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missadangel · 3 months ago

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MAKE HIM DISLIKE LOVE YOU

Harry Castillo x Reader (The Materialists)

Chapter 1: Blind Date

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Summary: You work as a housekeeper in a rich family's mansion and often have to deal with their spoiled daughter. One day, she asks you to pretend to be her on a blind date with a guy her dad picked out for her. Your mission is to make him not like you so he won't want to marry her. But here's the twist: will Harry end up hating you, or could he actually fall for you? That's the real question. Warnings: 18+ (smut, MDNI) kinda romantic comedy stuff, fluffy, angst, lying, soft and caring Harry Castillo, Lucy as his ex, John as Lucy's ex, wealth, expensive gifts, drinks, money, cars, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some warnings; I will update them in due time. Word Count: 4.8k for now, There will be a part two if you guys like it, but I'm not sure about the rest. Sorry for the poor writing; that was quick. authors note: I am not sure about his name. If there's any update, I will edit. English is not my native, so please be nice; this is my third fanfiction. Thank you for the reblogs, comments, and likes. Love you all!

"Ugh, this dress is so last season! Are you serious? Everything here is out of style—get rid of them! Call Elliot and have them send me another dress, or I'm going to be really pissed!"

As if tossed at you like a used handkerchief, another dress worth thousands of dollars—perhaps only worn once—landed in your hands. You sighed as you looked at the elegant dress you were now holding, the Gucci label glinting under the light.

"Story of my life," you mumbled.

Working as a housekeeper in a millionaire's house was hard enough, but dealing with his spoiled and ill-tempered daughter was exhausting. Yet you were determined that it would soon be over. You could no longer endure this physical and psychological torture. With the money you had saved, you planned to open your own restaurant—fulfilling your dream. You just needed to save a little more and hang in there a bit longer.

Your boss was a decent, kind man, but his daughter was so unbearable that every housekeeper assigned left the next day.

How do you even tolerate her?

Because you didn’t have the luxury of quitting and waiting for a new job. You were still young and trying to establish yourself in the business. The extra pay you received was simply to endure her antics. Your kind millionaire boss had even promised you all the support you needed, suggesting you could quit your day job and focus solely on managing his daughter’s affairs. But how could you have known it would be so challenging? Still, you managed to get through each day and believed you could endure this for just a little while longer. After all, you had survived three challenging years already, right?

The mansion was enormous, and everything inside was meticulously organized. Everyone—housekeepers, gardeners, cooks, and even the owners—followed a disciplined daily routine.

Except for the young lady of the house.

You never knew when she would wake up or come downstairs to join her family at the dinner table. She was stubborn, mean, and unpredictable, and you had to manage her behavior just as you managed her dresses, her dates, and her friends. Because you were responsible for her, there were times when you wished you could handle all the housework yourself and let someone else take care of her demands. Despite being just an ordinary housekeeper, your name was the one that echoed the most throughout this vast mansion.

Why?

Because the young lady constantly called on you to fulfill her never-ending requests. And it was one of those moments again. Since it was evening, you guessed she was probably getting ready for a night out at the club, and you felt a surge of annoyance as you rushed to her room.

"I can't believe I was a size 8 before starting this job; now I'm down to a size 6," you mumbled to yourself, quickly making your way up the stairs.

One of the cleaners dusting the vases in the hallway shot you a wink and let out a sigh. Man, you’d do just about anything to be in her shoes, just taking care of that vase!

As soon as you knocked on the door, the young lady Melanie opened it, pulled you inside by the arm, and slammed the door shut behind you. You were taken aback—had you made a mistake? It had only been two hours since you last saw her; you had picked up her clothes off the floor and taken them to the laundry room. She had seemed content, busy texting on her phone. What could have possibly happened in such a short time?

“Is something wrong?” you asked, your eyes wide. For some reason, she looked super tense and nervous.

“You’ve gotta help me,” she said almost desperately, which caught you off guard; it was pretty rare for her to ask for help like this, very rare.

“Of course, if I know what’s going on…”

“Remember that thing we did with the senator's son? I need you to do something like that again.”

You froze for a moment. She was referring to something you had helped her with before—something you weren't very proud of.

“Oh, but—” you frowned. “You said I’d never have to do anything like that again.”

Years ago, you had done your best to disguise yourself as Melanie to turn off the senator's son and prevent him from marrying her. It had worked, but lying to someone was a real headache. Thankfully, Melanie's father hadn’t suspected a thing, but the thought of risking it again felt scarier than anything else.

“I know, I know, but I’m in a tough spot. My dad has been speaking with a matchmaker again to arrange a match for me. After the scandal at the club last time, he's determined to marry me off for sure. Please, I need your help.”

How could she still act so childish in her late twenties? As she looked at you with those pleading eyes, memories of all the times she’d yelled at you and scolded you flashed in your mind. It was fine when you were more like her special assistant instead of just a housekeeper, but now it feels like you��re just a toy to her. When she wants to have fun, she plays with you—almost like you’re her little slave or something.

“I’m not here for that,” you said firmly. “That is not my job.” Your patience was running thin, and this was just too much.

“But you’re supposed to help me,” she shot back, stubborn as ever. “And it’ll be easier this time, I promise.”

You narrowed your eyes and said, “We got caught last time when the guy found out and cursed both of us. Do you have any idea how hard that was for me? And if your father discovers what we’re up to this time…”

She replied with a grin, “We won’t get caught this time because I already sent them your photo instead of mine. Besides, you know how my father is strict about always having my picture removed from newspapers and magazines.”

“You did what?” you wailed.

“Chill, it’s all figured out. I’ve been working on this since last week. You’ll have dinner with the guy, pretend to be me, scare him off, and boom! He won’t want to hear my name again. Easy peasy!”

You rolled your eyes. “But he’s surely seen your photo somewhere; he can’t be that clueless.”

“No, he’s a very busy businessman. He has lived abroad for years and has just returned from France. He’s looking to set up his business here in New York,” she said as she opened her laptop and pulled up a webpage with information about the man. “It seems he’s also looking for a suitable match,” she continued, glancing at his photo and pursing her lips.

You froze when you looked at the photo; he wasn’t at all what you expected. He appeared to be a mature, charismatic, and intelligent man. But how could you sit opposite this man and pretend to be someone else? The thought made you shudder, raising the tiny hairs on the back of your neck.

“As you can see, he’s much older than me. I don’t think he’ll tolerate disrespect. If you’re disrespectful to him, he might get annoyed and just leave the table,” she said with a chuckle.

You laughed too, but for a different reason. You were sure that if she went to the meeting herself, he would get up and leave when he saw her personality.

“I think you should go; maybe he won’t like you,” you suggested.

She narrowed her eyes at you like she'd just caught you saying something crazy. “He won’t like me? Seriously?” She flipped her hair over her shoulder with a cocky grin. “Anyway, I can’t risk it. I don’t want to marry him or anyone else, and I definitely don’t want to be stuck in the same room with that old man.”

As if I want it so much, you thought.

“Come on, please do this for me! I promise I’ll be good; I won’t make you work too hard. I’ll ask Dad to give you a nice raise,” she said, clasping her hands together and trying to look cute.

Well, good raise would mean you could quit your job and bail out of here earlier, right? You crossed your arms and glanced back at the laptop screen, staring at the photo of that guy—Harry Castillo. You made a decision that you had no idea would change everything in both his life and yours.

“Fine. When’s dinner?” you said, feeling a bit anxious.

“Oh, you’re the best! I knew you couldn’t say no!” she said excitedly. “This Saturday.”

“But that’s only two days away,” you pointed out, feeling even more nervous.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you all set. Just make sure you displease him,” she grinned.

You sighed deeply, already sure you’d regret this choice.

“Don’t you think this dress is a bit… exaggerated?” you muttered, looking at yourself in the mirror.

It was an elegant burgundy dress—strappy, satin, and adorned with pearl details—the kind of designer item you could never afford, even if you worked your entire life.

“Am I trying to make him hate me or make him fall for me?” you asked, frowning.

Melanie rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry; he’ll never fall in love with you,” she said arrogantly. This was typical behavior for her, so you chose to ignore it. “As much as you want to annoy him, remember that you represent me. I don’t want anyone gossiping that Melanie Johanson is wearing a lame dress,” she continued while picking out a matching purse.

“But everyone knows I’m not you, except that poor guy.”

“I don’t suppose you were planning to wear one of your own skimpy outfits,” she remarked. “Do you want our game to be exposed?”

That was too much—being scolded and being forced to do something so ridiculous for this spoiled girl.

“Fine, go to that dinner yourself then,” you said, slipping off your heels.

She grabbed your arms. “No, no, no, please. Okay, I’m sorry I was rude. But I need you; no one else would do something like this for me.”

“It’s good that you realize that,” you muttered.

“Here, take this; it’s time,” she said, giving you a smile.

Honestly, putting up with Melanie’s constant demands, cleaning up after her, and covering for her felt like child’s play compared to what you were facing tonight.

A nice raise, you keep telling yourself trying to soothe yourself. I’m doing this for my restaurant; I’ll get it started someday.

