behind his back, raising a brow as he righted himself, stared down at you, ‘And what exactly are you planning for our little ‘Fun Friday’?’

Your cheeks warmed slightly at the tone in his voice, at the use of ‘our’ Fun Friday. Did he mean you two specifically? Were these Friday nights your nights, together?

‘You can wait and find out like everyone else.’ You said, trying to shake off the warmth flooding your face. You shifted in your spot, trying to move around him in a way that kept your toolbox hidden. It failed, however, as he reached around you and grabbed the box from your hands, holding it up above your face,

‘Does this have something to do with the surprise, dear?’

‘H-Hey! Give that back!’ You huffed, jumping up to try and grab the toolbox from the taller demon’s hand. He simply held it higher, smirking down at you playfully,

‘Only if you tell me the surprise.’

You pouted up at Alastor, crossing your arms, ‘I told you, you have to wait like everyone else.’

‘And why’s that? Charlie’s allowed to know, shouldn’t the hotel manager know as well?’ His voice was thick with tease as he dangled the metal box above your head, ‘What’s one more demon knowing the secret?’

‘Alastor, please give me back my toolbox.’

‘You have to give me what I want first.’

‘I don’t have time for this, why can’t you just be patient like everyone else?’ You jumped up again, reaching for your belongings. Alastor raised the box just out of reach as you tried to grab it, chuckling down at your feeble attempt to reclaim your items.

‘I don’t do surprises dear. Now, I need to know why you refuse to tell me what it is.’

‘Because…’ You started, but stopped. You couldn’t tell him the surprise was for him, that would ruin the magic of it. Plus, it could make things weird if you admit to doing something like this for him specifically. Sure, he was going to find out eventually, but it was going to be hidden behind a lie that the surprise was for everyone. What if he keeps insisting? What would get him off your back? The truth? You don’t have to tell him the specifics…

‘Because?’ His radio static grew louder, a song filling the background as his smile widened, waiting for you to crack under his persistent pushing. The snarky smile challenged you.

No, you weren’t going to tell him anything.

‘You know what? Keep the toolbox, I can get another one.’ You threw your hands in the air in defeat, offering a lop-sided smile, ‘I don’t need it now anyway.’

Alastor blinked down at you, surprise momentarily washing over his face as you started to walk away from him. You… beat him at his own game? That’s not how this was supposed to work. He was completely caught off guard. It wasn’t often people rolled with the punches, and you so easily let him win a small game just to keep the bigger one going. It was something he found endearing about you. He chuckled as he followed you down the hallway,

‘Impressive.’ He said, easily falling in step with your shorter ones, ‘I didn’t take you as one to abandon your belongings so quickly. Rather, I understood that you were quite possessive of your things.’

‘Eh, it’s a toolbox.’ You shrugged, ‘I know you’ll give it back eventually, you don’t have much use for it.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

You threw a smirk his way, and he happily returned it, both of you knowing construction wasn’t his thing. The Radio Demon enjoyed the snark you threw his way, recognising the buffoonery as a playful return to his own antagonising ways. You were one of the few people he could poke fun at, and have it thrown back in his face with no consequences. It was something he had taken notice of only recently, after a rather strange comment from Angel about your… ‘Connection’... Had caught his attention. Even now he found himself not caring what you insinuated about his lack of physical labour, knowing deep down it wasn’t disrespect, but honesty. Not many were honest with him, and he respected that.

He handed the toolbox back to you.

‘Alright dear, if the surprise really means that much to you, I won’t push.’ He said, adjusting his overcoat as you both walked down the hallway, ‘But know it’s driving me absolutely mad.’

‘You’re already mad.’ You rolled your eyes with a chuckle.

‘Why, how rude.’ He mocked offense, before breaking out into laughter.

The two of you walked together through the hotel, toolbox now happily back in your hands. You smiled slightly as you glanced down at it. You had thought he would hold onto it a bit longer, or maybe try harder to get the surprise out of you, but he had given up so readily. Could he really tell it meant that much to you? And why did he care?

Soft music came from Alastor’s direction as you both walked down another hallway, and you closed your eyes as you listened to it. You loved his ambient noises, the static that followed him around, the microphone filter over his voice, the random music and laugh tracks he would play when he was in a good mood.

‘Have you had a chance to listen to my recommendations?’ His voice broke your attention to the song.

‘I did, actually. All week.’ You smiled up at him, ‘I really enjoyed them!’

His eyes seemed to sparkle slightly at your response, his smile relaxing somewhat.

‘Did you have a favourite at all?’ He asked, tilting his head.

You shook your head, ‘I don’t think I could pick a favourite, the songs were all so unique in their own ways, but I’ve always loved jazz and swing.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’ The Radio Demon hummed in approval, ‘Though I would have picked you as an ‘I Don’t Want To Set The World On Fire’ kind of gal.’

‘Oh yeah? What makes you think that?’

He shrugged, ‘You just seemed like the type to… Enjoy a good love song.’

You smiled, your cheeks turning pink once again. It was true, you did love a good love song, and that one in particular had really stuck out to you. The fact that Alastor even remembered that made you feel sheepish and giddy inside. And the fact that he was able to guess which one you’d like the most felt extra nice.

‘Well maybe I just didn’t want to admit it.’

The red demon found that response particularly interesting, ‘Why not?’

‘I dunno, but you are right, it was definitely my favourite. Good pick.’

He chuckled, a sense of pride filling his chest with warmth. He knew you’d like that song, as well as all his recommendations. They had all been painstakingly hand picked by him for you. While you already loved the same kind of music, he knew you hadn’t explored the songs from closer to his era, and he wanted to introduce you to them with songs he knew you’d like. He already had another list of recommendations. And knowing you had already gone through your first list of suggestions so quickly… And loved them as well… Something fluttered in his chest, something unfamiliar and warm.

‘Did you get the chance to listen to my recommendations?’ You asked, snapping the Radio Demon out of his daze. Alastor cleared his throat, seemingly embarrassed now. It wasn’t often you saw him show such emotions.

‘My apologies dear, I was… Far too busy.’

It was the truth, but it also wasn’t. He wouldn’t tell you this, but he had procrastinated your list of recommendations on the sole basis of the genre being ‘modern’. That, and he hadn’t expected you to so readily dash through his songs of choice so quickly. Embarrassed was a simple word he would use. Ashamed, a far less likely contender, but still prevalent.

‘Wow.’ You looked up at him, now mocking offense, ‘How could you?’

‘I know, how absolutely horrid of me.’

The two of you chuckled again, Alastor for once feeling thankful you were so easy going. He loved that you never pushed for anything from him. You simply let him be and do as he pleases. It had been another of your few deep conversations, one that the two of you found had deeply seeded respect and understanding into your companionship.

You playfully bumped into his side.

‘Don’t worry, we can listen to some electro swing tonight. I promise it’s good. It’s modern, yes, but I found it to be a wonderful spin on swing and jazz combined. It’s extremely energetic, which I figured you might like.’

‘I do love a good energetic song.’ Alastor nodded in agreement, ‘Alright, tonight. After our ‘Fun Friday’?’

Your cheeks warmed at the use of ‘our’ once again, but you nodded, ‘Yeah, sure.’

Your response had been simple and quick, but Alastor found himself intrigued by it nonetheless. Perhaps it had been too quick. What were you hiding from him?

Finally, you returned to your room, Alastor stopping outside the door and opening it for you with a mock bow. You laughed, shaking your head as you walked into the room, turning back to him with a smile,

‘Meet me here just before the event starts.’ You said, placing the toolbox down on the desk near the entrance of your room, ‘We’ll walk back together, if that’s alright.’

Alastor raised a brow in curiosity, wondering if this was all a part of your mysterious surprise. Nevertheless, he agreed, and soon enough, your door was closed and he was heading back to his room. You found yourself bubbling with excitement as you jumped into the shower. Now you had to get ready, and boy you couldn’t wait to see his face.

The hour feels like it’s dragging on for the Radio Demon. His curiosity as to what you were planning had his mind spinning, and a part of him was worried he might actually go mad before the surprise could be revealed. He paced through his room, wondering what it could be, but coming up with nothing. You were an enigma to him, and while he enjoyed how unpredictable you could be at times, in moments like this, it made things really difficult for him.

A growl left his throat as he pondered, feeling inadequate at his inability to guess your moves, your motives. Charlie had looked so excited when you had both left the entertainment hall, but he knew she wouldn’t spill if you had asked her not to. Did anyone else know? Did Vaggie? Angel? Husk? The demon doubted it. While everyone else was friends with you, he held the top spot.

He came to a stop, a thought freezing him in place. He was closer to you than the others. If you hadn’t told him, then there was no way you had told the others what this surprise was. His smile relaxed somewhat, and he took a deep breath in. A sense of pride washed over him at the thought that he was your main confidant, it only seemed to strengthen his trust for you in turn. He knew whatever this surprise could be, would be good. Sure, not knowing was driving him insane. Your tedious teasing and not giving into his games drove him mad. But he respected your stubbornness and ability to stick to your guns. There had to be a reason. And whatever that reason was, he knew he could trust you.

Alastor was waiting outside your door when you stepped out freshly washed and dressed in a much nicer outfit. It honestly looked like he hadn’t left, the only hint was that he now smelt like coffee, as he turned and smiled at you. His eyes ran over your form, taking in your sparkly red dress. You noticed something shine through his eyes, but couldn’t catch what it was.

‘My my.’ He said, holding out an arm for you to take as you both started walking down the hallway, ‘This surprise must surely be magnificent for you to dress so formally.’

You smiled, taking his arm in your hands as you made your way back to the entertainment hall, feeling your heart flutter in your chest at his compliment.

‘Thanks Al, this is my first time wearing it.’

‘You should wear it more often, red looks good on you, darling.’ He smiled, and for once, it seemed genuine. You even noticed his voice filter disappeared as he spoke, ‘In fact, now I feel rather underdressed.’

‘Oh you don’t have to-’ You were about to reassure him, but the Radio Demon had already snapped his fingers, his suit snapping around him as he effortlessly changed his attire. It, surprisingly, matched your dress pretty well, and you felt an overwhelming happiness envelope your stomach.

‘There, much better!’ He exclaimed, as he dusted down the red coat that had replaced his usual, ripped suit jacket.

You smiled, nodding in agreement as you looked over at him, ‘You didn’t have to match me, you know.’

‘And why not? I can't have you looking more fabulous than me.’ He said, the filter now back to normal and mixing with his voice. You rolled your eyes at him, shaking your head at his ridiculous comment as the two of you made your way to the entertainment hall. Soon enough, you were both waiting out the front, standing with a few others that happily waited for the doors to open.

You felt your cheeks warm as everyone glanced in your direction. Still holding onto Alastor’s arm, you did your best to ignore the other demon’s confused gazes, probably wondering why you and Alastor were matching, or why you were both so overly dressed. Or why you were currently clinging to his arm. Even you weren’t sure about that last one. He had offered, and you accepted without question. But you didn’t care, you were feeling, as Alastor put it, fabulous.

Soon enough, Charlie and Vaggie had joined the group, the two also dressed somewhat more fancily than the others. The demon princess gave you a smile and thumbs up as she made her way to the double doors of the hall. The other demons parted for her, their hushed murmurs going quiet as she took her place.

‘Alright everyone! Welcome to another action packed Fun Friday! I’m sure you’re all wondering what the wonderful surprise waiting for you inside could be, so without further ado!’ She clicked her fingers, golden light erupting from her hand as the doors swung open. You found yourself gripping onto Alastor’s arm tighter than necessary as you both made your way into the hall, the anticipation of your surprise mounting higher and higher.

You glanced up to see Alastor’s face as you both walked through the doorway. His eyes were in their lazy half-lidded state at first, having kept that look the whole time you were both outside. It made it seem as though he was unbothered by the other demon’s glances in your direction. But as you both entered the room, and the dance floor came into view, his eyes widened.

Something flashed across his face, you thought you saw excitement at first, then confusion, then, his red eyes snapped to you. You didn’t realise you were holding your breath as you awaited his response. You didn’t even care about the other demons in the room, in fact, they all seemed to disappear. You just wanted to know what he thought.

But he was rendered speechless. He glanced at the dance floor again, then back to you. Had you really made this for everyone here? It felt so… Personal. You both had only talked about dance a week ago, had you seen just how much it meant to him?

Alastor tried to say something, anything. But he was too shocked. His mind reeled at all the possible reasons you would have done such a thing. Had you managed to build a whole dance floor within a week? Why? What motivated you to do such a thing?

‘Well?’ He snapped out of his thoughts, eyes focusing back onto you. Onto the red dress. The lights that had dimmed as you had entered became flashes of colour that bounced off your face, shining in your wide, curious eyes.

Music started playing from somewhere in the room, and Alastor watched as you perked up, seeming to recognise this song. Stepping away from him, you made your way closer to the dance floor.

‘Dance with me?’ You held your hand out, your cheeks tinted pink. His ears twitched above his head as a feminine voice filled the room.

‘Ba, da‚ ba‚ ba

Just let go

Ba‚ da, ba, ba

Just let go’

His heart was pounding in his chest. Even still, the smile on Alastor’s face widened into that of pure joy as his clawed hand found yours. You beamed up at him as you pulled him onto the freshly made dance floor just as the song picked up, a trumpet blaring as the song officially started.

‘Hey boy‚ you're heading my way

Come on over, sway with me’

The two of you broke into dance, Alastor quick to take the lead as he placed a hand on your waist, the other still holding gently onto your hand as you stepped together, falling perfectly into sync with a casual charleston. You smiled up at him, a knowing look in your eyes.

‘Don't you see? We could light up the night

You and me, we could be such a sight

Whoa‚ oh, whoa, oh

Just let go’

It all made sense to him now. The secrecy, your stubbornness, your dress. This was all done for him, wasn’t it? That look in your eyes… Alastor found himself swimming in your gaze.

‘Whoa boy, spin me around

'Til my feet won't touch the ground’

You laughed as he lifted you up, spinning you around once before bringing you back and into step with him. The other demons all watched, completely enthralled by your movements as you danced and jived together. It looked as though you had rehearsed this, it felt so natural.

‘Let's get high on tonight, just you and I

Forget our cares, let's just share the delight

Whoa, oh, whoa, oh

Just let go’

The music, which had kept a simple rhythm, picked up as more instruments joined the frey, and the other demons surrounding the dance floor started to bob their heads. Soon enough, others were joining on the dance floor, but you barely noticed, your eyes solely focused on Alastor, on the warmth that came from him as he beamed down at you.

‘Just let go’

Your heart pounded in your chest, in your ears. The image of you two dancing together felt picture perfect in your mind. He was loving this, you couldn’t doubt it even if you wanted to. And so were you. Dancing with him, your hand in his, the other on his shoulder as he swung you around the floor to the electric swing of the music, how could you not? This was all you could want, and more.

‘Don't you see? We could light up the night’

You looked up into Alastor’s eyes, catching something in the way he looked at you as the two of you danced together. Without needing to say a thing, you had already told him so much, and he had understood. And here he was, still dancing with you.

You were full of delight as the song neared its end. Slowly, you both came to a stop, chests heaving with every breath. Neither of you paid attention to the room, only focused on each other for the moment. Your hand was still in his, arm over his shoulder and his around your waist. Alastor had a glow about him now as you stood in the middle of the dance floor, something in his eyes shining so brightly it took your breath away.

It suddenly became apparent that you were being stared at. You both broke eye contact at the same time, turning to the dozens of eyes that had locked onto you two now. Your cheeks turned red with embarrassment as you let go of Alastor, stepping back and covering your face. He could only chuckle at your flustered reaction, not caring what the other demons thought as he gently took your arm, leading you off the floor. There was a moment of silence, before the next song started and everyone went back to dancing.