The restaurant was one of the most famous, expensive, and luxurious places in New York—somewhere you would never normally set foot in. But tonight, thanks to Melanie’s name, you could easily get in. You were overwhelmed by the incredibly polite behavior of the restaurant staff.

Melanie may have been extravagant and reckless, but she had thought of almost everything for tonight—from the driver who brought you here to the all restaurant staff.

All this effort was for one purpose: to rid herself of the matchmaker’s match.

When they took your fur coat at the entrance and told you that Mr. Castillo was waiting for you, you took a deep breath. After one step inside, when you saw him, you nearly backed away. Harry was busy on his phone, scribbling notes in his small notebook. He looked really sharp and stylish—way more handsome and appealing than in the photo.

Damn.

You wanted to escape; you wished to put an end to this nonsense before it even began. Without realizing it, your feet started to move backward. Just then, you turned around and accidentally bumped into the waiter behind you, causing him to drop the champagne glasses he was carrying on his tray. The glasses shattered, and champagne spilled all over his outfit. You cursed yourself for the mishap.

Before you could even respond, the waiter apologized. “No, it was my fault; I’m sorry,” you said nervously, trying to wipe off the champagne from his clothes.

The other waiter and the staff stared at you in shock.

Yes, you were a wealthy lady now, but what harm was there in being polite?

"No, ma'am, I should have been more careful," he said before turning and walking away.

"Miss Johnson?" said a soft, deep voice.

You turned around to meet him and felt almost breathless. There he was, few inches taller than you, with broad shoulders, curly hair, deep-set brown eyes, a sharp nose, and an attractive appearance.

"Melanie, right?"

"Y-yes," you stammered, batting your eyelashes.

And that smile! For a moment, the world seemed to stop; all the sounds in the restaurant faded, and you almost forgot why you were there.

"I'm Harry," he said, holding out his hand. It took you so long to look at his face that you nearly forgot to acknowledge his hand. He laughed again, that wonderful smile lighting up his face. "My hand has been waiting for a while," he said teasingly.

You felt your cheeks flush as you realized what he meant. "I'm sorry," you replied, quickly reaching out to shake his waiting hand. His hand was big and warm. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long," you mumbled, feeling embarrassed. You knew you needed to work up the courage.

“Not really,” he said with a grin. “Shall we head to our table? Or do you want to stay here all night?”

“S-sure,” you said sheepishly.

Well, there wasn't much you could do about it. This wasn't just about him being wealthy or handsome. Even if it was a fake date, it had been years since you'd been on a date, and you didn’t know many men in your life.

Dinner was harder than you expected. Even though you and Melanie had practiced what you should and shouldn't say, your fears came to light. Harry seemed kind and understanding, and it was difficult to lie to him, which made you hate every minute of it. It got worse when he started grilling you with questions, and you weren't sure how much longer you could keep up with this silly game.

When you excused yourself to go to the restroom, you called Melanie.

"What do you mean he hasn't left the restaurant yet?"

"I don't know; the conversation got a little long, and he kept asking questions about me, I mean you."

"Do something to make him hate you already!"

“But how? Throw wine at him? This is all ridiculous. I think we should just tell the truth.”

"Don't you dare!" she barked.

Her voice was so loud that you had to smile apologetically when the other women in the ladies room looked at you strangely, hearing your end of the conversation.

"What am I supposed to do? Our plan isn't working."

“What's up with this guy? He should’ve bailed by now.” Melanie grunted.

“He seems nice—I doubt he’d be rude like that.”

“Rude! That’s the ticket; just be rude enough that he can’t stand it.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Yep, you heard me. Just be as rude as you can.”

You let out a sigh, really wishing you could just bang your head against the wall right now.

“I said do it, or you'll ruin everything. Call me when you’re done.”

“But what am I gonna— Hello? Darn it!”

Beep… Beep… Beep…

She hung up.

You’ll have to be rude, how wonderful! But she was right; you needed to get rid of this man for the night to end and for you to return to your normal life. Why did he have to be so nice and kind? If he could ever act like a jerk, you would have done it by now, but he was just too sweet. As you looked in the mirror, you thought of all the rude things a lady wouldn’t normally do. Ah, that sounds familiar; it reminds you of Melanie herself. The very thought of her actions made you smile nervously. You took a deep breath and left the restroom.

Encouraging yourself, you gazed at Harry's handsome face from afar.

You can do it, you can do it...

Your first move: act indifferent.

You changed your facial expression as you approached the table and deliberately looked away from his face. He was smiling warmly at you. No, you couldn't look at him; it would only complicate everything. You were about to apologize for being late, but no, you can’t. Instead, you pulled your chair noisily on purpose, scraping its legs on the floor to create an annoying sound. You sat down and crossed your legs, positioning your body so it wasn't fully facing him. Harry seemed surprised by this sudden shift in your mood, but he didn’t comment.

A little later, as your desserts were served, he looked at you, “I like chocolate cake too, especially with pistachio sauce. We have similar tastes,” grinning at you.

You looked at him and then at the waiter. “I don’t want this,” you said angrily.

“But ma'am, you ordered it,” the poor man replied sheepishly.

“I’ve changed my mind,” you said. “I’ll go with the tiramisu,” you added after a quick look at the menu, making sure to glance away casually.

“Sure, I’ll change it right away,” he said, taking your plate and walking back.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked, concern creeping into his voice.

“I’m great,” you lied, forcing a fake grin.

He didn’t ask any further questions, but he seemed to suspect something had changed. When the waiter brought your dessert, you decided to eat it rudely. You were sure Harry would be disgusted as you devoured your dessert quickly and rather rudely as if you were starving. You didn’t look at him again until you finished your plate. When you finally glanced up, your stomach feeling a bit nauseous, the look on his face was not what you had expected. He was smiling at you admiringly.

What the hell was that?

Shouldn’t he have shown disgust or displeasure, just like the people at the next table who were staring at you with disdain?

But not Harry, not him. Why, God, why?

As if teasing you, he laughed and reached for a napkin on the table, wiping the remnants of dessert from the corner of your lips. “You’ve got quite the sweet tooth, don’t you, sweet girl?”

How could he be so nice, even after everything?

“Want to eat mine too?” he joked again. Clearly, you were amusing him instead of grossing him out. Ugh, just what you needed. Why was this so hard?

“It’s the cream in it,” you said, a bit defensive. If you were going to get into a battle of words, you might as well dive in.

When he looked at you, confused, you thought you saw a glimmer of hope. Maybe you could annoy him with your gourmet knowledge.

“The Marsala wine is in the cream; it’s a secret recipe,” you said, trying to sound smart.

Harry paused eating his dessert, rested his elbow on the table, and gave you an admiring look. “Interesting. I didn’t know you were into cooking. That wasn’t in the info.” That familiar warm smile was back.

Crap. Another mess-up.

“I get it—you’re keeping it under wraps from your dad. I want you to feel comfortable talking about your hobbies when you’re with me.”

When you’re with him? Damn, that was supposed to be the first and last time you saw him. You started playing with your fingers in your hair out of nervousness.

Think, think, think. All you had left was to use the only card you had.

“Look, Harry, I’ll be frank. I don’t plan to see you again.”

Suddenly, he stopped. “Didn’t you like me?” he asked softly.

Was it possible not to like this man? But damn it, you had to lie. You looked away; it was hard to read his expression.

“You’ve probably heard about me from the tabloids. I’m not the type of woman to get attached to just one man. My father put me up to this matchmaker thing; I didn’t intend to.” You admitted this indirectly. He deserved a little honesty, didn’t he? “I’ve had and will have many men in my life. I don’t plan to get married. I mean, you’re not special. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

When you looked at his face timidly, you realized you got the reaction you had been waiting for since the beginning of the night. His smile vanished; his expression hardened, and the color of his eyes darkened.

But why did your heart squeeze when you should have felt relieved?

When they brought your coat, you thanked them and turned to Harry for the last time. You would probably never see him again. You felt fortunate to have had the chance to meet and get to know this man, even briefly. He would probably forget you anyway; why would he remember you?

“Can I give you a ride home so we can end things on a good note?” he asked, sounding a bit unsure.

You definitely didn’t see that coming. You paused, trying to figure out what to say. It would’ve been easier to just say no, but his eyes were so mesmerizing that if he’d asked you to spill all your secrets right then, you might have done it without even thinking.

“Sure,” you replied, feeling shy.

When the valet brought Harry's car around, your jaw dropped. This black, late-model Mercedes Benz S was probably worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Your interest in cars stemmed from your childhood; your mother always complained that you didn't like dresses and jewelry like other girls—rather, you liked cars. It was clear you were different, and you had always been that way.

Just like the situation you found yourself in now. Maybe there was something wrong with you.

The two of you were silent the entire ride. You didn’t look directly at him, but you could feel his gaze on you out of the corner of your eye. However, you were more captivated by the interior of the car. When would you ever get to ride in such a luxury vehicle again? It wouldn’t hurt to take a closer look. As you glanced towards his side to check out the control panel and see how much horsepower the car had, he caught your eye, causing you to quickly turn your head away. You had to suppress your curiosity.