‘Th-Thanks…’ You mumbled, barely audible over the loud noise, ‘Sorry, I should have let you go.’

‘It’s quite alright my dear.’ Alastor said, his voice reassuring, ‘I didn’t let go either.’

Your face reddened more, your hand gripping your arm tightly. He was right. He hadn’t let you go either. He had been looking into your eyes as much as you looked into his. What did that mean? There was a moment of silence between you two, neither knowing what to say.

‘So, what do you think?’ You finally asked, glancing back towards the dance floor.

The Radio Demon’s gaze lingered on you, spotting the red tint across your cheeks, your inability to look him in the eye. He tilted his head slightly, his smile warm and genuine as he reached forward, tucking a strand of hair that had fallen during your jive behind your ear,

‘I think this was a wonderful surprise. Thank you, darling.’

His touch was gentle, catching your attention once again as you looked up at him. It felt like your face was burning with embarrassment, you fought the urge to lean into his hand, ‘It’s no problem at all Al. It… Felt like something I had to do.’

‘And I’m glad you did.’ He stared into your eyes a moment longer, ‘It’s been a long time since I had a dance that grand.’

You smiled. He had loved it, and you had been able to give him that joy. You buzzed with pride, and probably also adrenaline. Overall, you were just relieved to know he liked your surprise. The dancing should have been a dead giveaway, but to hear it from his lips was just as good. But now you had another curiosity you wanted to explore.

‘And the song?’ You rubbed your arm.

‘Lyrically, a little on the nose.’ He chuckled, tapping your nose as he said so, ‘But so full of energy. Was it one of your electro swings?’

‘You bet it was, see what I mean?’ You giggled this time, turning back to the dance floor to watch the other demons all dance together to the music.

‘Yes.’ He said, taking a step next to you, ‘I’m excited to hear more.’

‘Good.’ You say, as the next song starts, the beat quickly picking up in tempo, ‘Because I’ve given Charlie a whole list of them to play.’

You grabbed his arm, eagerly dragging the Overlord back out onto the dance floor as the song took off. He didn’t hesitate to follow, and the two of you danced through the night. Not a word of deep conversation was shared, for once. You communicated on the dance floor instead. Everyone seemed to be having a great time, and you were proud to have made these Fun Fridays even more spectacular.

At the end of the night, you and Alastor remained in the hall, waiting for the last of the other residents to leave. You wanted to show him all the finer details of your week of labour, and the Radio Demon was more than happy to listen as you pointed out the plank placements and complained of the hardships and pain.

‘I hit my thumb at least twice with a hammer.’ You laughed to yourself, waving your fingers in the air and studying them as if it had happened just then, ‘And I definitely stepped on a nail, but it was fine, it didn’t do too much damage.’

‘Hmm, that’s good.’ Alastor watched you, his stance fully relaxed as he followed you around the floor. Every now and then, he’d spin on his heel, the remnants of tonight's energy still lingering in his limbs. You smiled at him, before pointing out a particularly rough corner.

‘It still needs proper sanding and a polish.’ You said, kneeling down and running your hand over the rough material, ‘You couldn’t tell, could you?’

‘Not at all.’ Alastor hummed, walking over and leaning down to where you were focusing on, ‘Though I must say, it’s lucky no one got a splinter.’

‘That’s what I was saying!’ You laughed, giving the floor a final pat before you pushed yourself back up.

However, as you did so, a sharp prick entered your hand, and you cursed, waving it around. Upon inspection, you found a tiny wooden splinter had decided to intrude your thumb. The timing wasn’t lost on you, though, as both you and Alastor broke out into a laugh.

He took your hand gently, inspecting the small wooden protrusion, tutting at you and shaking his head in mock disappointment.

‘We better get that out.’ He said, grabbing onto your wrist as he started to make his way to the entrance of the hall, ‘Come, I’m sure I have some tweezers somewhere in my room. You can show me more of this electro swing while we fix this small thing.’

#alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #radio demon #fanfic #alastor x reader #fem reader #alastor x fem reader #electro swing #alastor loves electro swing #he would never tell you that but it's ok because Viv already did #alastor x reader fanfic #alastor x fem reader fanfic #i fucking love alastor but how do you write him wtf #x reader

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no-light-left-on · 1 year ago

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thinking still about how the Heart calls the Whalers 'puppets' and the amount of mystery there is around them, when playing as Corvo and perceiving them through the Heart, in comparison to how they are in reality.

we see them talk to each other in a manner any people would. they consider insubordination, they talk badly of Daud behind his back, we have Billie betray him. there are some that are loyal, yes, be it because they believe in Daud or because they see gain in this path, but by no means are they a monolyth.

however, we do hear from the Heart about a 'fog that surrounds them and hides their secrets' and it is even confirmed, by Billie (and also Galia in the books) that leaving Daud made them 'think clearly for the first time in years'

I've seen a couple theories and I do want to dive into each, to an extent.

there's the suggestion of the Heart talking badly of them, calling them mindless drones that only kill out of hatred and hurt. which, valid. the Heart also says certain things about Daud, 'why did you bring me here? do you expect me to forgive him?', so it's not unlikely that their attitude towards human lives and their willingness to kill for Daud is repulsive enough that the Heart does not see past it

another option is that the mindless puppets is more of a metaphor and is meant to talk about how the Whalers are, in a sense, a cult. which would be incredibly interesting to explore if we had more information on how the Whalers function. now I do want to point out that by cult I do not mean it in a Secluded Religious Organization but as a sociological thing. a literal cult if you will, with a leader that charms their followers, the seclusion and all the unhealthy attitudes of losing oneself to the group. and, that does check out - the loss of individuality, they are as one, following someone's orders without hesitation, someone they would die for. there are a lot of unsavory implications here (if you know how cults work, you probably had some cross your mind already), but arguably Daud is not charming enough to be a proper cult leader. the appeal is the magic, and his excellent skills as an assassin and a leader. maybe it's because of the time we see the Whalers at, right before a collapse, but Daud is regularly doubted and we see a lot of insubordination. the Whalers are not necessarily loyal to him because of who he is as a person. they want the power, they want the influence, maybe the protection, and the things keeping them from disobeying are fear, rather than loyalty.

the third thought or theory is, then, that many of these symptoms can be explained by the influence of the Void. we know the Void affects people, both physically as we see with Delilah's Witches or the Eyeless, as it influences them mentally, if the high numbers of people going mad because of their worship are something to go by. if, then, the Whalers are bound to the Void through Daud, it only makes sense that they would be influenced by this link to something that messes with people's brains. Galia saying she feels better after her Arcane Bond faded could easily mean that the influence the Void had on her has faded, and the creeping madness of it has subsided significantly.

all of these most likely come into play. one of the Heart's lines in dh2, if we point at a Witch, is reciting some of the recipes the Witches chant before quickly apologising. we do learn significantly more about them than we do about the Whalers, of course, possibly because Jessamine has more ill will towards the Whalers than to the Witches. still we see the Void affect the Heart. there is also a notion that the Witches are 'not quite human' due to their Arcane bond.

there's no real conclusion. it's just interesting

#li.txt #dh #dishonored #dishonored whalers #I cant stop thinking about this #and since Ive been pointed to 'whalers as a proper cult' Ive been thinking about it #I have a soft spot for cults as a phenomenon i think its very interesting how they function and the things that drive them to function #its really hard to explainwhat i mean without going into proper details on this #and like i dont think theres enough info about how the whalers functioned during their golden days?#to be truly able to tell how things were?#like if it was just a regular organization or if it was Proper Cult with all the unsavory practices that keep people in there #definitely against the 'mindless puppets' bs theyre still v much people #but i wonder like. how much did the arcane bond affect them #we know that it makes them arrogant #and they were already not too kind people before joining daud #i mean who would join the most famous assassin in dunwall without being into murder?#(i think this characterization suffers also because tehres just way less lines about characters in dh than in dh2)#anyways daud is not charismatic enough to be a proper cult leader and in this essay I will---#i did in fact not write about it at all lol but if people have questions I want to answer them #i really want to talk about the whalers actually #ngl should just sleep on this and post it later but nah yolo

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crows-of-buckets · 9 months ago

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I need to draw my rook bc I actually do have some ideas for them I just. Have NOT been in a creating mood idk I'm so tired... Aoughgggh

#crow rambles #i want to write and i want to draw and i want to do a million things and i am doing NONE of them...#insane... crazy even...#like. i have several fic ideas i wanna write (nothing new there) but i am not writing them #i. well i dont have any art ideas now but i WANNA draw but ohh. hard :(#i think i may be having a little creative burnout... give me like four days ill be back on my game #i can never stay away from art for too long. i get itchy if i dont draw for a few days #longest ive went without drawing in the past like. decade. has been a week and that was when i got covid #my ass can NOT put the pencil down #i do want to get some of my rook ideas into fic bc i think it may help me flesh them out a little bit #while i do have a lot of criticisms of dav i kinda wanna stop focusing on them so much #bc i KNOW ive been posting about them alot on here #and while i don't think the game SHOULDNT be criticized (it definitely should) i dont want to be solely negative on it #bc i actually did have fun playing it #and i want to reflect it in my posts lmao #however. i love bitching. i am so good at bitching #its a competitive sport and im winning. top tier bitcher thats me #idk i should probably replay the game bc its always easier to make a protagonist for a dragon age game once you know the plot #but also i want to finish my dao replay... and replay da2... and finish my dai replay i never finished lmao #im at the landsmeet in dao so it shouldnt be much longer. i plan on skipping the golems dlc this go round bc i dont really like it and it #doesnt add very much to the plot imo. everytime i play it i get pissy over the harvester. fucking AWFUL boss #tried killing it on hard mode. once. i am never doing that shit again i HATEEEE that stupid thing #<- by landsmeet i meant i am doing the denerim quests right before the landsmeet. im just before the whole 'anora got locked up' thing #am NOT looking forward to the alienage... idk i really want go get to witch hunt 😭😭

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tokyoteddywolf · 1 year ago

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22 isn't very much at all, I think.

#5am rambles #anyways ignore this as per usual im just thinking in a post that i'll delete soon. i just worry and writing it helps.#you ever wonder when you'll “grow up'? and then realize youre not even fully grown?#that theres still more to learn in life and that the mistakes you make are just that? mistakes?#that you are still so very very young in a world that is so very very old?#im almost 23. barely a quarter of my lifespan. im still a child in a way- my brain not fully formed.#you ever wonder how many mistakes you can make before you figure something out?#I dont know much of anything really. that's the sad part. and the adults who were supposed to help me learn... didnt.#i was failed. and now im a failure. at almost not quite 23 years old. Maybe i wont be a failure in another few years.#i still have a while to go before I die. I'm not going to waste time thinking about it. im just going to try my best.#I have time. I can learn. Grace and patience are not endless but damn if i dont try to figure things out #first step though is meds and therapy tho. we're done with the pity party. some things you just have to accept are okay #cuz my whole life i was taught that being emotional is a weakness. its pathetic and stupid to be upset or angry about anything.#any time i wanted to show i was upset or angry i was 'wrong'. i was 'selfish' and 'dramatic'#so i suppressed and pretended i was fine. that i wasnt weak and pathetic. that i was good and not an annoyance or burden.#i am not weak. i am not pathetic. i am fine i am fine i am fine you dont need to worry about the inconvenience at your door.#sometimes the shame is so much that i cant look at myself or even think i deserve help. that therapy is for people with real problems.#that i feel like ill just be told im like this for attention or dramatics. that im such a disappointment and selfish too.#ive been a “problem” my whole life to the point i dunno if i CAN be fixed. that anxiety eats me alive every day.#therapy is supposed to give you methods to cope #i dunno if it'll work though. I forget my appointments a lot. i struggle to talk sometimes. i may be autistic but its hard to get diagnosed.#emotions are so hard to figure out.

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pinkestlemonades · 3 months ago

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ok im finding out that i literally cant write without trying to make it realistic. or like sad in some way at least. bc i tried to write this lil fluffy stereotypical suburbs girl steph fic and i found out that if i ever want her to have fun she has to be avoiding thinking ab her problems

#tell me why I do this to myself tbh #this was supposed to be a exposition kinda thing!! this was supposed to be 'this is Steph before jay hehe now go read my already written af #after'#likeeeeeeee what am I doing here #anyways if it works out because timeline wise (at least as it relates to other in universe events)#it would have been very hard to fit arthurs villain arc in like. a year #but timeline wise (as it relates to real life) this thing is fucked because I want Steph & her Girl Friends to watch the Barbie movie #and also be tiktok & insta kids and like. that basically sets them 3 years in the past at most.#which was also lockdown time so like it works out that they're in this current day and age #which would make everything else in the future which like..... no......#so we're pretending that the barbie movie came out in like 2013 or smth. and tiktok inhabited the vine era #idk I just don't really think I could write classic Sitcom Teen Girl but I can write the classic Tiktok Teen Girl so #this is very funny tho because as I'm writing this I'm also writing a different character for a short story I'm messing with #who is also a Tiktok Teen Girl #so I keep forgetting who I gave certain characteristics to #I almost gave steph a sister and then I was like no...... that's not right..................#I think I'm getting a bit sleep deprived guys #but its fine i write best like this and totes don't burn out or anything LOL TTYL ILY ALL LMAO HAHA #<333 #sunlight au

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norrisradio · 3 months ago

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TRUE LOVE OF MINE

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "You with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes / You who bares all your teeth in every smile" - Lady Lamb, Dear Arkansas Daughter

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x reader | ᝰ WC: 5.5K ᝰ GENRE: best friends to lovers (we cheered!), reader = ex karting driver + med student, you have loved lando since the day you met etc etc etc ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: fun fact - the colors used in the title/headings on this post are actually the colors of lando's eyes from this post // this was a behemoth of a fic to write and i'm still nto entirely pleased, but the people yearn for lando norris ꨄ requested by anon!

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

The first time you see Lando Norris, he’s face-down in the mud, crying because someone called him a posh baby in the paddock, and you think he’s the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen.

There’s mud crusted on his cheek like it belongs there, curls pressed damp to his forehead, and his whole face is crumpled like paper in a storm. He’s got one sock half off and a fresh scab on his shin, and still, somehow, he looks like he belongs in a painting. The messy kind. Watercolor, probably. Something soft and bleeding at the edges, impossible to frame.

He’s eight and you’re eight and a half, which means you get to say things like “it’s okay, babies cry,” even though you don’t really mean it. He wipes his face on his sleeve and looks up at you with blotchy cheeks and kaleidoscope eyes, like someone spilled a little too much green into blue, and says, “I’m not a baby.” You believe him.

You sit next to him on the curb, knees knocking together, watching his kart like it’s some sacred thing. The sky is gray, threatening rain, and he’s all flushed skin and scraped palms and frustration.

“They’re just jealous,” you mutter. He doesn’t look at you. “Of what? That I cry like a baby?” “No,” you say. “That your eyelashes are stupid long and you drive like the kart owes you money.”

That gets a huff out of him. Half-sob, half-laugh.

You offer him your juice box. He doesn’t smile, but he bares his teeth when he takes it, all crooked and endearing and real. That’s the thing about Lando. He’s always been real.

He holds out a sticky, dirt-streaked hand.

“I’m Lando.” “I know,” you say. “Everyone knows.”

You shake his hand anyway.

A month later, you beg your parents to sign you up for the junior karting class — not because you like cars (you don’t, really), but because you like him. Or maybe just the way he lights up when he talks about apexes and engine sounds like they’re things that breathe.

You come home smelling like oil. Your knuckles blister from gripping the wheel too hard. You cry once when you spin out and hit the barriers; but he’s there, pulling your helmet off like you’re made of glass, telling you, “You looked cool, though. Like, action movie cool.”

He makes you want to win. So you start trying.

When you’re eleven, he wins a race with his hair slicked back by sweat and wind, curls flattened into chaos. He leaps from the kart like he’s weightless, helmet swinging from one hand like a trophy of its own, and the grin he throws at you — all teeth, no restraint — nearly knocks you over.

“Did you see that?” he shouts, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Did you see?”

You did. Every lap. Every line. You saw the way his hands tightened before the last corner, the way his shoulders settled like he’d already decided to win.

You hand him his water bottle.

“You were okay.”

He gasps. “Just okay?”

“You’ll be cooler when you stop smiling like you’re showing your teeth to the dentist.”

He grins wider. Shoves you lightly with the back of his hand.

“Admit it. I looked sick.”

He did. He always does. Even like this, eyes stormy and pale all at once, flushed with the kind of joy that doesn’t need to be explained. He’s not handsome yet, not in the way the magazines will call him later. But there’s something about the way he holds a moment. The way you can’t look away when he’s in it.

Later that summer, you win.

It’s not a big race. Junior category, barely a crowd —but he’s there. Leans so far over the barrier during your final lap the marshal tells him to get down before he falls in.

You don’t hear the cheering. You don’t even feel the medal when they hang it around your neck. All you feel is Lando barreling toward you at the speed of light, helmet in one hand, arms wide, like you’re the one who gave him wings.

“You were flying,” he breathes, practically vibrating. “You were magic.”

You pretend to scoff. “Guess I’m not just here to hand you water bottles.”

He pulls you into a hug anyway. No hesitation. Just heat and sweat and the faint scent of petrol and whatever soap he uses. His heart’s pounding against your shoulder like he’s the one who just won.

Later, when you look at the photos, you don’t care about the trophy in your hands. You care about the boy behind you — curls wild, smiling so hard it looks like it hurts.

At fifteen, you start noticing the way other girls notice him.

It starts in Italy, or maybe Spain. Somewhere with sunburnt afternoons and the scent of burnt rubber curling off the asphalt like smoke. The girls linger after his heats now. They lean too close and laugh too loudly. Twisting their hair, asking if he’s going to the after-party, the lake, the whatever.

You stand beside him in the hoodie he gave you two summers ago: faded navy, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. It smells like sunscreen and old fabric and something unnameable that has always just been him. You pick at the hem while they talk, eyes on his profile.

The same boy you’ve known since he was sobbing on a curb with gravel in his socks has started to shimmer, like something just out of reach. Something made of light and speed.

His hair’s longer now, curling wild at the edges of his helmet. His smile’s the same, though. All teeth, all instinct. It still takes up half his face like he hasn’t learned how to hide anything yet.

But he doesn’t smile at them. He never does.

He looks at you. “You’re quiet,” he says, tugging at the drawstring of your hoodie. You shrug. “I’m always quiet.” “Not with me.”

He says it like a secret. Like he likes that about you — that there’s a version of yourself reserved just for him. You don’t say anything back, because you're not sure your voice would work even if you tried.

That night, you find yourselves walking the hotel parking lot, drinking vending machine soda that tastes faintly like metal and sugar. The sky's a navy bruise, and everything hums: the street lamps, the asphalt, your pulse.

“You’re kind of becoming a big deal,” you say, finally.

He laughs, low and a little shy, like you’ve caught him off-guard. “Don’t say that,” he says. “I’ll get cocky.”

“You already are.” You bump his arm with yours. It’s too dark to see his face clearly, but you know he’s smiling wide, teeth and all, like he’s baring it just for you.

And maybe he is.

Because even now, even with sponsors circling and flights booked across Europe, even with interviews and mechanics and the way his name sounds over loudspeakers, he still comes to your races.

He’ll show up between practice sessions with a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses that don’t do much to hide him. You’ll spot him first, sitting on the pit wall like he’s always belonged there, one leg swinging like a kid with too much energy.

“Why do you still come?” you ask him once, after you’d placed second and felt like it wasn’t enough.

He shrugged. “Because I like watching you win.”

You think about that now, under the flicker of a buzzing lamp, watching the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks when he looks at you. His eyes are still that strange in-between — not quite blue, not quite grey, always shifting like skies about to storm.

Like watercolor left out in the rain.

You look away first.

You always do.

At sixteen, you run until your lungs burn. You don’t stop until your fists hit his front door, nails bitten down to nothing and eyes already stinging. He opens it in a hoodie three sizes too big, and the second he sees your face, he doesn’t ask.

He just pulls you in.

You’re crying too hard to speak at first, shoulders shaking, throat raw. He closes the door behind you and guides you to the stairs like it’s muscle memory, like this has happened before, and maybe it has, in smaller ways. Skinned knees. Lost heats. Bad days.

But this is different.

“They’re making me quit,” you finally get out. “They said— they said I have to focus on school. On real life.”

You say it like a curse. Like “real life” is something you never asked for.

Lando’s quiet for a moment. His hand curls around your wrist, thumb brushing a soothing rhythm over your pulse. His eyes — moss green in the dark — watch you without blinking. Always watching. Always knowing.

“Come on,” he says.

You frown. “Where?”

“Just— trust me.”

He doesn’t wait for you to agree. He just grabs his keys and your hand and pulls you out into the night. The wind has teeth. The sky hangs low, indigo and velvet. When you realize where you’re going, your heart breaks all over again.

The track sits behind the hill, silent and sleeping.

Lando hops the gate first, then turns and offers you his hand. You take it, fingers cold in his. He pulls you over like it’s nothing.

The lights are off, but the moon’s enough. It glints off the asphalt, pale and silver, the same way the sun used to gleam on your helmet when you’d throw it off at the end of a race, breathless and laughing. Back when your name had a number next to it and your dreams had engines.

Lando walks the edge of the track, then steps aside, gestures toward the start line like he’s offering you a crown.

“One more,” he says. “For old time’s sake.”

You laugh, watery and shaking. “There’s no kart, idiot.”

He shrugs. “Run it.”

So you do.

You take off, sneakers slapping the track, heart thudding like it’s trying to break through your ribs. Your hair whips behind you, tangled and wild, and you run like you used to race: reckless, full tilt, like the only thing that’s ever made sense is forward.

The wind hits your face and the tears dry on your cheeks and the world blurs around the edges. You run with everything you are; for every lap you’ll never finish, every podium you won’t stand on, every flame they’re trying to snuff out of you.

When you make it back to him, gasping and breathless, Lando is watching like he always does, with something quiet and fierce behind his eyes. Like he sees not just you, but the version of you the world won’t let exist anymore.

You collapse next to him, panting. He says nothing for a long time. Just sits beside you on the track, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands.

“You’ll come back to it,” he says eventually, soft like the curve of a turn. “I know you will.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He glances over, and for a moment, he looks like a boy again: the same boy with curls damp from rain, whose smile could split the sky. A boy who’s watched you win, lose, burn, rebuild. A boy who’s carried your dreams in the quiet way he carries everything.

“Besides,” he says, nudging your knee, “I’m still gonna win stuff. Someone’s gotta keep me humble.”

You laugh, finally — a real one. It cracks through the ache like sunlight through smoke.

“Always with the fast mouth,” you murmur. “And an ego the size of an engine.”

He grins. All teeth. Unashamed. Something ancient flutters in your chest, something that’s always been there but has never had the nerve to speak.

You don’t say you are the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen, but you think it. You don’t say I’ve loved you since I was eight and a half, but maybe he knows.

Maybe he always has.

By eighteen, Lando’s face is in magazines. He’s a headline now, a profile shot under stadium lights, a name that doesn’t need explaining anymore. He smiles with his whole face — wide and unguarded — and sometimes you see a photo that feels so much like him you have to close the tab and sit with your hands in your lap, breathing slowly.

You still see the boy who once spilled chocolate milk all down his overalls at Silverstone and sobbed so hard he hiccupped for twenty minutes. The one who used to braid daisy chains into the laces of your boots between heats. But now there are articles that say things like rising star and British darling, and he fits in their glossy pages better than he should.

He FaceTimes you after qualifying P1 for the first time. It’s late, past midnight, and you’re still in the library, alone but for the hum of the vending machine and the ache behind your eyes. You almost don’t pick up.

But then you see his name flash on the screen — 🚦LAN-DON’T CRASH🚦 — and your stomach flips like it used to before lights out.

He’s still in his race suit, curls a mess of damp ringlets, cheeks flushed like he’s been running. There’s something in his eyes, too: watercolor green, vivid and blurred around the edges, like adrenaline and disbelief have soaked into his skin.

His smile breaks the second you answer. Wide and wild and so familiar it stings.

“Did you watch?” he says, already breathless.

“Obviously,” you say, tipping your phone back so he can see the chemistry notes scattered across the desk. “Had it up on mute during organic synthesis. You’re lucky I didn’t scream when you took the final sector.”

“You think I was okay?”

“You were sick.”

He pumps a fist and flops back onto some impossibly white hotel bed, still grinning like a kid who’s snuck past curfew. The camera wobbles, then steadies on his face again: flushed and freckled, sweat still clinging to his jaw. He looks happy.

You used to know that feeling. That kind of high. The kind that only came with rubber and gasoline and the blur of corners taken clean.

Your helmet lives in the back of your closet now, tucked behind winter coats and forgotten notebooks. You’ve traded it for lab goggles and timed exams, for ink-stained hands and the quiet sort of excellence no one applauds. Your medals sit in a shoebox beneath your bed, and you haven’t opened it in over a year. You tell people you’re pre-med now. That it’s what you’ve always wanted.

Two years have dulled the ache. Sandpapered it down from a blade to something you can live with. Sometimes you still dream of the track, of the smell of rubber and the scream of engines, but you wake up and make coffee and keep studying until the want quiets again.

Lando watches you for a second. He sees things other people don’t — always has.

“You good?” he asks, voice soft now, like it used to be when he’d sneak out to meet you by the tire stacks after dark.

You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “What are you working on?”

You sigh and flip your notebook toward the screen. “Chemical compounds. I’ve got a practical on Monday. Enantiomers, ketones, the whole gang.”

He makes a face. “Nerd.”

“National treasure,” you correct, dryly. “And future doctor, maybe.”

He lights up at that. “Sick. You can be my medic when I crash.”

You roll your eyes. “So I’ll see you, what, every weekend?”

“Exactly,” he says, smug. “We’re soulmates, remember?”

You want to say, you with the stupid grin, you with the disaster curls, you with the heartbeat I could always find in the noise.But instead, you shake your head and say, “God help your insurance.”

He laughs, throws his head back, bares every tooth like he always does. There’s a soft curve in the center of his front two that never straightened out, even after braces. You used to tell him he looked like a Labrador when he smiled like that. You still think it now, but it feels like something tender and sacred, like a memory you keep pressed between pages.

“I miss you,” he says, quieter now.

You don’t say I miss the version of me that only exists around you.You just whisper, “Yeah. I know.”

The call ends eventually. It always does. But you sit there for a while after, your notebook untouched, watching the ghost of his smile in your screen’s reflection.

You’re twenty-one and a half when Lando sneaks into your college graduation. You don’t see him at first. You’re too busy sweating in your robe, clutching your diploma like it might disappear, wondering if your cap looks stupid in photos. Your parents wave from the stands, your friends cheer, and you try to hold still long enough to soak it in — but it never lands quite right. Everything feels too big, too loud, too fast.

Until he finds you.

Until he hugs you from behind and says, low in your ear, “Told you you’d look cool in a cape.”

You twist around, and there he is, in a hoodie pulled low over those unmistakable curls, sunglasses at night like the world’s worst disguise. His smile is crooked, tired. Familiar.

“What the fuck,” you whisper. “Aren’t you supposed to be—”

He grins wider. “I skipped media day.”

Your jaw drops.

“Shhh,” he adds, holding a finger to your lips. “I’ll get yelled at later. Worth it.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or hit him. So you do both —thump his arm, then drag him into a hug, still warm from the sun and whatever it means to grow up.

He stays through the party, tucked into the background, stealing finger food and smiling like he’s always belonged. He doesn’t pull attention the way he does on track. Here, he just… exists beside you. Quietly. Constantly. Every time you turn around, he’s already looking.

Later, long after the music dies and your parents have gone to bed, the two of you end up on the grass in your front yard, barefoot, robes ditched, diplomas crumpled somewhere behind you. The stars are blurry, a little from distance, a little from everything else.

He lies flat on his back, arms spread like a kid making snow angels, and says, “I’ve got a flight in two hours.”

You hum. “FP1?”

He nods.

You both fall quiet. The silence between you has never been uncomfortable. It stretches like elastic, worn in with years of knowing — from tire stacks and afterschool karting, from night tracks and vending machines, from every version of growing up that had the other curled into its corner.

“I’m scared,” you admit, finally. “For med school.”

Lando turns his head to look at you. You’re lying close, your hair fanned out against the grass, fingers plucking gently at the blades. You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel them on you. The color of seafoam, soft in the dark. The kind that still knocks the breath out of you when you're not bracing for it.

“You’ll be great.”

You scoff. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Why?”

There’s a rustle of denim and hoodie fabric, and then he’s sitting up, pulling something from his pocket. A worn-out square of photo paper, crumpled and soft at the edges. He presses it into your hand.

You blink. It’s a picture of the two of you, age nine, arms thrown around each other in the pit lane. His curls are messy and stuck to his forehead, flushed cheeks stretched in a grin so big you can count every tooth. You’re buried in his side, beaming up at him like he hung the sky. Lando’s holding a trophy, but even then, he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at you.

“You gave me your gummy worms right after that,” he says. “Said I earned it.”

You run your thumb over the crease down the middle. The image is faded now, but you remember the moment like it’s stitched into you.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like gravity. “Because we’re soulmates. And I feel it in my bones.”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t.

The stars above you scatter like sugar across navy velvet. Your eyes sting.

“You know,” you say after a while, voice low, “If you crash, I’ll be the one stitching you back together.”

He grins. Not his media-trained one — not the sharp, rehearsed smile he wears under paddock lights — but the real one. The one that splits across his face without warning. That bares all his teeth like he’s never learned to hold anything back. That’s lived on every page of your memory since you were old enough to chase him across a track.

“That’s hot,” he teases.

You roll your eyes. “You’re a nightmare.”

“But I’m your nightmare.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

It’s always been him. Him with eyes that shift with the light, that catch everything, that still find you first.

You with your goggles and your notebooks. Him with his fireproof gloves and nowhere to land.

You, who traded circuits for classrooms.

Him, who never stopped circling back to you.

He looks at you like he always has, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. You think maybe you believe him.

That you’ll be okay.

Because he said so. Because he always shows up. Because he’s flying across the world in an hour, but somehow, you’ve never felt more grounded.

At twenty-three, he invites you to Monaco.

You’re dead on your feet when he calls. It’s nearly midnight and you’re cramming for your pathology exam, cross-eyed from the fluorescent lighting in your apartment. You don’t even remember what you said exactly; something like “med school is killing me and I swear to God I haven’t seen the sun in four days.” Laughed it off with the tired grin he knows too well.

You forgot it by morning.

He didn’t.

Now, a week later, you’re barefoot on his balcony, letting the gold-tinged air sink into your skin as the sun sets over the Riviera. The track lies sprawled beneath you like a secret. The sea beyond it glints like something ancient, something wild.

Your breath hitches without meaning to.