"We’ll turn right here," you said as you approached the junction. Down the street, the giant mansion loomed, so close to your destination. You stole a quick glance at him, realizing this might be the only time you would see this man in person. You wanted to remember his handsome face.

Suddenly, Harry slammed on the brakes, and the car screeched to a halt. Your eyes widened in surprise as you looked at him, startled that he had stopped so abruptly near the mansion. What had caused him to suddenly halt? He didn’t say a word, just stared at you, and his eyes seemed to communicate something intense. Was he angry and no longer wanting your company?

You unbuckled your seatbelt and reached for the door handle, only to find it locked.

“Stay still,” he said as he unlocked the car doors.

What was he implying? He walked around the front of the car, reached your side, and opened your door.

Was this chivalry? If so, why did he stay away from the mansion?

“Aren’t you getting out?” His voice was kinda cold.

You didn’t know how to respond. You stepped out of the car without saying a word.

“Thanks for the ride—”

Suddenly, he grabbed your arm—not roughly, but with a firm, questioning grip. His gaze was intense, but why did he look that way? Had he figured it all out? Maybe he was about to confront you for making a fool of yourself. After all, you had been willing to be open, and now you felt you deserved it. But you didn’t have the courage to meet his eyes, so you lowered your head.

“You were lying, weren’t you?”

Shit.

You swallowed hard; this was the moment you had dreaded.

“I-I…”

What were you going to say? How would you even say it?

You were fucked.

Suddenly, Harry pinched your chin with one hand, forcing you to look at him while his other hand rested on your waist. He tilted his head toward you, his hot breath brushing against your face, making your heart race. His lips were dangerously close to yours, and you could feel your throat going dry. What the hell was he going to do? Kissing you or scolding you? After what felt like an eternity, he pulled you closer by the arm around your waist and kissed you.

It had been a long time since you kissed someone, so you were almost shocked by his sudden kiss. No matter how hard you tried to stop yourself, you finally closed your eyes and surrendered to him completely. Your surrendering gave him courage and he deepened the kiss, his hot tongue licking your lips and forcing them apart. While his expert hand lingered on the swell of your breasts teasingly, you moaned and opened your mouth for him and when his tongue touched yours, you could still taste the chocolate from the dessert he had just eaten.

But suddenly, Harry pulled his head back, breaking the kiss and all contact. Instinctively mesmerized, you leaned forward, eyes closed and mouth agape. When you finally opened your eyes, you caught him snickering, and as the embarrassment of the situation hit you, you wished you could disappear. You instinctively pressed your hand to your burning lips and pressed hem together. Harry licked his lips and grinned. "Just as I predicted. You lied to me. There's no way another man has touched you recently."

For a second, your mind went blank, and you just stared at him, blinking in confusion. What the heck did he mean by that? "Y-you... w-what..." Great, now you couldn't even put together a simple sentence.

What next?

Just then, your phone started ringing. When you opened your purse to get it, Harry reached for it before you could. Fortunately, you had saved Melanie in your phone under a special nickname, not her real name. Harry laughed, raising his eyebrows in surprise and amusement. "Trouble?"

Yes, you had saved her as trouble.

"Can you hand my phone back, please?" you said, holding out your hands, but he caught them with one hand and gently pushed them away.

“Your trouble can wait,” he said, rejecting Melanie’s call. He dialed a number on your phone, but realized what he was doing when his own phone started ringing.

“There, now you have my number,” he said, handing your phone back to you.

You frowned and grabbed your phone angrily, "What makes you think I’d actually call you?"

Harry shrugged, pursing his lips. “Shouldn't I call you before I come to pick you up for our next date? I guess I could just come by your house and honk the horn instead.”

“What?” you exclaimed.

He grinned.

You took a deep breath to release some of your tension. “Harry, why are you doing this? There won’t be a next date; I told you that.”

“One chance,” he said firmly.

“A chance of what?”

"I want you to give me a chance. A real date. If, at the end of the night, you still feel the same way, I promise you’ll never see me again."

You shook your head. "But why? You’re a man who can have any woman you want. You’re rich, handsome, and kind—why waste your time on someone who doesn’t want you?"

You saw something in his brown eyes, something you couldn’t quite identify, but it was intense. “Because you're different from others,” he said sharply. “True, women are not unattainable for me; they are always around. But what I want is someone special, and I feel that you are the one. There’s something about you that has ignited something in me I haven't felt in a long time. I must admit, I'm surprised; I never thought I’d be attracted to you after reading the news about you, but it seems I was wrong. Can you give me a chance? Please?”

Oh, Harry, there’s so much you don’t know, you thought. Your heart was fluttering at the thought of saying yes, but how could you? How dare you? You weren’t Melanie, the daughter of a wealthy businessman; you were just an ordinary girl.

“You know I won’t leave without hearing your answer, right?” He grunted.

Just then, you heard a car approaching, and you freaked out. That was Melanie’s dad’s car. Your heart nearly stopped.

“You have to go, like, now!” you yelled in a panic.

“First, say yes,” he replied, frowning.

"Si, yes, okay, alright! But please, go now!" you urged, pushing him toward the back of his car. He chuckled in response.

You crouched down to hide your face as the other car drove toward the mansion and pulled him down with you.

“I want you to know I’ve never done anything like this in my life,” he admitted, snickering.

“Is that so funny?” you snapped.

"Okay, I get that you don’t want your dad to see us like this, and I’m curious why, but since you said yes, I’ll be a good guy and leave."

“Yes you do that,” you said with a sigh.

Harry took his phone out of his pocket and waved it before getting into his car. “You’d better answer it when I call,” he said, getting inside. He winked at your puzzled expression and started the engine. His car quickly disappeared from sight along the road. You turned toward the mansion, exhaled deeply, and murmured to yourself.

“I'm so fucked.”

thanks for reading, likes, comments, reblogs are appreciated ❤️

#fanfiction #fanfic #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal #pedro pascal gifs #pedro pascal fanfiction #the materialist #harry castillo #materialists #harry castillo x reader #randy castillo

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jxwl4k · 6 months ago

Text

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ we listen & we don’t judge .𖥔 ݁ ˖

☘︎ . . . genre. fluff

☘︎ . . . pairings. bakugou x influencer!reader

⤿ bakugou and yn did the we listen and we don’t judge trend.

“Why the hell are we doing this again?” Bakugou grumbled, arms crossed as he sat on the edge of the couch, glaring at your phone like it personally offended him. You were fiddling with the tripod, humming a happy tune, completely unaffected by his usual sour mood.

“Because it’s fun, Katsuki,” you chirped, stepping back to check the angle. “And because I said so.”

“Tch. Stupid trend,” he muttered, but his scowl faltered when you gave him that look—the one where your eyes sparkled with excitement. “Fine, whatever. Let’s get this over with.”

You grinned, plopping down beside him and nudging his shoulder. “See? That wasn’t so hard. Now remember the rules—‘we listen, and we don’t judge.’”

“Like I’d judge you,” he scoffed, though his ears turned a faint pink. “Just hit record already.”

You hit the record button and waved at the camera. “Okay, we’re doing the ‘We Listen and Don’t Judge’ challenge! I’ll start!” Turning to him, you smiled mischievously. “Alright, Katsuki. The first time I saw you in your hero costume, I thought your gauntlets looked like giant grenade-shaped marshmallows.”

He blinked at you, his jaw dropping. “Marshmallows?! What the hell is that supposed to mean?!”

“They’re poofy!” you laughed, covering your mouth. “Like, in a cute way! I love them now, though!”

“You think Dynamight—the badass hero—looks cute?!” he snapped, his glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Unbelievable.”

“Hey! We listen, and we don’t judge!” you reminded him, trying not to giggle at how genuinely offended he looked.

“Fine,” he muttered, leaning back against the couch. “My turn. That time you made me tea when I was sick? I dumped it down the sink because I thought it looked weird.”

Your jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?! I made that tea with so much love! I even Googled the recipe!”

“It looked like sludge, YN,” he shot back, smirking now. “I wasn’t gonna risk dying over tea.”

“Wow, Katsuki. Wow,” you deadpanned, trying to hide your laugh. “We listen, and we don’t judge, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving his hand. “Your turn.”

You tapped your chin, pretending to think hard. “Okay, remember that time you thought the washing machine was broken because it kept making weird noises?”

“Don’t tell me…” he said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“It wasn’t broken,” you admitted, biting your lip. “I accidentally put one of your gloves in there, and it got stuck.”

“What?!” he groaned, throwing his head back. “Are you serious?! I spent an hour fixing that stupid thing!”

“Whoops,” you said innocently, leaning away from him as he glared at you. “We listen, and we don’t judge!”

“Whatever,” he grumbled. “Last one, and we’re done.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious about what he’d say. He smirked, leaning forward slightly. “Remember that time I told you I couldn’t hang out because I had extra patrol shifts?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah…?”

“I lied,” he confessed. “I stayed home because I wanted to finish watching that stupid rom-com you made me start. It was too good, alright?!”

You gasped dramatically, clapping your hands. “You mean The Proposal?! Oh my god, Katsuki! You liked it!”

“Shut up!” he snapped, cheeks blazing. “I didn’t say I liked it—I said it was decent.”

“You were laughing so hard at the Sandra Bullock scenes!” you teased, scooting closer to poke his cheek. “Admit it—you’re a closet rom-com fan!”

“Like hell I am!” he barked, swatting your hand away. “Next time, we’re watching something with explosions.”

“Sure, sure,” you said, rolling your eyes. “But you’re not off the hook yet—what’s your favorite part of the movie?”

“I’m not answering that,” he muttered, crossing his arms.

“Come on, Katsuki,” you teased, leaning against his shoulder. “We listen, and we don’t judge.”

He grumbled something under his breath, refusing to meet your gaze. Finally, he muttered, “The grandma dancing part was kinda funny.”

You burst out laughing, grabbing his arm as he groaned in embarrassment. “Oh my god, you’re so cute!”

“Shut up, idiot,” he growled, but his lips twitched into a small, begrudging smile as he pulled you closer. “This trend’s stupid, but I guess it wasn’t that bad.”

You smiled up at him, resting your head against his shoulder. “Admit it—you had fun.”

“Maybe,” he said, wrapping an arm around you. “But don’t think I’ll do another one of these dumb trends.”

“Whatever you say, Dynamight,” you teased, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek as the camera caught his flustered reaction.

“Cut the damn recording already!” he barked, his blush deepening.

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flawssy-227 · 2 months ago

Text

Ask Me Nicely | Joel Miller x afab!reader

summary | You're working at Tommy's Diner, and Joel is a creepy but kinda sexy line cook

author's note | I'm a long time reader, first time dark!fic writer. would love some feedback. this is a dark fic, please heed the content warnings below. anon is on if you'd like to message me about this

this is for @pedgito #SpringFever25 challenge! my category was Backwoods horror at a diner

content warning | 18+ MDNI — DDNE!! this fic has everything, soft!dark, creepy Joel, dubious consent, p in v, unprotected sex, creampies, afab reader who has hair that can be put in a bun

word count — 4.6k

More Joel here

You were in the middle of rolling silverware when you felt the hot gaze of someone staring at the back of your neck. You briefly made eye contact with a brown eyed man standing behind the grill. You’d never seen him before. He was certainly handsome from what you could tell, but the unrelenting stare was making you feel a bit eerie.

Turning back to the black linens in front of you, you whispered to your coworker. “Tess,” you started.

She just hummed in response, working on her own pile of freshly rolled silverware.

“Who’s that guy on the line? Is he new?”

Tess finally looked up toward the grill and rolled her eyes. “That’s Joel, Tommy’s brother.”

You hummed at the information. You didn’t even know Tommy had a brother. You’d been working at Tommy’s Diner on the outskirts of Austin for just over a month now. You were finally feeling comfortable with the menu, the layout of the restaurant, and the regular line cooks. You even had won over some of the regulars who usually only liked when Tess or Maria served them. Tommy seemed to think you were doing a good job and you finally had enough money for a deposit on a lease so you could get out of the stinky motel you’d been living in. Overall, things were going well. You turned to look back at Joel, mildly disappointed that he wasn’t still looking at you.

Tess snapped her fingers in front of your face, focusing your attention on her.

“Hey, no. Don’t even think about it.”

“Why?” you frowned. “He isn’t married, is he?”

Tess laughed at that. If only that was the only reason she didn’t want you near the guy. “No. Not married.” She sighed looking at your face. You were gonna need a little more information to stop the steady growing intrigue. “He’s here every summer, June and July. His ex get’s custody of the kid or something. Guess he’s bored.”

“Aw,” you sighed, dreamily thinking what kind of father he might be. “Poor guy, he’s probably lonely.”

“Dude’s a freak,” Tess scoffed. “Seriously! Bonafide weirdo. Every summer he’s here, it’s just eight weeks of making the girls uncomfortable.”

You frowned at that. Finally, Tess thought. She was getting through to you.

“Uncomfortable how?”

She sighed and glanced briefly to where you were sure Joel was. The cook line was a decent distance away from where the two of you were rolling silverware and the hum of the fans and other server chatter surely drowned out your voices, but Tess leaned in close to you and whispered anyway.

“Groping girls. Weird comments. Everybody used to just laugh it off. You know, we figured Tommy wouldn't wanna hear us complaining about his weird older brother. And we were right, by the way. This girl Amy used to work here, swore up and down Joel tried to, you know… do something he shouldn’t, after the Fourth of July party. We all believed her. Next thing we know, she gets the boot and Tommy tells us to mind our drinking when we’re off the clock. She kinda looked like you, now that I’m thinkin’ about it.” She shrugs, nonchalantly. “Plus, Maria hates the guy.”

Your eyes widened at that. “Really? Maria likes everyone.”

“Maria knows bullshit when she hears it.”

You subtly glanced back toward Joel, gasping softly when your eyes met his impossibly dark ones. You try to ignore the tingle down your spine.

“Stay away from him,” Tess practically pleaded with you. “Promise me.”

Your palms were sweaty as you gripped the black linen below you. You could still feel Joel’s eyes burning a hole into the back of your neck. He was attractive, sure. Despite how decent of a guy you thought Tommy was, you trusted Tess implicitly. She wouldn’t tell you to stay away from someone unless she really believed he was bad news. “I promise.”

***

You worked Wednesday, Thursday and Friday at Tommy’s and Joel was there every single time. You did your best to avoid him, trying to evade his persistent eye contact, which tended to be challenging when every time you looked up, the man was staring at you.

Yesterday he had asked you what your name was while he slid a patty melt across the window. You hesitated before saying, “it’s on the ticket.”

By Friday night you were exhausted, a week's worth of shifts on your feet in the Texas heat had left your body sore and your mood irritable. You were just an hour out from your cut time and then you had two full days off. You were going to finally move into your new apartment, maybe grab a drink with Tess on Saturday. Standing on expo, you rolled your head from side to side, trying to loosen the tension in your neck while you waited for Mr. Delaney’s burger. He was a regular and it was always the same thing, no lettuce, sub cheddar cheese, add onion. Apparently the guy had been coming here for years. Everyone knew his order, but even if they didn’t, you rang it in exactly how he liked it.

Joel slid a plate over to you with a wink. You didn’t want to smile but you couldn’t help it. Sorry Tess, the man’s handsome. Your smile quickly fell when you took a look at the burger.

“Is this cheddar cheese?” you questioned. The other cook, Richie was facing away from you, labelling some veggies he had just prepped.

Joel looked at you, then the burger, and shrugged. No response.

You let out a frustrated laugh. Mr. Delaney was nice, but very particular about his food, you had noticed. “I don’t know why I asked,” you started. “I can tell it’s american. C’mon, Joel, he gets the same damn burger every week. Read the fuckin’ ticket.” You slid the plate back toward Joel and turned away so you could leave the kitchen and check on your other tables.

Joel smirked at your little outburst while he put two fresh patties down on the grill.

Richie chuckled beside him, still labelling containers. “Can’t believe you pissed her off. She’s so sweet to everyone, but I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side.”

Joel just smiled, tongue running over his teeth as he slid the new patties with cheddar onto buns, assembling the burger exactly how you rang it in. “Dunno,” he said, propping the plated burger in the window. “Might like her bad side.”

***

Your tables were fine so you spent a couple of minutes talking to a young couple who were driving across the state on their way to Louisiana. You took a picture for them, rosy cheeks pressed together as they gushed about their journey so far. The loneliness you felt being in a new place all by yourself hit you like a freight train. You were happy, feeling proud of yourself for leaving a bad situation all by your lonesome and making do with what you had. You realized you should apologize to Joel for snapping at him. You’re just tired and maybe a little horny. Wait, no. Hangry. You were hangry. You weren’t sure where that thought just came from, but you were sure it had something to do with Joel’s thick forearms and the way sweat glistened on his skin when he was standing too close to the grill.

Making your way through the swinging kitchen door, you smiled sheepishly at Joel through the window. The new burger looked perfect, exactly how it should’ve 5 minutes ago. “Thank you,” you told him. “And sorry… I didn’t mean to snap at you. Just ready to get out of here, ya know?”

“No worries, darlin’.” Joel wiped his hands on a white towel and flung it across his shoulder. Your lips parted ever so slightly at the way he crossed his beefy arms over his muscled chest.

“Wanna bite?”

Your eyes snapped up to his and you quickly shut your mouth. “Hm?” A bite of what exactly?

“Food, darlin’. Can make ya something.”

Tess’s warning played in your head. You didn’t want to get too close to him and you definitely didn’t want him doing you any favors. But you were hungry, and he was offering. “Um, sure. Okay.”

***

Joel ended up making you a greasy steak sandwich that filled you up in a way you’d been missing for a few weeks, and thank goodness. You were supposed to leave the diner two hours ago, but Christian, your dimwitted coworker and officially your least favorite person on Earth (as of two hours ago), was supposed to be closing, but slipped on a slick section of tile in the kitchen. Tommy was sure he heard something crack and drove him to urgent care, but not before he begged you to stay until close.

“Promise you won’t have to at all next week! Just stay tonight, please?” he begged.