“I used to dream about racing this track,” you say, barely above a whisper. “When I was fifteen, I’d watch the onboard cams on my laptop and try to memorize every corner. I knew the lines like poetry.”

Beside you, Lando is quiet. But when you glance over, there’s a glint in his eye, the one that always spelled trouble. Or magic. Or both. His curls are pushed back haphazardly, like he ran a hand through them too many times on the flight, but there’s still that boyishness, untamed and familiar.

“What?” you ask warily.

He doesn’t answer. Just grabs your wrist. “C’mon.” “Lando—” “No time. Let’s go.”

You barely have time to yank on your sneakers before he’s dragging you out the door, past the sleepy concierge and down the quiet streets like he’s done it a thousand times. He takes sharp turns with muscle memory, his fingers tight around yours.

Only when the city’s noise has thinned and the streetlights spill onto the famous asphalt do you realize where you are.

“Lando,” you whisper. “We can’t—” “We’re not driving,” he grins. “Just running it. Like when we were kids, remember?" “FIA—” “Would fine me until my hair turns gray.” He pauses. “Still worth it.”

Your heart kicks against your ribs, but your legs are already moving.

You run.

Past Sainte Devote, hair flying behind you. Past the casino, your laughter ricocheting off elegant facades. You’re breathless by the tunnel, aching by the chicane, but he’s still pulling you like he did when you were kids and he insisted you could make it to the top of that hill if you just didn’t stop.

The air smells like salt and speed.

By the time you reach the harbor, your lungs are burning and your face is flushed and he’s glowing, cheeks pink, smile wide, teeth bared like he’s daring the night to find a brighter joy than this. He looks every bit like the boy you fell in love with fifteen years ago.

The one with grass stains on his overalls. The one whose curls never obeyed a comb. The one who grinned like mischief itself. The one whose eyes — not blue, not quite green — shimmered like someone had taken watercolors and washed them into something soft and stupidly beautiful.

You stop, breathless. He does too.

And for a second, it feels like everything’s still. Like the world just pressed pause.

Later, you sit at the edge of the marina, legs swinging over the water. Your shoes are abandoned on the dock. The air is heavy with the scent of engine oil and sea spray. The waves slap gently against the boats, like applause winding down after a show.

Beside you, Lando says nothing. But you feel him watching. And when you turn, he’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before.

But of course he has. He’s seen you in worse light: that post-rain haze in your old garage, your hair frizzed to hell and braces catching on your lower lip, oil on your jeans and mud on your ankles. He’s seen you bleary-eyed on FaceTime at 3AM. He’s seen you panicking over exams, crying in the paddock, snorting over bad pizza and better jokes.

Still, he looks at you now like he forgot the color of your laugh until this exact moment brought it back. His hair hangs loose over his forehead, still damp from the run, and the way his mouth twitches — almost a grin, almost not — makes your stomach turn over.

He bumps your knee with his.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Better than okay.” “You looked happy back there.” “I was happy back there.” “Good.” He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “I miss that.”

You glance at him, surprised.

“Miss what?”

“You. Like that.” He exhales, eyes trained on the moon's reflection on the water. “Laughing. Running. Being ridiculous with me.”

You don’t say anything.

He does.

“I miss you all the time,” he says, voice low. “Even when I’m with you.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re always somewhere else now. In your books. In your head. In hospitals I can’t pronounce.”

Your heart tugs at the edges. He doesn’t sound bitter. Just tired. Honest.

“I get it,” he adds. “It’s important. It matters. But sometimes I think about that summer when we were fifteen, and you stole my hoodie, and we made fake pit passes just to sneak into the garage.”

You laugh, quiet. “We were so stupid.”

“We were so happy.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s full. Like the city’s holding its breath.

You look over at him. Really look.

His lashes are darker now. His jaw’s sharper. A lock of hair curls against his temple, untamed. But he’s still him. Still the boy in the mud, the boy who taught you how to drift on your cousin’s farm, who shared his Capri-Sun at the track because you forgot yours, again. Still the one who taped your wrist when you wiped out in the rain and told you you’d make it to Monaco someday.

And here you are.

“Lando,” you murmur. “Yeah?” “I missed you too.”

He doesn’t wait this time.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting years to remember how.

And maybe he has. Maybe you both have.

The world blurs for a moment: the moon climbing higher, the boats bobbing gently below, the buzz of the city dissolving behind you, and all that’s left is him.

All sun-warmed skin and trembling fingers and eyes the color of every good memory — soft-washed, warm, like light bleeding through a window at golden hour.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours.

“I didn’t think you’d let me do that,” he whispers.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

You both laugh. Just a little. Just enough.

You’re twenty-five when you catch him watching you from across a hotel room in Japan. There’s a storm outside, low thunder rolling through the glass, and Lando’s shirt is damp from the run to the lobby. His curls are still wet, clinging to his forehead in loose, chaotic swirls. He should be tired — hell, you’re tired — but he’s watching you like you’re something new.

It’s not the first time he’s looked at you like this. Not by a long shot.

He’s never been subtle about it, not when he warms your hands in his pockets on cold walks back from the paddock, not when he lights up the second your name shows up on his phone. He’s the kind of boy who leaves his heart in plain sight, who grins with his whole body, who never learned how to want quietly.

You feel his gaze before you meet it. The kind that makes your chest go a little soft, like the edges of a photograph curling with time.

“You’re staring,” you say, without looking up from your textbook.

“I’m allowed to,” he replies. “I’m in love with you.”

You blink. Not because you didn’t know — he’s never been subtle — but because of how easily he says it. No drama. No orchestra. Just him. Lando, who once stuck gum in your hair during a twelve-hour drive to Wales. Lando, who whispered you’ve got me into your hair the night your grandmother died. Lando, who still trips over his own shoes in hotel corridors and grins like a child when room service arrives.

You toss a pillow at him. “Say it prettier.”

He catches it one-handed, kaleidoscope eyes glinting in the dim light. Smirks. “You make me want to write poetry, but all I know how to do is drive.”

That shuts you up.

His eyes crinkle at the corners, a blue-green haze in the lightning glow, and he grins wider, like he knows he’s just won something. Like he’d lose a thousand races and still call this the prize.

“Told you,” he murmurs.

There are races, years, chapters.

Seasons where you barely see each other, where you wake up to hotel ceilings and unfamiliar time zones and forget what city you’re in until he kisses your shoulder and mumbles something in a sleep-heavy voice like, It’s Thursday. We’re in Austin. His curls are flattened from sleep, his voice rough at the edges, and his arms still warm from whatever dream he was having.

Sometimes he wins. Sometimes he doesn’t. You never love him any more or less.

He still gets grumpy when he’s hungry, still laughs at memes from 2014, still buys you the weird flavored gum at petrol stations because you used to love this stuff, remember? Still leans into your space like gravity’s something personal. Still has a grin that cracks through your worst moods like sunlight.

There are cameras. Headlines. Speculations. But you’ve always known who he was.

You know the versions of him that never make it to the press: the quiet frustration of a red flag, the way he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek when he’s nervous, the silence he sinks into after a loss. The way his curls flop over his forehead when he finally takes off his helmet. The way he says your name when he’s scared. The way he finds you in every crowd like it’s instinct. How his eyes — storm-colored, sometimes soft, sometimes sharp — flick to you the second anything starts to feel too loud.

And you’ve always let him. You always will.

He’s thirty-one when you find an old photo in a drawer: the two of you, muddy and grinning, barely ten years old. His curls are a mess, more fluff than form. You’re wearing his jacket, sleeves bunched up to your elbows. Neither of you have front teeth. You’re both sun-drenched and ridiculous.

“God,” you mutter, holding it up to the light. “We were a disaster.”

From the kitchen, he says, “Still are.”

You hear the clink of a spoon against ceramic. The rustle of his socks on the tile.

“You still love me?” you call, teasing, but not really.

He appears in the doorway, hoodie half-on, spoon in his mouth. He’s older now — jaw more carved, eyes a little softer around the edges — but the grin he gives you is the same one from every memory that matters. That lopsided, toothy thing like he’s always one second from bursting into laughter. A single curl falls against his temple, and for a moment, it’s hard to tell what year it is.

He swallows and says, “I’ll love you even when we’re bones.”

You believe him.

You always have.

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salemrph · 6 months ago

Text

Sleepy morning with Sylus

A/N: While I was reading some other posts yesterday, I came across a user asking what it would be like to wake up next to Sylus. My imagination jumped on it right away! I would say this is more of a headcanon than a fanfic. I focused more how he would experience it. Short write, just because I'm working on other stuff.

Character: Sylus & Reader/MC/you

Genre: romantic, fluffy

Word count: 1,430 | Reading Time: 5 min | AO3

Background music

Your laughter echoes through his bedroom as you try to break free from his grip, his breath tickling your skin. His arms are wrapped tightly around you, pressing himself against your naked body. You smell incredible, so intoxicatingly good that waking up next to you must be heaven on earth.

You squirm and kick, already in tears from laughing so hard. He can't get enough of that sound, of the way you smile, the way you close your eyes and lean your head back. Your presence is like a flowerbed in full bloom, vibrant and breathtaking. Blooming in its full splendor.

Whenever he can, he admires you. When you sleep, he counts the moles on your body, tracing them with his fingertips. He caresses the scars you've earned as a fierce Hunter, kissing every natural fold of your skin. His touch follows the curve of your back, the delicate shape of your ass, down to your legs. The same legs that always wrap around him in the intensity of passion.

He loves you, more than he could ever show to you. It wouldn't be enough, ever.

"Sylus—" you gasp between laughs, struggling against him as your muscles start to cramp.

"You have so much energy, kitten" you keep laughing, you are so ticklish this morning. His nose brushes against your neck before he nips at your skin, placing lazy kisses along your shoulder.

You squirm even more, still breathless from laughter. "I will pee myself... Stop!"

He hums against your skin, only tightening his hold. He isn't really awake, he wants to keep sleeping, enjoying the peaceful morning with you. Sylus has worked hard to clear his schedule, to be with you like this. To adapt to your routine, make breakfast, and simply enjoy a normal day at your side.

"Then pee..." he teases.

"Gross! Let go." You protest, thoroughly disgusted by his suggestion.

"Not even in dreams, sweetie" he chuckles while still kissing your shoulder.

"Sy..." you whine. That tone, the way you try to get your way putting that face, that tone in your voice. The one that makes his heart melt no matter how much he tries to resist. He growls, reluctant to release you completely. His grip tightening for a moment before he finally exhales and relaxes.

"Go. You have 2 minutes to come back".

You waste no time jumping out of bed, only to earn a slap on your ass.

"Hey!" You spin around, shooting him a glare. Sylus only smirks.

"I like how it wiggles"

You disappear in the bathroom. Sylus shifts onto his back, crossing both arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling with a rare sense of peace. Yeah… he could get used to this. No, he wants to get used to this. The wealth he possesses and everything he has done has been nothing more than a way to ensure your safety. The years he spent searching for you taught him that he had to be prepared for anything. Losing you again was not in his plans. And if the day ever comes when you no longer love him, it won’t change a thing. He would still protect you, even from the shadows.

He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice you sneaking back into bed. Carefully, you inch closer, suppressing a grin as you reach out to poke his cheek. But before you can even make contact, his hand shoots out, catching your wrist in a firm grip.

"Feeling playful this morning, my love?"

"Just a bit" you smirk. Sylus laughed.

"What do you want to play?" You tilt your head, pausing deliberately as your eyes drift over his bare chest, trailing down to his toned abs. The sheets rest low on his hips, and the way you’re looking at him doesn’t go unnoticed. He knows that look.

With effortless ease, he shifts, pulling you toward him until you land on top of his body.

His fingers brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering. The color of your lips is already beautiful, but he loves it even more when they darken after passionate kisses. His lips part slightly, his gaze locked onto yours, mesmerized by the infinite depth of your shining eyes.

You lean in, pressing tender kisses across his face before finally finding his lips. Your entire body relaxes, melting into him. Savoring the slow movement of your mouth. Heat growing in your body. Between you two. The kiss deepens bit by bit, his tongue tracing your lips, later moving beyond, slipping inside, tasting you. You sigh into him, already lost in the spreading feelings of longing.

His hand has already trapped you. One sitting on your back, the other on your ass, keeping you close. He is getting harder by the second. His need for you is growing. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips grounding you in the moment. There is no rush, no urgency. You have the complete morning and day to melt in each other.

When he finally pulls away, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath is warm against your lips. His eyes flutter shut for a moment as he exhales deeply. This is a dream, he thinks. A damn good dream. And he has no intention of waking up.

One hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing tenderly over your skin. He doesn’t need to speak; everything he feels is in the way he looks at you, in the way he holds you like you’re something precious. You cover his hand with yours, pressing your cheek into his palm. A faint smile tugs at his lips before he kisses you again.

Sylus takes his time, enjoying how your body reacts to him, the quiet gasps, the way your fingers tangle in his hair. His name escapes your lips in a breathless whisper. He watches you with a quiet intensity, taking in the way you melt under his touch. The space between you disappears, lost in the unhurried way he moves. Once more, your worlds merge, your bodies speaking a language only the two of you understand.

That's how you start the morning: with him, with you, with nothing beyond these four walls mattering. Just the warmth of his skin, the rhythm of your hearts, and the love that neither of you needs to put into words.

----

Go to MASTERLIST

#love and deepspace #lads sylus #sylus #sylus x reader #lnds sylus #sylus x you #lads x reader #soft sylus #i love soft sylus #sylus qin #sylus fanfiction #romantic morning #sylus love and deepspace #sylus fluff

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damselneedssaving · 2 months ago

Note

Love your writing! It's a bit heavy so no worries if you don't want to but I was wondering how the batboys™️ would react to the reader refusing to accept money from them even in a financial emergency because they're afraid of taking advantage of the fact their partner is rich asf (I'm a sucker for ✨polite✨ angst)

BATBOYS BUT THEY'RE DATING A POOR!F!READER WHO REFUSES TO TELL THEM AND ACCEPT THEIR HELP.

★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, angst, not poly, hurt/comfort, jason before he reformed, mentions of violence (not towards reader), small panic attack (not described in detail), anxiety, lots of comforting and love, it hurts them to see you struggle :(((

★ A/N: first ask, omg!! thank you for coming to save me 💞💞💞 i love angst, you are doing me a favour by requesting it, not to worry!! hope this is good enough <333 oh, and quick notice, but this is not at all meant to romanticise the situation depicted, please remember that not having much money is a real struggle that people go through and this work does not aim to diminish it

★ W/C: 3.5k (why is this so long—)

The paper on your door stares back at you blankly—no sympathy in its gaze, and certainly no mercy in its letters, all uppercase and practically shouting at you: EVICTION NOTICE.

You're sure the thud of your bag hitting the ground can be heard from multiple stories both above and below, but in that moment, staring at those two words with static ringing in your ears and the world closing in around you, it's hard to really care.

You think you spend a while standing there, just glaring at the door with no real thought behind your eyes, no real drive to your actions, just this void swallowing you whole.

It's almost hard to believe that just this morning, you were laughing and shoving the shoulder of your boyfriend as he teased you about something you can't even bother to remember. That just this morning, you were beaming and bright and shining all over as you joked without a care in the world.

And now...

Now this.

A light gasp coming from beside you snaps you out of your daze, tired eyes landing on a pair swimming in so much sympathy and pity that it makes you sick to your stomach, and before you even know it, the echo of your door slamming shut rings clear through the hall, paper all but gone from its wooden surface.