What were you supposed to say? No, would’ve been a good option. But you needed your job and what was just a few hours more?

Your last table left and you finally locked the front doors, letting out a sigh of relief. It had started to rain earlier in the night and the diner was filled with a sticky humidity you found only existed in Texas during the summer. You couldn’t wait to shower and cozy up in the motel bed one last time.

You were in the middle of mopping the front of the restaurant, soapy water gliding over the red and white tiles when Richie poked his head out from the kitchen.

“Hey kid, I’m headin’ out.”

The swift drop of your smile must’ve been comical because he immediately chuckled. “Don’t worry, Joel’s still here. He’ll stay with ya and lock everything up.”

That wasn’t exactly comforting with Tess’s warnings still floating in your head. Sure he had made you dinner and didn’t seem to mind when you snapped at him earlier, but he was weird. It was like you could always feel his eyes on you, even when you couldn’t see him, and you didn’t know him well enough to be comfortable stuck in the diner with him completely alone.

“Wait, Richie! Can’t you stay with us? I’m almost done, I swear.” You did your best puppy dog eyes.

He looked down at you and offered you a small smile. “Can’t. Tommy’s been ridin’ me about hours. But Joel’s cool. Don’t worry about him, he’s got a daughter.”

You watched Richie turn away and leave, simply disregarding your concern. Joel having a daughter wasn’t quite the reassurance he clearly thought it was but whatever. Tommy was a totally decent guy so you were sure Joel was fine too. You had nothing to worry about, you were positive. You did your best to finish your cleaning in record time, though.

A few minutes later you walked through the kitchen, planning on putting your receipts from your shift on Tommy’s desk, but you couldn’t help but be eerily creeped out by the absolute silence. The fan wasn’t running, the grill was clean and half the lights had been flicked off. Joel was nowhere to be found. You put your paperwork on Tommy’s desk and scoffed. That fucker left you here completely alone. You slid your phone out of your pocket, about to dial Maria when a dark figure appeared before you.

“You all done?”

You gasped, fumbling for your phone before you dropped it. “Shit, Joel. You scared me.”

In the half shaded darkness between Tommy’s office and the rest of the kitchen, you could barely make out the lines of his face. The shape of his nose and a singular dimple make his handsome but usually menacing face seem a little bit softer.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

You inhaled sharply and followed Joel out the back door of the kitchen and tried not to let your mind wonder. Everything was fine. He probably just liked saying weird things to make people uncomfortable. You let your eyes trail down his backside, cute butt, you thought before Joel immediately turned around, cigarette dangling from his mouth.

Your eyes snapped up to his, sheepish smile on your face as you tried to pretend you weren’t just shamelessly checking this man out. He knew, of course.

Leaning against the brick wall by the kitchen door under the awning, effectively shielding you from the rain, he offered you his pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”

You reached for one and placed it in between your lips. “I’m trying to quit.” You leaned in towards Joel, waiting for him to light you up. You let your eyes casually take him in, really looking at his chocolate brown eyes for the first time. His brows are creased as he focuses on the flame.

“How’s that going for you?” he asks, and you wonder if his voice always sounds this sexy.

“Pretty good,” you laugh. “At least, typically. I feel like it’s okay to indulge every now and then.”

Joel hums in agreement, eyes not leaving yours. “How long you been workin’ here?”

“Just around a month. Just moved to the area.”

“Yeah, Tommy said you weren’t from around here. Moved all by yourself?”

There was something about the way he said that. You get a weird feeling in your gut and feel the urge to lie.

“Uh, no. I-I moved here with my boyfriend.” You turn your face away and take a deep drag from your cigarette. You’ve always been a shit liar to anyone who pays attention.

Joel doesn’t say anything else for a minute and he finally lets his gaze move away from you and focuses straight ahead. You release tension in your shoulders you didn’t even realize you were holding. He finishes up his smoke and immediately replaces it with a second. You swallow a lump in your throat and let the bud of your own fall into a puddle of rainwater.

You clear your throat. “Well, I’m heading out. See you next week.”

Joel doesn’t say anything else to you but nods his head in acknowledgement. You make a run for your car but you parked in the back of the lot today, so you can’t help but get yourself soaked. You swear the rain is coming down harder now that you are away from any form of cover and you breathe out a sigh of relief when you open your car door and slide in the cloth seats.

You put your keys in the ignition and took a little moment of gratitude. The shift was over. You were moving into your own place tomorrow. You made a little extra money even though you had to stay late. And you wouldn’t have to see Joel for a few days, at least. You turned your key to start your car up but you aren’t met with the typical sound of your engine turning over. Frowning, you try again.

“You’ve got be fu-” a knock on your window startles you. It’s Joel.

“Car trouble?” he questions over the sound of rain, and your window is a little foggy, but you swear he’s smirking.

You take your keys out of the ignition and grab your bag before cracking open the car door. “You wouldn’t moonlight as a mechanic, would you?”

Joel laughs at you and you don’t hate the sound. “Why don’t you call your boyfriend?”

You let out a deep sigh, a frustration headache coming on rapidly. “Joel,” you start.

He pulls the door open further for you, seemingly uncaring that his light grey t-shirt is now soaked through. “I know, darlin’. I know.”

You and Joel jog back to the kitchen and you’re grateful he never closed the door so you could swiftly slide back inside. Your clothes are completely soaked through and Joel grabs you and him a towel to dry off a bit as he leads you back to the front of the diner.

He leans back in one of the big, circular, red leather booths, running the towel through his brown curls and you can’t help but admire the way his arms flex at the movement. You slide in on the opposite side and try not to shiver at the gust of cold air from the AC.

“So, you ain’t got no one to call?”

You pause. You could call Tess. Uber’s didn’t really run around here but you know there’s a cab company that runs late, you had seen their cards in the motel lobby. Though you could scold yourself now since you hadn’t grabbed one. You decide not to lie.

“Nope. You caught me. I’m all alone.”

There’s a look in his eyes at that and it makes your stomach curl. “I can take care of ya. Drive you home.”

Your heart rate increases. It’s not what he’s saying, but how he says it. You weren’t sure what to do. Even if you called Tess and she could pick you up, you would still have to wait here with Joel for God knows how long. Your eyes dipped down as his thighs parted, sizable bulge on display. “Well, don’t look so scared, darlin’.”

Your bag is plopped on top of the table and you reach for it. You’re about to make a run for it and Joel just sighs. “Darlin’, don’t.”

You don’t even think about how the hell you’re gonna make it to the motel and you just bolt. Grabbing your bag from the table you set your sights on the swinging kitchen doors. You don’t make it far before you slip on a wet puddle and face plant in between the booths and the retro looking bar.

“Shit,” Joel says from behind you. “You okay?”

You groan as you feel Joel straddle you from behind. He softly brushes hair that must’ve slipped from your work bun to the side of your hair. His touch is gentle but maybe you’re just out of it. He leans his face further down into your space and you feel, more than hear, him take a big inhale, digging his nose into your neck. He smiles and sternly presses you back down onto the red and white tile when you groggily try to sit yourself up. You could probably force him off if you really put your might into it, but you let him hold you down.

“Smell so good, darlin’,” he says and you can feel bulge pressing in between your butt cheeks.

“Joel,” you whine and you aren’t sure what to say. Get off of me you freak? Or don’t stop because it’s been a long time since you’ve felt a bulge that big.

“Why’d you run from me?” he questions you, softly grinding his pelvis into the back of you.

You tuck your head further into your shoulder and close your eyes. You whimper. “You scared me.”

Joel tuts at that. “Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

For some reason you believe him. Joel’s hands move away from your back and he cages your head in between his forearms. You can feel his hot breath on the nape of your neck as he continues to grind his clothed cock in between the spandex of your covered buttcheek.

“Ain’t gonna hurt ya,” he repeats. “And I ain’t gonna do anything you don’t wanna. Okay?”

You don’t say anything for a moment. You leave your eyes closed and you try to will away the hot sting of tears.

“I can tell you’re lonely,” he says into your ear, letting his tongue trace along the edge of your lobe. “I’m lonely too. I can make us both feel real good.”

You shudder and let your eyes open, the rush of hot tears fall down the side of your face and pool in a salty puddle on the edge of a red tile.

“Say ‘okay’ darlin’.”

You let out a weak ‘okay’ and Joel takes that as his cue to start feeling you up. You feel him everywhere and it’s not wholly unpleasant. He slides his weight off your back and straddles you mid thigh.

“Kick off your shoes,” he says and you do as you feel cool air over your butt. He slides your leggings all the way down your legs and you help him remove the bunched up material. He slides his tongue all the way from your bare ankle up to your left butt cheek, giving you a small kiss before he buries his nose in between your thighs. “Smells so good.”

You unwittingly let out a moan at the sensation and snap your mouth shut. You internally scold yourself, you’re not supposed to be enjoying this!

The sounds you make egg Joel on. “Yeah, baby. Keep making those pretty noises for me.”

He straddles you again, reaching his hand in between your legs. You're wet. You can tell by the chill of the air conditioning. He runs a finger through your folds and you let out another little sigh.

“You want it, don’t ya?”

You know he wants you to respond, but you just moan again as he continues to move a thick finger in between your lips.