The next few days are a blur, spent either packing, or curled up in your bed with dry, crusty streaks coating your cheeks and a phone laying forgotten by your bedside table, arms too weak to pick it up and brain too tired to bother even trying.

This whole thing just came so fast, too fast, that you couldn't even bring yourself to keep the one thing you spent years trying to hide from your lover a secret anymore, not responding to his texts or calls to the point he shows up knocking at your door, and when you open it, his eyes aren't on you, but glued down.

Glued onto the piece of paper in his hands.

You take a second to quickly glance at your door, spotting another tape situated on it.

That motherfucker put up another notice.

Jaw clenched, you turn back to your boyfriend.

-> DICK GRAYSON <-

"Y'know..." he starts, tone soft with a hint of his usual playfulness, but, you notice, significantly watered down this time, "when I said you can come to me for anything, I meant it."

You part your lips to respond, but can't quite bring yourself to let any words actually escape, just like Dick can't seem to bring himself to lift his head up and meet your gaze.

(He doesn't because he feels like he failed you, staring at those two words without registering anything else as he wonders just how long this has been going on for, just how long has his girlfriend been suffering, while he sat there basking in riches and wealth?)

"I can help," he spits out almost too soon, almost too desperate, "I can wire you the money, pay off the—"

"No."

His head shoots up.

"No..?" he echoes, shoulders dropping and form all but kicked puppy. "What do you mean 'no'?"

"I mean: no, Dick."

Your hand goes up, fingers pinching your nose and head shaking from side-to-side as you curse yourself for not even bothering to answer at least one text.

For even showing him where you live in the first place, really.

"Why not?"

"Because," you force out, the word tasting bitter on your tongue, "I refuse to do that to you."

"Do what to me?"

"That," you hiss, gesturing in front of you as though what you're talking about is actually, physically there. "The asking for money, the begging for funds—God, Dick, I can't. I can't take advantage of you like that. That's not why I dated you."

"Dated?" Dick stares at you, brows knitted and eyes pouring out all the hurt siphoned by his voice.

"That's..." you trail off, shaking your head. "That came out wrong."

Your lips pull down, eyes glazing over before he catches your hands and refocuses your hazy pools towards him.

"Hey," he calls, soft and sweet. "You know you wouldn't be taking advantage of me, right?"

You scoff, and immediately, he lifts a hand up to cup your chin, coaxing your averted eyes back to him.

"I mean it," he says, firmer, "I'm your boyfriend. Your partner. I'm here to help. Money or otherwise."

"I can't, Dick. I can't."

With a tug, you crash into him, hands planted firmly on his chest as his arms curl around you, the warmth like a hammer to your shell, a crack in your dam, and before you even know it, the tears that were glistening in your eyes just moments ago start to spill over.

Dick's arms secure you, grip not faltering even while you soak his shirt in your ugly tears and snot, even while you squeeze it tight enough to dig into his chest through the fabric, even while you admit to lying to him for years about a situation that pains him so.

"Stay with me for a while."

"Huh?" You sniff.

"You said you won't accept my money," he continues, and you crane your neck to find him already looking down at you, "so accept my hospitality instead."

"Dick..."

"Just until you can get back onto your feet again," he pleads. "Just let me help until you can get back up on your own."

"I..."

"Please, [Name], I can't let you live on the streets. I can't."

And he means it, staring at you with such heartbreak, the sob you've worked so hard to keep down climbs back up your throat, sending you crashing straight back into his chest.

And as you stand there, his arms around you and his nose buried in your hair, you think to yourself that, just this once, you'll allow yourself to reach out.

-> JASON TODD <-

"Always fucking hated that prick," he growls out, voice all sharp edges and nasty scowls. "He looks at you like you're some piece of meat and not an actual fucking human being."

"Yeah... I hate him too."

Jason's eyes flit up, gaze narrow and lips taut. "Then why the fuck did you never tell me about this?"

You purse your own lips, words lost on your tongue—

"I can kill him."

—until he says something like that, of course.

"What?" you can't help but scoff out, incredulous. "Jason, no."

The paper scrunches in his hands, bunching up like some petty inconvenience rather than the words that have quite literally decided your living situation for the next who-knows-how-long.

"Why the hell not?"

"Wha—? Are you hearing yourself right now?"

When he only lifts a brow in response, you try for a different approach.

"I thought you only killed criminals."

"He looks at you like a criminal," he quips back, sharp and quick. "That's enough."

"No. You are not killing someone just because I didn't pay my fucking rent on time."

You cross your arms over your chest, stance firm, rigid, as stubborn as your will as you eye him down with a look that promises consequence should he choose not to listen.

A beat passes without a word.

Then—

"Fine." His shoulders fall with a grunt, but the topic doesn't fall alongside them. "If you won't let me kill him, then I'll just pay for your new apartment instead."

"No. No way."

His eyes narrow. "I wasn't asking."

You return the look. "Neither was I."

The moment stretches, the two of you glaring at each other with steely gazes and tight jaws, each equally as unyielding as the other.

(Jason thinks to himself that your glare isn't as fierce as usual. Like it's lacking something. A will. A drive. A reason to continue pushing forward. When did his girlfriend start to look so tired?)

His gaze softens. "Doll..."

Just like that, like his look is made up of some sort of soothing magic, your shoulders fall, and he catches you before you can go spiralling in a pool of your own thoughts.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't do that to you, Jay." You shake your head into his chest, voice all but muffled. "I can't use you like that. Not you."

"You wouldn't be using me, [Name]."

"Yes, I would," you grit out, squinting your eyes shut to force the sting away. "I would..."

He goes to respond, but you beat him to it.

"You've already had to go from having everything to having nothing before." You heave a breath, chest tightening with the effort of holding that damn salty water back. "And now that you've got it back... I can't take that from you."

"You wouldn't be taking it from me, [Name]."

You go to echo your response before, but it's his turn to beat you to talking.

"No, you wouldn't." You can feel him shake his head above yours. "I choose how I spend that money, doll. It's my decision. And if I choose to spend it on you, then it'll be spent on you. There is no using one another. I love you."

Your breath hitches, head shooting up to find his own already facing you, and his eyes are so soft, so sincere, that you can't help the sob that lurches from your throat, arms looping around his neck and pulling him down until his lips slot perfectly against yours.

And as he stands there, kissing you even through all the salty water that coats your lips, you yield just a little more to the idea of getting some help from someone you love.

-> TIM DRAKE <-

"So that's why you weren't answering any of my texts." He lets out a chuckle, but it comes out dry and insincere.

(He stares at the page. All of a sudden, it all makes sense. The refusal to eat at places that aren't small cafes or local diners, the avoidance of high-spending activities like shopping at the mall or going to theme parks, the amount of dates spent just streaming movies at yours or walking around the same park a dozen times over. How did he not see before? How can he call himself a detective and not notice his own girlfriend's struggling financial situation?)

"Sorry..." You go to hug one arm, voice small and gaze smaller.

"Y'know you could've told me, right?" He glances up, brows knitted and tone soft, reassuring. "You can tell me anything."

"I know."

"Then why didn't you?"

You look up and wince, Tim's defeated expression stirring something within you, something small but no less significant than all your other emotions.

"You already have so much on your plate," you start, averting your gaze because the look in his eyes is just too much to handle. "I didn't wanna worry you."

"I'm always worried about you," he responds simply, "I'm worried about whether or not you get home safe. I'm worried about whether or not you ate, or got enough sleep. I'm worried that some day, somehow, you'll grow bored and leave me. I worry all the time.

"It's how I show I care."

"I know that..." you trail off.

"Then you also know that giving me one more thing to worry about wouldn't make much of a difference."

You stay quiet, and so Tim sighs, carefully going to reach for your hands and cup them with just gentle enough of a hold to give you room to pull away should you choose to.

You don't, of course.

"You know you don't have to go through this alone." Tim's thumbs rub gentle circles over your knuckles, his voice a grounding source that anchors you, keeps you from straying too far into the ocean. "I'm here for you, always."

He's always been good at that. Being there for you. Comforting you. Of all his brothers, Tim is probably the most emotionally aware. The most painfully empathetic. It's so easy to yield when he's the one talking to you.

It's why you kept it a secret in the first place. You knew you'd fold so easily the second he confronts you.

So you plead, "Please, Tim."

His brows knit.

"Don't do this. I can... I can fix this myself."

His lips pull down. "You know you can't."

You want to defend yourself, to tell him he's wrong, you can, but your lips wobble, and a lump blocks your throat, and your eyes just start to shake like a breaking water tank threatening to spill all its contents.

And Tim sees it all.

"Tell you what," he starts lightly, soothingly, "I'll help pay for a new apartment and keep track of how much. Then, when you earn enough, you can pay it all back. You won't be using me. It'll be like a loan."

He knew your reservations before you even told him them. Of course he did. He's Tim. Your Tim. Your sweet, kind, loving Tim.

"I don't deserve you," you say, and you mean it, so he pulls you into his arms and rests his chin on your head, rubbing up and down your arms in that way that just releases all tension from your shoulders.

And as you both stand there together, the only sound being your silent sobs against his skin, you think you can just about get behind this compromise.

-> DUKE THOMAS <-

He whispers your name, soft, betrayed, with a look about the eye that almost cracks your heart in two.

"Why didn't you say anything..?" he asks, and his gaze is all blue, all rain showers and stormy clouds. "Why didn't you tell me you were still struggling with money?"

When you don't respond, he chooses to continue.

"I thought we told each other everything. Ride or die, remember? We—we've been through it all, haven't we..?"

You wait for a beat to pass before finally saying something.

"You... you just looked so happy lately. For a while now, actually. Ever since the Waynes took you in...

"I—I didn't wanna ruin that."

Duke goes quiet.

(In his mind, he's wondering where he went wrong, where on earth you got the idea that his happiness trumps your own, that you weren't both in this together. Did he... did he somehow do something to make you feel that way..?)

A quiet settles over the two of you, a sombre atmosphere that even the most classical of musicians couldn't put into notes, that even the most tragic of tales couldn't spin into words.

In that moment, for the first time since both you and Duke were little, the silence is static, no understanding or connection cutting through, no seemingly telepathic words jumping from one mind to the other, just a void, empty feeling that holds you hostage and threatens your very relationship.

"Duke—"

"Let me help," he cuts you off. Then he lifts his head, and his eyes are narrowed, determined.

"Huh?"

"Let me help you. I can. I have the money now," he says with a will, like he knows his words will come true, like he's so sure he'll be able to do this for you.

"No," you shoot him down, "I can't do that to you."

"Do what?" he scoffs out, arms folding over his chest. "Accept my help?"

"Accept your money," you correct him, and almost as soon as you do, he loses the hard look, settling for something softer instead—gentle. "I can't use you like that."

"[Name]. Don't you think I know that?"

You raise a brow.

"How you feel right now: don't you think I know it?"

You purse your lips, and he keeps going.

"Did you forget already who I was before this..? Did our time together mean that little to you..?"

The accusation is enough to make your eyes widen, words tumbling out your mouth so fast, you can't even second-guess them.

"No, no of course not!"

"[Name]." He shakes his head, pulling you into his arms. "I know what it's like to feel like you're using someone for money. Fuck, I know better than anyone else." His brows scrunch, expression looking pained for a second before steeling once more. "That's why it took me so long to even accept Bruce's offer."

You rest your hands gently against his chest, and then also let your head rest against his own, those brown swirls drowning you.

"So trust me when I say that this isn't you taking advantage of me, or using me for money," he whispers softly. "It's you accepting my help. It's you letting me in."

You blink, lashes growing wet.

"You could never be a burden to me. Ride or die, remember?"

You do. You do remember.

God, you remember it all.

And as he holds you close, as he rests his head against your own in your once again, shared silence, you're sure you'll remember it for the rest of time.

-> DAMIAN WAYNE <-

"Tt. I'll have Pennyworth hire a moving agency and wire you enough money so that this is never a problem again."

Your eyes blow wide, brows shooting straight up to your head, and mouth opening to protest like your life depends on it.

But Damian is already moving away.

In fact, he's already got his phone out, finger swiping away at it with a speed that could rival the Flash himself as he takes step after step down the hall.

So you bound straight after him.

"No! Wait, Damian, wait!"

He stops, your hands planted firm on his chest as you take a moment to catch your breath, the lack of movement you've been doing the past few days making just that short sprint feel like too much.

Fucking hell.

Your chin is tilted up.

"Have you been crying?"

You flinch. "No..."

His fingers trace your cheeks, right over the crusty streaks you know are there, and you wince as you're reminded of just how filthy you must appear in front of him.

"You have," he observes, moving your head from side-to-side gently, "You haven't been eating either."

You purse your lips, choosing not to respond lest you risk another observation that will shake you to your core.

"Beloved"—there he goes again with that petname. The one your heart lurches in your throat for—"you haven't been caring for yourself."

(When?—he wonders—when did you stop partaking in the act of caring for your own health? And why did you not think to come to him, your boyfriend, for help in doing so?)

"I..."

His fingers leave your chin, and you almost drop it to chase the feeling of them before catching yourself and quickly withdrawing.

God, just how touch-starved are you?

"It seems as though I'll need to ask for a larger amount to be wired through than I initially thought."

Once more, you find your eyes turning into saucers.

"No!"

He raises a brow.

"No," you repeat, quieter, but still just as sure, "Damian don't, please."

"Why not?"

"Because"—you think you're shaking, but there's no breeze in the hall, and it's nowhere near winter—"I... I can't take your money like that."

"It's not my money," he responds simply, logically, "it's my father's."

"I know. And I can't use you to get to his money."

"Technically speaking," Damian starts, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side and his lips still the straight line that they were just moments ago, "it's not even my father's money, it's his parents', and both are deceased, so I see no problem in taking it."

When he goes to add more, he stops abruptly, brows furrowing, and for the first time since appearing at your door, lips pulling down.

"Beloved, you're shaking."

"I can't stop..." you whisper, and perhaps it's quiet enough for him not to hear, but you don't even think you're saying it to him. "I can't stop."

"Habibti." He gently squeezes your arms, and your pupils dart up. "Copy me."

His chest rises and falls. His breathing. Copy his breathing.

He means copy his breathing.

So you do.

When his chest rises, so too does yours. And when it falls, yours falls straight after.

It takes a couple of tries before you're in complete sync. But once you are, once you've finally matched the pace of your boyfriend, the ringing in your ears dies down, and the world around you starts to clear up again. You start to feel real again.

"Better?"

You hum.

He pulls you into his arms.

And your eyes flutter shut.

"Rest assured, if you don't wish me to this much, I will not wire you the money," he finally speaks after a long while of standing there with you in his arms, "but I will find a way to get you out of this situation through other means. Even if those means cost me everything."

And as you stand there, the warmth of his presence blanketing your form, hiding you from the world, you let yourself quietly sink into the comfort of his words.

#female reader #x reader #dc #dc x reader #dick grayson x reader #jason todd x reader #tim drake x reader #duke thomas x reader #damian wayne x reader #damian al ghul x reader #batfam #batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #duke thomas #damian wayne #damsel writes ❤︎

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thescarletfang · 2 months ago

Text

SPINNING OUT [part one]

Dr. Jack Abbot x ex!freader

Summary: You left Jack three months ago, convinced he'd given up on your marriage. When you're hit by a drunk driver, you're taken to PTMC, and what was supposed to be an ending gives way to a new beginning.

Word count: ~4.7k

Note: This was supposed to be a one-shot but it just works better in 3 parts! This is part one - the other two parts are outlined! First time really writing a multi-chapter fic, eeeep.

Part Two out now!