Dissatisfied at your lack of response but clearly not deterred, Joel rubs against your clit, this time forcing your breath to hitch and your back to arch further into his warm body. “Tell me you want my fingers,” he nearly scolds.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Yes, I want your fingers.”

He hums to himself, clearly happy with your answer and he pushes two thick fingers into you. Your mouth is wide at the sensation. You can’t help but twitch around him as he slowly pumps in and out of you. You can feel and hear yourself getting slicker with each movement. You shouldn’t be this wet. Your boss's brother is fingering you face down on the cold tile floor at your job. You can feel your nipples harden underneath your work uniform and you feel ashamed that you’ve let this happen and that your body is clearly enjoying itself even while your mind is not fully on board.

Joel’s voice snaps you out of your head. “Being such a good girl for me,” he moans into your ear and you can’t help but clench around him at the notion. “Pussy’s just sucking me in, fucking dripping for me. You gonna cum for me darlin’?”

He uses his other hand to rub at your clit and your eyes roll into the back of your head. “Yesyesyes, gonna cum!”

Joel keeps his pace steady, watching the side of your face that isn’t still pressed against the tiled floor contort in ecstasy as he brings you to your release.

“Mm, good girl,” he says, rubbing your slick all over the outside of your pussy lips, causing you to twitch in aftershocks. “Did that feel good, darlin’?”

Your eyes are shut as you sigh, feeling incredibly relaxed considering where you are and what has transpired over the last 20 minutes or so. You open your eyes and let yourself whisper out a soft “yeah.”

Joel seems delighted at this. “Good. Can tell you work real hard, wanna make you feel good.”

You aren’t sure if you should still be scared or weirdly flattered? You try to press yourself up from the floor and Joel presses you back down. “Joel,” you whine. “I can’t lay like this, you’re gonna fuck up my neck.”

His eyes meet yours and he can see that you are being genuine so he shifts so his weight is off of you. You let yourself flip onto your back and you take him in fully since whatever is happening started to happen. His eyes are soft and lonely and a little crazed but you’ll just chalk it up to horniness. He’s still fully clothed and he lets his body press back into yours. You can feel his bulge against your bare sex and you gasp. He’s huge and you can really feel him like this.

Joel is practically humping himself on you and you can’t help but feel a bit bewildered at the absurdity of it all. He leans back on his haunches and slides down his black chef's pants. Your jaw drops at the size of him.

“Joel,” you gasp, slightly mesmerized by his incredible girth.

“I know baby, I know.” Joel smirks at your wide eyes. “Ask me nicely and I’ll make you feel good again.”

You’re shocked, truly. This is not anything like how you thought your night would go, but you can’t help but release a little more wet slick at the sight of his leaky tip and the blissed out and slightly insane look on Joel’s face.

“Ask me,” he says again, jerking himself off slowly as he waits for you.

You clear your throat. “Make me feel good again?” you try.

“How baby? You want my cock?”

You nod.

“Tell me.”

Your mouth is dry but you somehow fumble the words out: “Want your cock, Joel. Please.”

He lets out a groan at that, several small yeah yeahs out of his mouth as he hovers over your body, one forearm caging you in as his other hand guides his girthy cock into you. The stretch is incredible and you try to retreat on instinct but Joel just shoves the rest of himself in.

You whine his name and his eyes shutter close, clearly lost to the bliss. “Gimme a sec darlin’, promise I’ll make it feel good.”

And boy, does he. As promised, Joel gives you a second to adjust to his size before he starts to slowly press himself in and out of you. When your eyes roll back and you start making those cute little sounds he’s become obsessed with, he increases his pace. Deep and deliberate strokes make you arch your back off the diner floor. You open your eyes and stare at him, feeling shocked that he’s reaching that spot that seems to always be out of reach for everybody else. He’s the perfect size, just bordering on the right side of too much. Everything feels so good, so intense. You’re so close.

“Cum for me baby,” Joel whispers in your ear. And as if your body is his to control, you do.

Joel wraps a strong muscled arm around your spine to protect you from falling on the hard, cold floor again.

“Ask me to cum inside you,” Joel begs, voice strained by his vigorous thrusting.

And this time, you don’t even think about it. “Please fill me up, Joel. Please, baby.”

Thick, hot ropes of cum fill you up and you can’t help but admire Joel’s handsome face as it contorts with pleasure. You rub your hands under his clothed back, slightly cool with a mix of rain from his damp t-shirt and sweat from your activities.

***

Joel is sitting back in the same big red booth, body leaning back lazily as he puffs on a cigarette. You force yourself to stand up on shaky legs, pulling your leggings back up and trying to ignore the sudden rush of Joel’s cum that leaks out of you when your body is finally upright. You feel… well good, in some ways. Body satisfied in a way it hasn’t, in well, ever. You also feel confused. Too many things worked out tonight in Joel’s favor, things that led you to be here, alone, and reliant on him. You weren’t scared, even though deep down you knew you should be.

“Joel,” you spoke, breaking him out of his own post-coital daze as he made eye contact with you. You shivered. You were leaning against the bar, unsure if your legs were stable to hold you upright for much longer. You noticed it had stopped raining. “Can you uh, can you drive me home?”

A lazy smile crossed his face. “Of course, darlin’. I wasn’t ready to be apart from you just yet, anyway.”

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller au #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #dark fic #fic: ask me nicely #springfever25 #dark!joel miller #dark!joel x reader

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thedemonsurfer · 1 month ago

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It's really not all that surprising that the Daycare Attendant ended up being so popular, to the point that there's a whole subsection of FNAF fandom that's p much just the DCA.

For starters, there's Security Breach itself. Security Breach is a vastly different FNAF game from its predecessors. Instead of being a jumpscare-driven task management simulator, it is a free-roam exploration and puzzle game, also with jumpscares. Instead of a security guard with their butt glued to their office chair, you're playing as a kid trapped in the mall. That difference in format and story setup attracted a whole new crowd of players to FNAF.

Next is character design. Unlike the majority of animatronics in the killer robot furry franchise, the DCA is a lanky, vaguely human shaped jester with a dinnerplate head and a creepy fixed smile. That appeals to folks who might not be as much into the robot furries, but like lanky creepy jesters (I am one of those people).

Security Breach also FINALLY develops the animatronics into actual characters, rather than interchangeable jumpscares. It's not a coincidence that prior to SB, the most popular animatronic was Springtrap-- an animatronic outright possessed by the defacto main antagonist of the series. I still remember the sheer fuzzy excitement upon hearing the first teaser trailer where we found out that we would be playing as a kid and that Freddy was our friend. That's still so cool! Freddy is our friend!

But character is where the Daycare Attendant really blows everyone else out of the water.

Sun is, after Freddy and Vanessa, the NPC with the most lines of dialogue (ten). Sun and Vanessa are the only antagonists that speak directly to Gregory, rather than just having vague hunting lines. For comparison, of the Glamrocks only Roxy has a single line of interaction with another animatronic ("Get out of my room, Freddy!") and her pep talk in the mirror at the start of the game. Monty and Chica might as well be interchangeable, both only having hunting lines.

Hell, out of Moon's nineteen voice lines, eight of them are laughs, blowing away Vanny's whopping two lines in the entire game.

Sun is the only* FNAF antagonist that does not have a jumpscare sting when he grabs Gregory, and is one of the few antagonists that does not kill the player upon jumpscaring them. Sun is outright non-hostile towards Gregory, coming off as overbearing but genuinely friendly. In a FNAF game.

Kellen Goff's phenomenal voice acting further fleshes out the DCA's character, giving us solid foundations for their personalities. Sun is anxious, friendly, and bossy. Moon is a downright giggle gremlin, sadistic and playful. Both of them are childish, and the contrast between their personalities and their job as child caretakers makes them stand out even more.

It's also worth mentioning that the Daycare is one of the earliest sections of the game, easily reached within the first thirty minutes of playtime. This makes it very likely to have been seen by people who either ended up not finishing the game itself, or any let's play series they were watching. It's also one of the most complete sections of the game, with clear, easy to understand mechanics and a decent challenge, making it more enjoyable to play than some of the later puzzles.

So, yeah. Why wouldn't there be a whole subsection of fandom built around some of the most well developed and interesting characters in the entire franchise, from an installment that attracted a new crowd of people who were probably already looking for something different from the traditional FNAF experience?

*As far as I know there are no other FNAF animatronics that perform a jumpscare animation without an accompanying sound, but it's not impossible that there's someone in UCN that I've overlooked.

#fnaf #five nights at freddy's #fnaf security breach #fnaf daycare attendant #I'm leaving out the more personal reasons I've seen listed such as “the autism vibes” and “I want to see that twink obliterated”#as well as how fans beget fans with their creations #because these things are relatively universal across fandoms

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salem-s · 12 days ago

Note

me again!! here's what i first thought of for jock!rafe x nerd!reader

so what if reader were to be in a sport herself? volleyball for example (or any other sport youd like) andddd she gets injured :0000 and rafe just happens to be at one of her games 😏😏😏😏

OR it could be vice versa- but instead of rafe getting hurt he'd win his game! or... if you like drama... he gets in a fight with one of the people from the opposite team LMAO

okay that's it 🙂‍↕️

love this prompt so much! and im using both of these.