ALL OF MY WORK IS 18+, MDNI

Warnings: Angst, fluff, car accident, therapist reader, widower Jack, dead wife mentioned!, no smut in this part but eventual smut. Eventual happy ending. Slight age gap (reader is 38, Jack is 49). If I missed anything, let me know!

NOW

It starts again because of an accident.

You’re driving home from work and you’re the kind of bone-deep tired that settles inside of you like lead. Your chest feels heavy and your shoulders ache. You grip the steering wheel, blinking bleary eyes to try and stay focused on the road.

You dream of home. Stepping out of your heels. A glass of pinot noir in your favorite long-stemmed glass. You dream of putting the day behind you; of closing the tab on all the clients you saw today. All the words you offered them, and the space you held between your body and theirs; your mind is tired. It is fulfilled, yes - as it always is. You know being a therapist is your calling, and you’ve never been more grateful for work than you are at this particular time in your life.

But you’re…exhausted.

You can’t remember the last time you slept through the night. Likely in the before. Before your home was cold and lonely. Before everything felt so fucking hard. Before you slept alone in your bed and only brewed one cup of coffee and only made enough food for you.

You just want to rest.

More than that? You’d like to hide. Your brain is all static and fuzz. It’s flipping its channels at a rapid pace and you’ve lost the remote. You think about the Xanax you have at home and think maybe tonight is the night you take one.

You just crave peace.

Everything changes in the span of a breath.

There is the screeching of metal-on-metal, your driver’s side door crunching in on itself. Your neck feels like it snaps. Your airbag deploys and then all you can feel is pain.

It hurts. Everything hurts.

You feel like you can no longer breathe. You try breathing, you try opening your eyes but everything feels blurred, like you’ve taken your fingers and smeared the paint that makes up your vision.

You cannot see. You cannot feel anything other than a burning pain that goes from the top of your head to the bottom of your toes.

You think you might be dead. You think of him, for just a moment.

You do not know how much time passes.

In the ambulance, through the fog and haze of it all, as you lie on the gurney with your head, neck and limbs secure, you beg them to take you to a different hospital, anywhere but the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center because if you go there you’ll see him and you just fucking can’t.

They ignore your pleas and they tell you to hang on. They tell you a drunk driver slammed into you and t-boned your car. You can barely process anything they are telling you and you feel yourself drift in and out of consciousness.

A nap. A nap would be so good right now.

They ask you to keep your eyes open but you screw them up tight. It’s too bright in the ambulance and you don’t recognize these voices.

You can’t see him. Not like this. Not after everything.

You’re fading, feeling yourself pulled under the current of a dark blankness and then the gurney is being taken out of the back of the ambulance. You keep thinking not like this, not like this, like it’s a broken record in your head and you’re desperate to get to the next track.

You understand that your gurney is moving quickly and you know, despite really being aware, that they’ve taken you to PTMC. The doors slide open and there’s so much noise but your ears are buzzing and ringing.

Everything feels far away.

You catch snippets of dialogue in the trauma bay. “Unidentified 38-year-old female. MVA. Somewhat responsive. Severe blood loss. Possible lung puncture, difficulty breathing.”

Then Robby’s face is above you and his brown eyes grow wide, rounding at the ages as he sees it’s you.

“Fuck,” he bites out, harshly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—” and then he barks an order at someone else and you manage to grab his sleeve. He turns back to you.

“Hang on, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and raspy as he wheels you quickly into the trauma bay. “Just fucking hang on, okay?”

“Don’t tell him,” you rasp. “Robby, please, don’t—” you gasp, trying to catch your breath but it feels like you’re drowning. Blood splatters out of your lips. “Don’t tell Jack—”

A heartbroken look flickers across Robby’s face but then you gasp and you can’t finish your sentence because everything goes black.

* * *

Jack rolls his shoulders, shutting his locker and heading into the ED. Fuck, what he’d give for a quiet night and the ability to get through this shift without feeling like he’s white-knuckling life. It’s bad enough he had a fucking panic attack on the way in here. He’s been having those more and more often, despite being on his daily dose of an SSRI. His therapist tells him he needs to take a break, to finally cash in on all his accrued time off but he just grinds his jaw and says no.

Work is good. When he works, he can focus on anything but the absolute trainwreck that is his life.

When he works, he can stop thinking about you.

It’s a lie, of course, but Jack’s always been good at lying to himself.

He sees you in everything he does. Misses you with an ache that feels like a stone on his chest. On the really rough nights, where he feels like he’s barely treading water, he gets closer to the edge of the roof than he ever has.

Jack shakes his head, wrapping his stethoscope around his neck, holding on to the ends of it like it’s a tether that can keep him sane.

One moment at a time, his therapist told him. One shift at a time. One second, every single day, at a time.

Jack takes a deep, steadying breath. Losing himself in his work is enough, if only for tonight.

Jack knows something is wrong the minute he steps into the ED.

Robby is rushing in through the trauma bay, rolling a gurney and barking orders at Shen and Ellis. He looks up and locks eyes with Jack.

“Get him out of here,” Robby yells to Dana, who has just thrown on her jean jacket to head home. Dana’s eyes go wide and as the gurney rolls past her, she looks at whoever is on it and pales. She beelines for Jack.

Jack’s heart thuds painfully against his sternum. He picks up his pace, gently brushing past Dana and making his way to Robby.

“It’s my shift, dunno why I’d need to get out of here,” he says calmly to Robby, trying to remain in control but he already knows who’s on that gurney. He already knows because the universe fucking hates him.

It isn’t enough that you left him three months ago and the last three months have been a living hell every single day. It isn’t enough that it was his fault you left, that he’d pushed you to the end of your rope by pulling away, by shutting down, by letting those voices in the dark consume him. It isn’t enough that he continually put his work before you because work is the only thing to make him feel worthy of anything, and he regrets it, will regret letting you slip through his fingers every single day for the rest of his fucking life.

It isn’t enough that you’re the love of his life and he’s such a stupid fucking old man, forever convinced he never deserved you in the first place. Self-sabotage has been his best friend a long time, lurking over his shoulder and shadowing every move he’s ever made.

It isn’t enough he’s been through this once before. He’s not even officially fucking fifty-years-old and he’s already lost a wife and he’s about to lose another. Jack Abbot doesn’t get second chances.

Jack Abbot reaps the fucking karma that he sows.

“Dana, get him out of here!” Robby yells again, rolling you into T-1.

“C’mon, honey,” Dana tries. “You don’t wanna see this.”

But it’s too late. Jack’s quick on his feet, even with the prosthetic, and he sees you lying there, unconscious, blood-matted hair and it’s dripping from your mouth and he can’t believe that this is happening, that this is real, that it is happening to him again.

Robby steps to him at the door of the room. “You can’t be in here.”

There’s a sharp ringing in Jacks’ ears, high-pitched and drowning everything out. His voice is gravely and broken. A desperate plea rather with no real bite. “Like fuck I can’t, man. Get out of the way—”

“Jack, I mean it, brother.” Robby blocks him again, his nostrils flaring. “Get out.”

“That’s my fucking wife!” The words silence the ED, cutting through the chaos sharply. Ellis and Shen look up, shock over their faces. They’ve never heard their attending lose his cool like this. Jack is the calm one. While Robby is the attending who is more inclined to raise his voice, Jack never falters. Residents and students and the nursing staff follow him blindly because they know he never loses his cool.

Well, he’s losing it now.

Dana puts a hand on her chest like it hurts.

Robby’s cold facade slips for a second and for a moment he’s just Jack’s friend, his brother, and the pain is written in his face, a pain mirroring Jack’s own.

Jack’s breathing heavily, his voice cracking on the last word because it’s true, you’re still his wife.

He can’t lose you. Not when everything is so wrong.

* * *

BEFORE

It’s Robby who sets the two of you up in the first place.

Robby went to high school with your older brother. While back then, you were the baby sister always trying to play with the big boys (literally, you were two and Robby and your brother were 17), the two of you reconnected when you became a licensed therapist and moved into the city. Despite being fifteen years your senior, Robby became a good friend.

The two of you tried dating – briefly – but after a few dates, you realized you were much better off as friends. It always felt forced, too platonic, and you were honestly relieved when you both confessed that the romance wasn’t there.

“I just can’t kiss someone who I knew when they were a toddler,” Robby told you bashfully, face beet red, after you’d both pulled away from a rather lackluster kiss. You hadn’t even been offended; you’d just laughed and called him an old pervert.

He’s been a best friend ever since.

You’re grabbing a coffee with Robby before his shift and your first client of the day when you finish complaining about your latest string of bad dates.

“He venmo requested me when I got home.”

Robby chokes on his sip of coffee. “No.”

You laugh, nodding and playing with the plastic lid of your cup. “Yes! You know what? It’s on me for agreeing to go out with a guy who still lives in his mom’s basement. I am grown enough to admit that that’s on me.”

“Jesus,” Robby mutters. “What a dick.”

“I think I’m done. I’m too old.” You know you’re being dramatic, but it’s so easy to bitch to Robby. “You’d think being a therapist I’d be able to spot emotionally intelligent men, but I can’t. Can’t even find someone who’s in therapy himself.”

Robby snorts into his coffee and rubs his jaw. “Yeah, you’re a fuckin’ old maid.” He pauses, lifts an eyebrow. “I know a guy in therapy.”

You purse your lips, studying Robby as you sit at the little cafe table in the coffee shop. “Oh yeah? He an ER doctor too?”

Robby smirks. “Yeah, he is.”

You roll your eyes. “You know I can’t do that again.”

Robby laughs, holds a hand to his heart like you’ve wounded him. “Ouch. Was it that bad?”

You grin, bumping his coffee cup with your own. “Yes, it was that bad. Even if we–yanno, had actually been into each other in a real way, your schedule is atrocious. ER doctors are walking zombies. I can’t date another one!”

Robby studies you in that quiet way of his that makes you feel like he’s seeing through whatever bullshit you’re spouting.

“His name’s Jack Abbot. He’s an attending on the night shift. He’s in his 40s, was a medic in the army.” Robby pauses. “He’s a good man.”

You take a moment and absorb the information. “Is he even looking to date?”

Robby grins, draining the last of his coffee. “When he meets you, yeah, I think he will be.”

* * *

Falling in love with Jack Abbot starts out slow and then happens all at once.

You meet for the first time at a little bar around the corner from your apartment. You’re nervous. If you were being honest, you didn’t think Robby’s colleague would be interested in a blind date. But you’d gotten a text from an unknown number that read, “Hey, this is Jack Abbot, Robby’s better half. Would it be okay if I called you? Not a great texter.”

He’d called a minute after you said that was fine and the deep gravel of his voice had warmed you down to your toes. Robby had shown you a picture of him, the two of them at some hospital fundraiser gala a year or two back, and yeah, he was fucking handsome. Thick, gray curls. Broad shoulders. Crooked smile.

Apparently, he hadn’t been opposed to whatever picture Robby had shown him of you, because you found yourself talking on the phone with Dr. Jack Abbot for over two hours that first phone call. The conversation flowed easily, winding between work and family and it began to sketch the shape of you to each other.

It’d been natural. Scarily so, if you were honest with yourself.

You’re still nervous to meet him in person. That phone call was a few nights ago, and your hands tremble a little as you open the door to the bar. You run your hands down the fabric of your little dress – a casual, first date number that makes you feel sexy and like yourself all at once – as you walk into the bar. Your eyes scan for a moment.

Your heart is thumping.

This feels weighted in a way that other first dates haven’t. This person is in Robby’s orbit, which automatically makes you trust him.

Your eyes meet across the room and it feels like a little lock sliding into place. You’re taken aback by the feeling.

He’s standing at the corner of the bar, casually leaning against it, hands in his pockets and Jesus Christ, he’s gorgeous. The salt-and-pepper curls look even better than in the picture you saw, and your fingers itch to run through them. He’s in nice jeans, a black sweater, expensive as fuck looking Nikes, and he’s…well, he’s staring at you in a way that nearly makes you stumble mid-step.

“Hi,” you breathe when you’re in front of him. Jack’s smile is a little crooked and it’s so charming you feel flustered.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice sounds just like it did on the phone: warm and raspy. “It’s really nice to meet you—uh, in person.” Oh my god, he’s so cute. He seems nervous and oddly, it sets you at ease.

You smile at him and fiddle with the strap of your purse. “It’s also nice to meet you in person.” Jesus, you sound like a robot.

But Jack grins again and it makes him look boyish.

“I’ll be honest,” Jack tells you, and he steps a little closer. His scent wafts over to you - like clean, fresh soap - and it’s very nice. “I uh…I haven’t been set up in awhile. I’m a little rusty.”

You laugh. “Rusty’s okay with me.” You pause. “You don’t live in your mom’s basement, do you?”

Jack narrows his eyes. “Tell me you’re joking. The bar’s that low?”

You purse your lips. “In the ground.”

Jack lets out a disbelieving breath and shakes his head. He rubs the back of his neck. “I promise I don’t live in my ma’s basement.”

You grin and he grins back crookedly and it’s so nice. He asks you what you’re drinking and after you both have your choice in hand - a pinot noir for you, a whisky on the rocks for him - you find a little table. The bar is one of your favorites, a charming little place with low lighting and a relaxed crowd.

You’re once again surprised by how natural it all feels. You pick up right where you left off on the phone, and you’re grateful that Jack seems to enjoy talking. You’ve been on plenty of dates with men who can’t carry a conversation or seem physically incapable of asking you a single question about yourself, so this?

This is just…lovely.

The candlelight dances across Jack’s face, highlighting his cheekbones and the gray stubble. You…simply cannot stop looking at him. And he cannot seem to stop looking at you; you may not know him well yet, but an hour in his presence and you realize this man loves eye contact. He’s unafraid to hold it, and it keeps you grounded and in your body in a way that is calming to your anxiety.

You find out Jack grew up just outside of Pittsburgh, that he’s a born and raised Steelers fan. You learn more about his time as a combat medic (you’d touched on it on the phone). You learn that he prefers the night shift, that it calms and quiets his mind. You learn that he’s been seeing his current therapist for two years after his previous one retired. You learn that he’s the oldest of four kids and has three younger sisters. A bunch of nieces and nephews that he — adorably — shows you on his phone.

He learns that you’re prone to anxiety attacks. That you’ve wanted to be a therapist since high school. You tell him about your friendship with Robby and he laughs when you tell him about your ill-fated attempt at dating. He learns that you want to travel more, dream of going back to Sorrento, Italy and sipping limoncello while the briny sea breeze of the marina plays across your face. He learns about your family, and how much you love them.

A lull in the conversation as you sip your wine and he studies you. You blush, looking into your glass.

“What?” you ask out of the side of your mouth. When you look back up at him, you notice he has a dimple in his cheeks when he grins.

“I just didn’t think it’d be like this,” is what he says. Your heart thrums once, twice, a thudding in your chest.

“Like what?”

He doesn’t blink when he stares at you. “Easy.”

You smile at him and he lets out a breath like that smile is what he’s been waiting for.

“I uh, I should tell you,” he says, his voice low and steady. “I’ve been married before. My wife passed ten years ago.” His jaw clenches once, twice. “I never know how to uh, bring it up.” He clears his throat.

Your heart clenches in your chest. “Thank you for telling me,” you say softly, genuinely. And you mean it.

He looks at you then like he’s a little surprised. “You didn’t say, ‘sorry for your loss.’”

Your eyes go wide. “Oh. Do you want me to?”

His cheeks dimple when he gives you a small, gentle smile. “Fuck no. I’m just…everyone says ‘sorry for your loss.’”

“It is an unthinkable thing to lose a partner, a thing that forever changes your entire chemistry as a human being,” you tell him. “And I hate that it happened to you. And I’m very thankful that you told me.”

Jack taps his thumb against his whisky glass, and seems to study the melting ice within it. “She’s—she was the best person I ever met. She made me better. I think about her all the time.” He adds roughly, “I hope she’s proud’a me.”

You resist the urge to take this man’s hand in your own. Your fingers itch for it, but you don’t want to assume he’s okay with that, especially during such a vulnerable moment. You sit in his words for a moment, letting them rest between you.

“I’m so glad you had her. That you still have her, in a lot of ways, I’m sure.”

He nods and doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then he lets out a breath and when he looks up at you, his eyes glisten a bit.

“This what it’s like dating a therapist? You always say the right thing?”

You bark out a laugh because you can’t help it. “God, if I always said the right thing, I’d be a shitty therapist. I tend to believe you learn by failing and fucking up.” Your cheeks warm as he continues to look at you. “And this isn’t dating. This is our first date.”

He raises a teasing eyebrow. “Oh? First and last?”

You bite your lip and his eyes track the motion. He swallows. “That what you want? First and last?”

“Hell no,” he says immediately, voice so sure that it warms your entire body. The glisten in his eyes has given way to a brightness and you think, I like this.

I like you.

“Good,” you tell him, draining the last of your wine. “Me either.”

* * *

You get tacos from the taco truck around the corner, and in between bites of carne asada and tinga de pollo, Jack tells you about work at PTMC.

“I like the teaching aspect of it,” he tells you after taking a sip of his water. You sit at a little folding table in the parking lot where the truck is set up. “I didn’t think I’d like that part, but as cheesy as it sounds, I think it’s part of what I’m meant to do.”

You’re smiling as you say, “I see why you and Robby are friends.”

Jack barks out a short laugh. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

You swallow the last bite of your taco, lick the salsa from your fingertips. Jack’s eyes linger on the movement and you feel a buzz in your blood.

“You both can’t help but lead. It’s in your DNA.” You pause. “It’s how I know you’re a good doctor and I just met you.”

“Hey now,” Jack says, wiping his hands on a napkin. “You keep talkin’ like that and my ego’s gonna get too big to fit through the trauma bay.”

You grin and he grins back and you feel silly and light and…happy.

“I wanna see you again,” Jack tells you. It’s so straightforward that it makes butterflies erupt in your stomach.

“You’re seeing me right now,” you say to deflect from the nerves you’re feeling.

Jack shrugs.

“Not enough,” he says and you think you might actually swoon. “I like schedules. You wanna see me again?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then. I’m off in three days and I wanna make you dinner at my place. Would that be okay?”

You try to contain your excitement, to play it cool. You bite the inside of your cheek.

“I thought you were rusty at the whole dating thing,” you tell him. His eyes flash with something you want to name as mischief.

Jack rubs his scruffy jaw. He puts his elbows on the table and leans forward. “You make me wanna be good at it.”

You think your smile may be so bright that it outshines the streetlight above.

“Dinner at your place in three days sounds perfect.”

* * *

There’s an energy between you that wasn’t there earlier in the night as Jack walks you home. You can feel it. It’s heavy and pulsing and it makes you feel untethered in a way that is intoxicating.

Your hands brush as you walk down the quiet, dark street. Shoulders swaying into each other. You can feel the heat of Jack’s body, how close he’s walking. You clock that he’s walking on the outside of the sidewalk, that his eyes scan your surroundings, like he’s making sure he’s aware of everything going on.

The two of you don’t speak much as you walk, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s…anticipatory. It feels like you’re on the precipice of something and whatever happens in the next few minutes will determine something very important.

You reach your duplex, a sweet little place with night-blooming jasmine bushes that have been there since you moved in several years ago. You stop at the gate and turn to him. He stops walking, hands in his pockets as his eyes hold yours.

You both don’t say anything for a moment. You just look at each other and it’s comforting to know that you can exist with this man, just as you are.

“This is me,” you say after a moment and it makes laughter bubble out of both of you. He grins boyishly, the apples of his cheeks pushing upward. A chorus of cute cute cute chants in your brain.

“Yeah, I figured,” he teases. “Unless you’re in the habit of just stopping in front of random people’s houses.”

“You don’t know me,” you tease back.

Jack steps closer to you and you look up at him. He’s not really tall but he’s taller than you and his entire presence is so broad and commanding that you feel swept into it.

“Hopin’ to change that, though.” His voice has a husk to it. “If you’ll let me.”

You take in a breath as he studies you like he’s trying to memorize your face.

“Yeah, Abbot,” you say, your own voice soft. “I’ll let you.”

He huffs out a breath, hazel eyes clear. “Yeah?”

His right hand comes up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek for a tender moment. You nod as he leans down.

“Yeah,” you whisper, right before his lips meet yours.

It’s the best first kiss you’ve ever had.

Light at first, both of you learning one another’s mouths. Jack’s other hand comes to your face and he’s cradling your head like it’s something precious, like it’s something to be cherished. You step closer to him, your own hands fisting the front of his sweater and pulling him closer.

When your tongue traces his bottom lip, Jack groans and it lights you up from your scalp to your toes.

He opens his mouth immediately, his tongue licking into you and you’re on fire.

You’re in your thirties and you’re making out with this man with a mop of silver curls and it’s so heady that you feel like you’re floating. You feel like you’re a teenager again, sneaking kisses before the porch light comes on and you’re found out.

You don’t know how much time passes, just that when you both break apart you’re equally short of breath. You’re seconds from inviting him up to your place which is not your typical first date move but that’s simply because nobody’s been worth it before. He grins down at you, lips kiss-bitten, face flushed, and plays with a loose strand of hair framing your face. He rubs it between his fingers, then tucks it behind your ear.

“Three days. My place. Dinner,” he says, voice husky and wrecked and you smile up at him, the moonlight reflecting in his eyes.

“Can’t wait.”

Later that night, when you’re in bed about to drift off, you get a text from Robby, asking how the date had gone. You respond with a simple thumbs up, knowing it’ll piss him off. He returns your text with ????????? and you snort. You put him out of your misery with your response: It was wonderful. He is wonderful. Seeing him in a few days. Robby sends back a thumbs up in retaliation, which in return makes you annoyed and then you engage in a battle of emojis (middle finger, gun, skull, etc.) until your phone buzzes with an incoming text.

Jack Abbot: Had an amazing time tonight and can’t wait to see you again. Sweet dreams.

Your heart hammers in your chest and you think maybe—just maybe—this is the start of a real good thing.

There’s no way you can know that in four years you’ll be separated from Jack and fighting for your life in a cold, dark hospital room.

#dr jack abbot x you #dr jack abbot #dr jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot x f!reader #the pitt #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x f!reader

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straows · 4 months ago

Text

“Why are you so clingy?”

—In which Gojo gets mad at you for being 'clingy' so you make him eat his words.

A/n: Somebody buy me a new cart mine is emptier than my tear ducts after crying so fucking hard writing this.

<<part two, part three, final part>>

“Hi baby!!” Smiling, you set your things down on the counter before coming over to him.

“Hi,” Gojo gave you a dry response, his eyes glued to the tv. He had a day off and honestly just spent it lying around.

Your brows furrowed at his dry tone, usually he’d be all over you. Maybe he was just having an off day. “How was your day?” You smiled at him anyway and plopped down on the couch beside him, “haven’t seen you all day.”

Gojo side eyed you for a second before looking away back to the tv. “It was fine.” Another dry response.

“Ummm… right, so do you wanna go and cuddle in bed? I literally missed you so m—“

“Can you not? Like you’re actually so clingy.” Gojo’s voice was sharp, and honestly really rude.

“…what do you mean…?” Sitting up a little more, you looked at him with a confused and hurt expression.

Gojo rolled his eyes and ran his hands over his face, “oh my fucking god- you always want to be around me and we’re always touching and god forbid I’m not around you for a fucking day. And when I’m on missions you’re always fucking texting me! Like I don’t get it, please just fuck off!”

The more he spoke the more he worked himself up, his voice raising as he snapped at you.

Your throat burned as tears threatened to spill, your hurt in your stomach as you listened to every word. “…oh.” Slowly, you nodded, “you’re right… that’s my bad.”

Getting up, you just left him in the living room and went into the bedroom. You sat on the bed and just stared at the wall. His words had been absorbed into your brain way too deep and suddenly you felt self conscious.

Were you really too clingy? Too loving and touching? Were you too much?

Swallowing thickly, you let out a shaky breath before getting dressed into one of your hoodies— which was weird in its own right because you always wore his clothes. Sliding on the hoodie, followed by a pair of leggings, fuzzy socks and shoes.

By the time Gojo was coming in, you had taken off your make up and tied your laces.

He eyed you weirdly before rolling his eyes, “don’t be pissed off. I just said the truth.”

Taking another shaky breath, you nodded, “Not upset. Just gonna head out, Nanami and his wife invited me over for a little get together.”

“Oh. Yeah. I’ll get dres—“

“No don’t worry about it. You stay home and relax.” You quickly replied for leaving without another word— no kiss, no hug or anything.

Gojo nodded to himself and smiled, “alright, now I get more alone time.”

Gojo hadn’t seen you in a week, and he was craving your touch, your scent and everything. He just wanted to hold you and sink his face into your neck. Walking into your shared home, he paused when he saw you packing a suitcase.

“Oh hey, welcome home.” You said, albeit a little dryly.

“…yeah… where are you going? I just got home.” Gojo frowned, brows furrowed.

“I have a mission that’ll last me a week or so. You’ll be fine without me.” You numbly replied, before grabbing your suitcase and moving to eat.

“You don’t even wanna eat dinner with me?” Gojo felt his chest ache and his breath halt. Why were you being so cold?

“Don’t have time. See you later.” You merely waved at him, before heading out. Leaving Gojo standing there in shock, confusion and a growing sense of sadness.

“Okay..?” He mumbled before walking to the couch. Sitting down in the same spot he’d sat in that week prior when he’d snapped at you.

During your mission, he’d texted you maybe 40 times. He hardly got a reply, and when he did it was dry. You never answered his calls.

And what’s worse? By the time you got home he had to go off again. He didn’t even get to see you in between. He felt touch starved, pent up and hurt.

But finally, finally when his mission was over and he came home, he saw you relaxing on the couch on your phone.

He sighed in relief, “hey baby, I’m home.” His voice hopeful for the reaction you used to give him.

“Welcome home.” You didn’t even look up from your phone. Too busy doom scrolling on Instagram.

Gojo felt his nerves tick, why weren’t you giving him the same affection you used too? God damnit he missed you.

“What’s going on with you?” He glared at you now, and set his things down before walking closer and taking your phone out of your hands.

“What are you talking about?” You just stared up at him, as if your own heart wasn’t aching.

“You don’t talk to me— ever! You don’t text me, call me, hell I hardly ever see you!” His hands lifted in the air just before falling back at his sides.

“What the hell are you on about? I’m just doing what you told me to.” You rolled your eyes before getting up. But Gojo pulled you right back.

“What do you mean? I never told you to just act like a stranger!” Gojo had your wrist in a tight grip.

“Yes you did? Remember? ‘You’re so fucking clingy’ and ‘why can’t you just fuck off’.” You poorly mimicked him, giving him an unimpressed look.

Your words had his mouth immediately closing. His heart clenching once-a-fucking-gain. “I- I didn’t mean that… I just… needed some space for a few days.”

“No you don’t talk to me like that and expect me not react this way. You were a fucking asshole to me for no goddamn reason, so I’m just giving you what you asked for.” You yanked your wrist from his grip. “God just pick a fucking lane. What do you want?”

“I-I—“

“I-I- shut the fuck up. I’m tired of this shit. You’re always away on missions, and whenever I try to love you or talk to you you’d just shut me down.” She snapped at him. “I’m making you eat your own fucking words. Just so I can do this,” pushing your finger into his chest, “I’m breaking up with you. My shits already packed up.”

“Wait— now wait a fucking minute! You can’t just drop me like that! I made one mistake!” Gojo was quickly trying to back peddle. No way you were trying to break up with him. No fucking way. You were the one he was supposed to marry, grow old with and have kids with. This is not supposed to happen.

“Yeah? Should’ve thought about that before being a shitty boyfriend. Now get the hell out of my way.” You pushed past him and grabbed your keys. “Now you can finally be all alone. Just like you wanted.” You spat before slamming the door behind you.

Gojo was just left standing there, mouth agape as he stared at the place you just stood.

He couldn’t comprehend what the hell just happened. He had just lost you, in what felt like 60 fucking seconds.

Slowly, he sat down, the house deathly silent. He’d been with you for only five months. No way he had fucked up this early? He’d been trying to get with you for so long and he’d finally had you— and just like that?

Fuck.

The tears started flowing before he could stop them.

Before the acceptance could settle in, first there was denial. “She’ll be running back to me when she realizes how good she had it with me.” He huffed to himself and turned on some random show to distract himself.

But that pain in his chest didn’t go away. And if you never came back? That pain would never go away.

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a-b-riddle · 1 year ago

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Part Six

Can't stop thinking about reader finally giving the boys a taste of their own medicine. And hurting my own feelings in the process of it all. I wanted to make this a baddie reader chapter, but its just a saddie reader chapter. I played Down Bad by T.S on repeat while writing this. Y'all need to thank @blueladys-world for being my ventor for this part.

None of them came the next day to pick up the box of everything you had collected. By everything, quite literally everything. Birthday cards and gifts. Keepsakes from your time together they had given you. Even going as far as returning lingerie they had given you. You didn't want any trace of them in your home anymore. You were gonna have to work hard in rebuilding it to be your safe space once again.

You were surprised that someone from the expo had DM'd you. Renée was an author who had tried to stop by to your stand, but got too caught up in the day. She was in London, working on her next series installment and wanted to pick your brain. Writer to writer.

The two of you agreed on a time. She had mentioned wanting to try this restaurant the last time she visited and you already knew you would be putting that meal on a credit card. It was a bit of splurge, but after the past week you deserved it. You could even wear that sexy black number that had been collecting dust in your closet.

By the time you were done getting ready and squeezing into your dress, you looked more ready for a date than dinner with a colleague.

A colleague. You had a colleague!!!

The knock on the door pulled you from your girlish glee. You didn't need to guess who it was. Your friends knew to text you before they came over and Renée had agreed just to meet you at the restaurant.

It was one of them.

You didn't even t bother looking through your peephole before you opened the door to find Johnny standing there with a floral arrangement of your favorite flowers.

Johnny began to speak, afraid you were going to shut him down immediately no less. But no words came out. His eyes traveled up and down your body, taking you in.

A vision.

You wanted to snap at him that your eyes weren't located on your hips. But damn if it didn’t feel empowering seeing Johnny’s gaze gloss over.

"Fuck me." He swore, gathering his bearings before realizing you were dressed. In a sexy black dress and heels and makeup and oh, fuck you were going out. "Where are you going?"

"First off, none of your business," you said holding a finger up. "And secondly, what are you doing here?"

"Listen," "Bon-"

"The box is right there." You said pointing to a large cardboard box on the floor. "That's everything."

"If you just let me make it-"

"Up to me?" You cut him off again. "I'm over it. Really."

"Just give me a chance."

"Either you haven't spoken to the other two to know I am well and truly done with this situationship, or you’re hoping some half-ass apology and flowers will let you get a last fuck in and the skedaddle. So hopefully if it was latter, hopefully the former answered that for ya.”

So if that's all you came here for, I've got to get going. My reservation is at seven and it's rude to keep a friend waiting."

"It's been a week and you're already going on a date?" He accused.