DON'T WORRY, BABY. I'LL HANDLE HIM ── RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT (18+)

SYNOPSIS your ex-boyfriend always chooses the best time to be a prick: right before an important playoff game. revenge is hard to achieve with a broken hand, but conveniently rafe's hockey team is playing your ex's later that weekend, and your best friend's brother is hardly the one to play nice.

WARNINGS language, graphic imagery (broken bones, mentions of blood and bruises), violence, suggestive content. 18+ mdni. lowkey inspired by challengers? jock!rafe x jock!reader has my soul, especially hockey!rafe. also i changed reader's sport from volleyball to basketball bc i dont know anything about volleyball? college au.

WORD COUNT 10.6k... my bad...

SONG OF THE CHAPTER about a girl by nirvana

The morning is sour from the moment you wake up.

Because it isn't from the sunlight, or your phone buzzing, or the simplicity of nature. It's from knocking — barbaric knocking — that jolts you from your sleep, harshly interrupting your peacefulness and broaching the morning with a startle, with your heart racing, with wide eyes and a brewing migraine.

You shouldn't be surprised when it's your ex.

You broke up with Jesse a month ago on matters regarding his overwhelming narcissism and egoist complex that dampened your conscious for months. Frankly, you aren't sure why you put up with him so long — perhaps because he was halfway decent in bed and was silky sweet whenever he wanted to be — but you snapped out of the thick haze of fog after you hit a breaking point. It was your birthday, you asked him for one thing, and he couldn't even show up for something as simple as that, claiming he'd gotten caught up at his friend's NHL watch party of a team he didn't care for.

But clearly you breaking up with him meant nothing, because he's been attempting to crawl back into your life with every chance he gets.

It started the very next day when he cried in front of your apartment door as if he had every right to do so, wailing well into the night that you got a fucking noise complaint from your neighbors. You had to sneak out the side window to make it to practice without crossing paths with him, and it only got worse when he's been tracking you down in between classes, in between practices, at your car before he knew you had to drive to a game. He once showed up at Sarah's apartment, your best friend, where it took her older brother and her boyfriend to successfully de-escalate the situation and throw him out before Jesse could even get near you.

It's been relentless, and Jesse teeters between showing up with flowers and trying to sweet talk you into getting back together with him, or belligerently drunk to where he verbally berates you for being: "A spoiled cunt with so many issues that no other guy would wanna go near."

(His exact words, might you add.)

And now, he's leaning towards the mean side, the side of him that is so fucking brutal that, despite not caring about him anymore, you can't not let the words get to you, especially when your mental headspace is already so fragile with the playoffs going on.

"Are you fucking him?" Is the first thing Jesse says before you can even open the door.

You regret even answering, but know that he literally will sit here all day and knock and scream until you give him the time of day (you learned that the hard way). Though your mind is mumble-jumble, blinking blearily to try and discern if this is actually happening right now, if Jesse is actually here at six in the morning to start his shit up again.

"What?" Your tone is so exasperated, as if you're dealing with a problem child.

But he doesn't flinch. "Cameron. Are you fucking him?"

You want to laugh out of exhaustion, out of ridiculousness, out of anything synonymous to that because the audacity of him to show up here at the break of dawn to interrogate you on your sex life is downright comical, as if he has any right to comment on what you do or don't do. You're not his anymore, and he clearly isn't accepting that, nor accepting the fact that you're (apparently) already moving on.

With Rafe Cameron, nonetheless.

The rumor is not true, you can easily confirm that. But the thought of toying with Jesse, of making him believe that you're seeing not only your best friend's brother, but his arch-rival in hockey, makes your heart flutter with excitement, with the urge to psychologically torment him in a way you know will hit home.

Because Jesse's been second best to Rafe for years, ever since freshman year when the two clubs go up against one another. The rivalry has been adamant every time they're on the ice, because Jesse is so easily rattled and Rafe is a walking epitome of a troll, finding new ways to get under his opponent's skin to shake them off their game, to fluster them to get them to mess up, to get inside their heads in a way that Rafe Cameron only knows how.

So, you figure that if your ex thinks you've moved on, maybe he'll get the hint to stop fucking bothering you.

"Rafe Cameron?" You repeat incredulously, almost inviting the confrontation. "You're here at the ass crack of dawn to ask if I'm fucking Rafe Cameron? Seriously?"

Jesse spats your name. "Is it true or not?"

You cross your arms, leaning on the door frame as if you have all the time in the world to drag out his obvious misery. "And if I am? What're you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna kill him," he seethes, smoke practically blowing from his ears. "Teach him not to touch what's mine."

Yet the tone hardly fazes you.

"I'm not yours anymore, remember? Haven't been for a month. That's thirty two days starting today, or is that too high of a number for you to count to?" You coo mockingly, brows pinched in faux concern as if you're trying to tell a baby why they can't play with the power outlet.

Jesse narrows his eyes, scoffing.

"God, you just can't keep your legs closed, can you?"

The words are ice on his tongue, and even more frozen in your veins. You stiffen impossibly still, trying to keep up your nonchalant facade but slowly slipping as it stings harsher than it should.

And, fuck, he can tell, because he knows how to make you hurt, how to get you spiraling into the deep end of your mind, how to manipulate a situation to make it seem like you're in the wrong all the time. Because he's such an angel, he's so sweet, he's so protective that no one would ever assume that he's the one causing all the issues in the relationship. He's all smiles and faux admiration in front of crowds, yet behind closed doors he's cruel, digging deep into the roots of your insecurities and using them to his advantage, to hold power over you.

"Didn't think Cameron would give you the time of day, of all people," Jesse continues harshly, twisting the knife. "That's low, even for him."

You’re seconds away from breaking.

"Do you need something?" You grit through your teeth, heart racing. "Or are you only here to be a prick?"

The knife twists further when he fucking grins, clearly satisfied that he got under your skin so much that he takes a step back. He admires you for a moment, relishing in your clenched jaw and heaving chest and amused that he finally got to give you a piece of the medicine he's been tasting for a month. It's as if he's accomplished what he came here to do: get inside your head, stay there, and gnaw away at your conscious.

Jesse stares at you for a beat too long, suppressing a shit-eating grin that he tries to make polite as if his whole mission wasn't to upset you.

"Just needed to know, honey. Good luck tonight."

And like that, he's gone, disappearing down the hallway and into the stairwell with such eased nonchalance as if he hasn't just ruined your entire day, thrown you off your mental headspace that you were curating for your important game tonight. You really try to shake it off, to go back to bed to get the rest you need and energize mentally and physically to be in tip-top shape, but the words ring like a gong in your mind.

Can't close your legs, didn't think Cameron would give you the time of day, that's low for him.

Can't close your legs, didn't think Cameron would give you the time of day, that's low even for him.

The words are still echoing through the confinements of your mind, and you're really trying to not let it affect your mood but it's proving astronomically difficult during warm ups, and to make matters that much worse, everyone that you don't want to see is here at the game, watching you miss shots and get all in your head.

Jesse grins in the stands, elbowing his degenerate of a best friend every time you miss a shot.

And Rafe is standing next to Sarah, frowning so deep you'd think the lines would permanently etch on his face.

You try not to glance at either of them, but it's proving difficult when you can feel their eyes, as well as the other hundred people here, boring into you, seeing through you skin and peering right into your soul. It's intrusive and it makes your heart race all the same as a panic attack would induce. The court lights are too bright and the other team is shouting too loud, and your frustration only sky rockets when you miss the tip off to start the game.

After you miss three open threes in a row, you stop shooting.

You solely focus on gathering assists, passing to your teammates who are having a good game, to merely be the vessel between them and the ball making it into the hoop. You manage to score a layup and one out of two free-throws, but it's astronomically lower than your usual point average. The team picks up after your losses, making up for your missed shots and occasional turnovers, and the game is closer than it should be.

It doesn't help that, by the second quarter, you are absolutely done with the girl defending you.

It's as if today is piss-you-off-day, because it seems everyone is out to get you, everyone can tell you're off your game and are laughing at your mere attempt to keep trying. The girl defending you is audaciously handsy, elbowing you out of the ref's sight and stepping on your feet and boxing you out so aggressively that you can't help but throw an elbow back at her. She smack talks in your ear, egging you on, further poking the bear and reaffirming all the things you tell yourself.

"You're overrated," she shit talks when you're bringing the ball up the court. "Your coach is fucking delusional to make you the poster player."

To which you responded: "Who the fuck are you?" And kept playing.

Can't close your legs, didn't think Cameron would give you the time of day, that's low even for him.

You miss another shot, Jesse's words ringing through your head.

Cursing under your breath, you crash the boards to fight for the rebound, watching as the ball bounces harshly off the rim. You feel the girl defending you right on your back, leaving an angry red scratch on your arm as an attempt to grab the basketball from you. Yet you persevere (for once this game), ripping it from her grasp and immediately passing it to a teammate on the three point line. Ten seconds are left on the clock, the game tied, and you hope the shot goes in so you can be up by halftime.