"Who said anything about a date?" You didn't outright say it wasn't. Where would be the fun in that? “It's just dinner with a colleague.” You didn’t want to lie. It wasn’t a date. But you didn’t need to say it was a woman. “Hardly a date.”

“Look at the sight of ye!" He said, taking the opportunity to take a quick look at how deliciously your ass filled that dress. “A fookin’ dinner with a colleague. Like one of us would show up to a briefing like that.” You opened your compact. Not needed in the age of cellphones but loving the feminine touch.

There was something so... seductive about using a compact mirror to apply your lipstick.

“Kyle does have the legs for this dress.” You said, applying that lipstick he loves. That same shade that looked beautiful on your lips. The same lipstick you would mark all over Johnny’s body. “Believe what you want. Not my problem anymore.”

You put your compact back in your purse along with the lipstick in case you needed to reapply it after dinner.

Johnny's eyes zeroed in on your lips before his eyes met yours. That's when you felt it again. That undeniably spark of chemistry that you had with him. With all of them. That feeling that sucked the very breath from your lungs and for a moment all you could see was the man in front of you.

"Bonnie," he said placing his hands on your neck. His thumbs stroking your cheeks softly. "Just one more chance." He begged, his voice breaking. "I'm a fucking git, but I won't let you go again. I won't leave." You knew that when it came to promises, Johnny had proven that even if he didn't mean to break them, he had forgotten he made them in the first place.

But in that moment you didn't care. Even after everything, Meredith was right. You had loved them. Everything else had ended so shitty. John had blamed you. Kyle had only shown up until it was too late. And Simon. The last time you would ever hear his voice was after he said such cruel things to you.

No.

If you were done with Johnny, you won't let the last time he fucked you being a quick, rough fuck doggystyle before leaving you naked and alone in your bed.

No. The last time with Johnny needed to be good. It might make it harder to finally leave, but you needed this. You needed to know that he could still make love to you and not just fuck you like an animal in heat.

"Johnny?" You asked. Your mouth dangerously close to his. "I don't want you to fuck me."

"I don't have to," he said, starting to take a step back to give you some space before your hands reached his. Holding him in place.

He can't let you go. You couldn't let him go. Not yet. Just one more. You needed just one more time to get him out of your system. The closure you needed.

"Make love to me." You begged, your eyes pleading. "I need to know that I wasn't just something you wanted to fuck." You don't move as his eyes search yours, looking for reassurance. When you nod, his mouth softly touches your own.

His hands travel along your body, but never fully leave you. Sliding your neck to your back. Pulling your body closer to his. A hand placed on your hip so tightly he's afraid you might disappear.

There's no rush, no haste in his touch. His mouth not eager to devour you.

He's slow. With his hands, his tongue. Even when he picks you up and walks to your bedroom with your legs around his waist.

He doesn't throw you on the bed.

Not this time.

He lays you down. His body laying on top of yours. His hand skimming along your bare thighs, but not daring to travel any higher.

But damn you needed him. You wanted love making, but if he didn't get inside you soon, you weren't sure you could let him go after this. You weren't sure you would be able to leave.

"Johnny," you whimpered, pulling away from his mouth. "Please." You took his hand, putting it between your thigh. Aching for any friction.

He obeyed without hesitation. If you told him to get on his bark, he would in that moment. Anything to make you happy. Anything to keep you.

"Got to get you out of this dress first." He resting on his knees before he began to slide the black satin from your thighs to your stomach. You maneuvered, helping him undress you leaving you in nothing.

"I thought you liked the dress." You couldn't help, but tease. Your hand finding its home on the back of his neck, pulling you to him once more.

In a tone lacking any note of humor and in all seriousness, he looked at you. Really looking at you. Taking in how your smile reached your beautiful eyes before he said, "I want you bare to me when I take you."

You felt your stomach flutter at his words before he began to take off his clothes.

He joined you again. His body relaxing when they got between your legs again. His mouth traveled from your exposed neck to your nipples. Sucking and flicking them with his tongue until your back arched. Pressing harder into his mouth.

Your hands tangled in his soft brown hair before you boldly guided him to your already dripping core. He slid down your body before his hands began to push your knees apart until you were fully expose to him.

With your knees bent, Johnny settled on his stomach, placing soft kisses on your soft inner thighs. God, did he love seeing you squirm. He smiled at your tortured expression before looking down at your sex. "There she is." He said before placing a kiss on your pussy.

It wasn't sloppy. He wasn't diving in and licking at your center like so many times before. He was kissing it just as tenderly as he kissed your mouth. Slowly building it deeper and deeper. Adding tongue. Breaking away to readjust his head.

The delicious ache between your thighs began to become to unbearable. "Need you inside me." You panted. "Johnny-"

"Shhh." He soothed. "Got to warm you up first , Bonnie." He said before slipping his finger inside of you. One was all it took before your head settled against the pillows again. When your body relaxed, he added another. He would need to add three to make sure you were good and ready.

His digits stroked that spongy spot inside of you that made your toes curl. "You're barely fitting around my fingers." Johnny was a good 6 inches in length, but the girth is what always did you in. It hurt to take anything past his head into your mouth. If you fucked him without any preparation, especially after a week of no sex, he would tear you into too.

His tongue caressed your clit, your eyes squeezing shut as you felt your first orgasm creeping up on you.

"Johnny." You moaned, your fingers running through his soft brown hair.

"Give it to me, beauty." He panted. "Come on my face. Squeeze my fingers, Lass." He begged before his mouth went back to you.

It was like lightning. Your body now sensitive after being forsaken for so long. Your vision blurred and before you could process it, Johnny was sitting on his haunches between your legs, stroking his cock.

You could only nod, dazed and barely keeping a grip onto the reality of what this was.

The end.

He leaned forward, his cock nestling against you. You knew this was going to be nothing compared to his fingers. "Tell me if I need to stop."

You smiled, mockingly. Reminding him, "Not our first time together, Johnny." just our last.

"You were wrapped tight around my fingers." He gave a half smile before kissing your forehead. The gesture like a knife twisting in your heart. "I just don't want to hurt you."

"I'm ready." You brought your legs around his waist again. Pulling him to you, your arms wrapping around his neck as your mouths meet.

He presses into you. The head of his cock sliding inside just one or two inches. You body contracting around him in a small spasm. He swallows your moan and lets you adjust. He pulls away before looking down where the two of you meet.

"I could die like this, Lass." He said, his breath coming out unsteady as he tries his best to control himself. So close to just burying himself inside of you to the fucking hilt. "Seeing you like this is this first thing I want to see when I make it to the other side." You let out a choked cry as he pushes deeper inside you. Another inch. And another. And another until you're taking all of him.

He slurs something that sound like "fuck", but you are in too much of a daze to care. You arch into him, trying to get closer.

His thrusts are slow and deep. His pubic bone brushing against your clit making you whine and squirm. Begging for more.

You're not sure how long he had fucked you like that.

You needed it to stop.

You couldn't handle it. The softness. His words.

I could die like this, Lass.

Your lip quivered as you told him you wanted to be on top. You needed a moment. A chance to create a bit of space before he shattered your world yet again.

He pulled out. His absence already making you ache for him again before he settled beside you.

You squatted above his cock. Your feet flat against the mattress as you grabbed his hardness and slipping it inside of you. The sound you let out was pornographic. A high pitched, soft moan slipping from your lips as he buried himself inside of you again.

You placed you hands on his chest. Using the leverage to ride him. Your arms serving as barrier for you to get your bearings.

You used his body just as he had used yours. Throwing your head back, you moved faster and faster. Readjusting so your hands went from his chest to his stomach, giving him a better view of your connecting bodies.

His hand slips between the two of you, thumb pressing against your clit, and you tighten even more around. A needy whimper coming out of your throat. The sound mixing in with the sounds of his labored breathing and slapping skin as he begins to fuck up into you.

Even though he had been doing all the work for the last several minutes, you felt the tension start to creep into your calf.

"Fuck fuck fuck." You screech, barely able to hold yourself up any longer. "Ow." You hissed as the cramp took hold.

"Leg cramp?" He asked, not even faltering in his thrusts. You pathetically nod before he takes it upon himself to flip you on your back again.

"I'm going to do this every chance I can." He promises, pressing a searing kiss onto your exposed neck. "Any chance you'll give me." You can't take it. His words, his mouth, his fucking cock. It's too much. "I'm going to show you how much I want you. How much I want to fucking worship ye. Do anything to make you feel good. Not going to leave you again like that, Bonnie."

You reach for him again, pull him into a searing kiss just to shut him up. You need him to shut up. You couldn't take his false promises. You wouldn't survive it. Couldn't.

"Shit." His thrusts quicken, his thumb returning to your swollen bud. Flicking it in a way he had crafted into an art. He buries his face into your neck and you know he's getting close.

You weren't too far behind.

He didn't want to come, not yet, but this was fully out of his control. It was pathetic. A week without sex and you had him nearly coming in the first ten minutes.

But that's what you want. To see him lost in the idea that you would stay.

"Johnny." You groan out. "Please. Cum inside me."

He draws fast, beautiful circles around your clit that immediately push you over the edge. You shut your eyes tight, squeezing him like a vice as you come in strong waves, continuing to push inside you.

in out in out in out.

Deliciously clenching around him tighter and tighter until he can't take it anymore.

"Fuck," he says again, and you see it in his face, and you see it in his face, the second it's all over for him. You want to sear the image in your head. Keep it there forever. Knowing you'll never see it again. The way those enchanting blue eyes squint nearly shut before closing in complete ecstacy.

His mouth would open. A moan caught in his throat that he isn't ready to let go.

His hand closes around your hip, holding you to him while he presses as far as he can go, and it's only then do you feel his cock twitch in quick, jerky movements. He moans out your name before taking your mouth into a searing kiss.

"I fucking love you." He says. "So fucking much."

He was still under the blanket when you returned from the bathroom. You picked up your clothes up from the floor. Looking at the clock realizing you had less than five minutes to get out the door before you would be late for dinner.

"What are you doing?" he asked. You couldn't look at him. Hearing the panic in his voice almost made you stop. Tell him it really was just dinner with a colleague. A woman. That you would be back. Beg him to wait until you came home.

"I can't cancel on the dinner." You said slipping your feet into your heels. "This was a mistake."

You weren't sure why you said it. You weren't sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself. If you wanted to hurt him or make him think you regretted it when you would truthfully do it again. You would do it again and again. You would never stop.

Like Johnny, you could have died in that moment, but for a completely different. Where he would be content, you would be saved from the pain. The pain currently coursing throughout your very soul.

"Lock the door behind you." You say as you practically sprint out the bedroom. Only slowing in your stride to snatch your purse off the kitchen counter before running out. The door slamming behind you.

The restaurant was nicer than you expected. The wine alone was the price of an entree. You didn't seem to be phased at all and were relieved when Renée insisted on picking up the bill.

Your dinner had been delicious and the conversation even better. Renée wrote fantasy romance and wanted to pick your brain about a Why Choose. You had nearly spent out the over priced wine you weren't even really enjoying. Oh the irony.

"It's like all the rage now, but it's hard to make more than one appealing as the love interest. You should have seen the Goodreads comments on my last book. So many people bitched about my FMC not ending up with a character who was quite literally her adopted brother."

"So," you took a breath trying to find the words. "I'm going to be honest. I only read your latest book and I loved Luka. But I can't compare him to other MMCs you've written about so I don't know if they are similar or different. But what I can say is that I'm seeing like this trend of MMCs where they are all this dark-haired, brooding or mysterious character who dislikes mostly everyone and is only soft for either a select few or only the FMC."

"I think if you are going to write a Why Choose you need to think of guys you wouldn't mind falling in love with." You couldn't help, but think of what drew you to your boys. "One could be the leader. Someone who isn't afraid to have his neck on the line. To make sure everyone else is taken care of and being strong enough to handle the stress of that. He would be big on words of affirmation. Lifting the FMC up. For me, it would be someone that I know will take care of business. He's confident in his decision. That confidence would extend to me." You clear your throat. "If I was the FMC, that is."

"Okay." She nodded, pulling out a pen and notepad. "You don't mind if I-"

"I don't write about polygamy." Crossed that bridge. Currently trying to burn it. "So feel free."

"Another could be the one who it's so easy to fall in love with their charm. The one who falls to his knees. Wanting to worship every inch of her. The one who makes her laugh. That one to make her forget about the sadness that creeps into her bones. The one to hold her whenever he could. He's about quality time and physical touch."

"So different love languages." She said, her pen quickly scribbling.

"Yeah." You said, leaning forward. "Then there is the gift giver." Your mind went to Gaz. Most of the gifts and trinkets in the box sitting by your door had came from him. He had gotten you new earbuds when yours broke. When you were being harassed at your gym, he had bought you and him a membership at a different one. "The one who would give her the world if she asked for it. If you're going with a high fantasy then maybe the one to take note of something at a market that the FMC had been eyeing and he bought it for her. Just someone who takes notice like that."

"So acts of service would fall with all of them then you think?"

No. Simon had been the one who probably spent the least amount of money on you. He didn't praise you like John. He didn't even try to attach himself at your hip like Johnny.

But if you needed something fixed, he would come fix it himself. He'd be damned letting a strange man into your apartment. And alone? Fucking forget about it. The one who hated any sort of cardio activity outside of fucking you, but didn't hesitate in attempting to keep up with you when you wanted to go on a run and get some fresh air. If you needed something done, he didn't pay someone else to do it. He did it. If you wanted to do something, he made it happen. He made you safe.

You couldn't bring yourself to say explain it. Your eyes begin to itch. Warning you to think of something else.

So instead you just told her yeah. That they would all commit acts of service. And even in your hypothetical explanation of characters that haven't even been written yet, Simon was still the ghost among them.

"Lucky fucking girl." Renée said setting down her pen.

"Yeah." You said, downing the rest of your wine.

You walked home. The cool crisp wind feeling like it was whipping your exposed skin. It was soothing as the ghost of Johnny's touch still seemed to burn you.

You had hoped that you would get some closure, but you just felt hollow. You came twice and still manage to leave unsatisfied. Johnny wasn't malicious... he was Johnny. He wasn't like the others. Simon would never apologize and John and Kyle wouldn't try to keep reaching out after you told them know once.

Johnny couldn't stand you being mad at him. He never could. He would beg and beg for your forgiveness. You didn't regret fucking him one last time. He needed to know that you were well and truly done. There was no going back from this.

"Hey, Love!" You were pulled from your thoughts at the sound of a voice coming from a source you couldn't see. You perked up, quickly scanning the dimly lit street before your eyes settled on a cluster of shadows just across the street. "Yeah." The slurring voice said again. "Talking to you gorgeous!"

You resumed your trek home. Now picking up your pace. "Don't be like that! Where ya off to?" The voice followed you. You kept your gaze straight. You were three minutes away. Three minutes and you would be at your building.

Three minutes.

"What's the rush?" Another voice joined the cacophony. "Just want to have a chat."

You turned. They were maybe twenty feet away. You kept your eyes glued to them as your started to make a run for it.

You had made it about ten feet before your body collided with someone. Firm hands gripped your upper arms, steading you as you threatened to fall back.

You sucked in a breath of air, ready to scream when you looked up. It was too dark to make out the man's facial features. He was tall. His head eclipsing the street lamp just behind him. You shook beneath his hands. The voices behind you now silent.

"Keep walking." You didn't need to see his face. You knew that deep timber voice anywhere. He released you from his grip before letting you pass him.

"Just wanted to have a chat." You heard one of them try to reason. "No harm done."

"No harm done yet." Was the last thing you heard Simon say before you broke out into a full fledged run.

#captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #call of duty #angst

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