But your teammate misses, and you don't think as you fight tooth and nail to get it, leaping into the air and reaching high in hopes of alley-ooping it back into the net for a quick touch and go.

Three seconds left, and you're mid-air when your defender completely body checks you by the hip, sending your body aggressively jerking in a direction it shouldn't, and your body is twisted in a way that would make it impossible for you to land on your feet. You slam into the ground and you cry out. But it's not from the force of her hip check, or the fact that the air is knocked out of your lungs the second you meet the floor.

No, it's from the sickening crack that comes from your hand.

The buzzer goes off, signaling half-time, but you're curled up on the court floor, cradling your left hand as thousands of pins and needles pin-prick your nerves. A teammate puts a hand on your shoulder, yelling something to the coach who hurriedly runs over. People are talking about you, talking at you, trying to get you to respond.

"Fuck!" You curse under your breath, tears brimming your waterline at the intense pain. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—“

The athletic trainer is pulling you to a sitting position, eyeing the hand that you're cradling and, eventually, getting you to stand on your two feet. She's speaking to you, but frankly you don't hear her, heart beat thrumming loud in your ears and droning everything else out. Your head is underwater, your hand is exploding with a horrific sensation that it's all you can focus on, how your season is indefinitely over, how you still can't get Jesse's words out of your head.

People try and help you up, but you refuse, refuse the fucking stretcher that waits idly in the corner of the gymnasium for instances like this. With the last shroud of dignity you have left, you pick yourself up off the ground, searing red hot with frustration as people have the audacity to clap for you, and find your own footing.

You wish you hadn't, but before you leave the gym, your eyes glance up to the stands one more time, only to meet Jesse's gaze. He's surprised, that's for sure, but a smirk etches his lips with wide eyes, as if in disbelief that he threw you off your game that much, so much that you're done for the season. He's smug, that stupid fucking prick, crossing his arms as if he did something phenomenal, as if you'll come crawling back to him so he can take care of you again.

Fat fucking chance.

With a gentle hand on your back and shoulder, the athletic trainer steers you away from the locker room where all your teammates and coach are headed, but rather towards the training room where all the medical supplies are. She's still speaking to you, but you know what she's saying, you know she's trying to reassure you in medical terms that you couldn't care for. What's the point? Your season is over. Kiss the playoffs goodbye.

You get x-rays immediately, and it comes back with two clean breaks: both in your thumb leading down to your wrist. And it's one of those breaks that doesn't require surgery, just time and patience so the bones can mend on their own. Surgery would be excessive, the on-site doctor tells you, explaining the next steps with a custom-made splint and weeks of physical therapy.

You listen as best as you can, and you're thankful that everything is written down in a post-appointment sheet on all the steps you're supposed to take, because, frankly, you haven't really retained a word. All you can think about is Jesse's stupid fucking face, his words, his ability to crawl under your skin and hatch his verbal bullets there to infest.

Eventually, you're left alone in a makeshift splint, sitting on the padded table with your eyes glued to the wall in front of you.

You're so out of it that you don't register Sarah and Rafe coming in.

It's when she places a gentle hand on your shoulder that you snap out of the daze, blinking your disassociation away to meet her eyes that are furrowed with worry, glossed with a concern you probably don't deserve. Rafe's standing behind her, fingers twitching in your direction as if he wants to touch you, too, but refrains from doing so to not intrude any further.

Your relationship with Rafe is complicated. You're not his biggest fan, and nor are you his.

Sarah is your only common denominator, besides the fact that you're both driven athletes who take a lot of pride in your craft as well as two people who have a no-bullshit attitude when it comes to a lot of things in life. Yet despite how you two constantly bicker and act like you hate one another, you suppose he can highly sympathize with you in this moment knowing that your season is over. You assume that's why he's not poking any fun like he normally likes to do, simply staring at you with cautious blue eyes that are too audaciously pretty.

(Yes, pretty. You’d be stupid not to acknowledge it. Or daydream every now and then about being his. Bleh. You hate how you’ve thought about it before.)

"Are you alright?" Sarah asks worriedly, so sweet and concerned that you can't help but sag your shoulders. "What'd the doctor say?"

Rafe nudges her harshly. "Shut the fuck up, Sare," he hisses.

She slaps him back, turning to face him with, no doubt, a scowl on her face. "She's obviously upset, sue me if I want to know if she's okay."

"She's not," he retorts harshly, almost in a way only an athlete would understand. His eyes dart from his sister to you. "You're not. You've been off all night."

Sarah shoves her brother again, scoffing at the audacity. "What the fuck is wrong with you?! Why are you even in here?"

"What was happening out there?" Rafe asks you incredulously, completely ignoring his sister.

All you can do is stare at him for a moment, understanding that his abrasiveness is not him trying to make fun of you, but that this is his version of genuine concern. He knows it takes a lot to shake you off your game, he knows because he's the same way. It is very difficult to throw athletes such as yourselves in a slump, only having off-games once in a blue moon when something in your personal life gets in the way of your mentality for the sport.

Peering down at the cast on your hand, you let the harsh stinging of the pain be a reminder of the words that have been plaguing you all night. You want to scream and curse Jesse's bloodline, blame all the mistakes you made tonight on him. But frankly, you're the only one to blame because you let him get under your skin, you let him get a reaction out of you, you let him in to infest your mind.

You settle on something safe. "Didn't sleep well."

That's actually partially true, since he woke you up so early this morning and his lingering words didn't let you fall back asleep.

But Rafe (and Sarah) aren't buying that. Not in the slightest.

"Bullshit," he says immediately. "Your best game was after Kie's twenty first when you got two hours of sleep maximum." Then, softer than you've ever heard him before, he asks, "What happened?"

Your heart lurches at his tone, and part of you wants to go on defense and build walls, to berate him on why he cares and gives a shit about you all of a sudden. He's never been the type to coddle you, much less anyone, so the notion that he's lowering his voice, gentle in his tone, treating you with a rare softness only rings alarm bells in your head.

It feels disingenuine, it must be, because why flip the script? Jesse used to do that all the time: be sweet and act like he cares when he wants answers from you, only to flip the light switch when he got what he wanted from you. You can't trust it, you can't trust him, because it's only going to blow up in your face. Being sweet and truthful and vulnerable has only led to your downfall, only led for people to use your insecurities against you when you're at your worst.

"It was Nords, wasn't it?"

Your head snaps up when Rafe says Jesse's last name, the two of them only calling the other by the name on the back of their jerseys.

Of course, your immediate reaction gives the truth away in an instant, and you see Rafe's jaw clench so impossibly tight that you think it's going to snap. Sarah frowns between the two of you, darting her gaze from her brother and then back to you at the sudden revelation of the real reason why you were off all night, your mistakes leading up to a careless injury that might have you never playing the same again. All because of him: not only your ex boyfriend, but the guy that Rafe already hates.

"What?" She breathlessly asks quickly. "He's bothering you still?"

Rafe's voice is ice. "Still? This has been happening?"

You groan and roll your eyes so hard you're sure they can see the whites of them. They're both so goddamned protective for their own good, and while it's normally a great trait to have in a best friend (and her brother?) it's paying detrimental to you right now. The last thing you want to do is talk about your ex, the guy who's currently making your life so fucking miserable that it's bleeding onto the court, bleeding onto your everyday routine so much that it's altering your agenda, especially with the guy who has hated said-ex for as long as you can remember.

Knowing they're not going to let you leave here without an answer, you wave the white flag. "He showed up at my apartment this morning saying shit."

"What did he say?" Rafe asks immediately.

All you do is huff.

Rafe says your name in warning.

Sarah squeezes your shoulder gently in support, almost in solidarity, as she nods quietly to almost urge you to continue despite her brother's straightforwardness. It's a wordless promise that it's okay, you can tell him, you can tell her, they're here for you despite how aggressive they might come off.

You sigh, peering up at Rafe cautiously. "He thought we were sleeping together. He was pissed. That’s all.”

His brows pinch as Sarah snorts in disbelief.

"Why would he care if you were? You’re broken up?” She speaks aloud, pondering the obvious question that you still don't have the answer to.

You study Rafe’s expression — stone cold with a sliver of something foreign behind his eyes — before flicking your gaze back down to your bandaged hand, almost embarrassed that they’re seeing you so flustered by a guy like Jesse. You simply shrug, wanting that to be the end of the conversation because you truthfully don't know why your ex is doing the things he has been doing. It could be for pride. To guilt you. To have an upper hand. Genuinely, you have no idea.

But — of course — Rafe isn’t the one to let something like this slide, especially now that he’s involved.

“What exactly did he say?” He asks low and calculated, as if an ugly storm is brewing in his chest.

Can't close your legs, didn't think Cameron would give you the time of day, that's low even for him.

You almost laugh. Yeeeeeeah, there's no way you're actually telling Rafe that, because if he knew — if he really knew — Jesse wouldn't make it to tomorrow, and you know that for a fact.

So, instead, you shrug again, batting your eyelashes through an excuse. "Only that he thought we were together, asked how I could move on so quick, just that. It startled me, threw me off my game. That's it."

Rafe stares at you for a long moment, eyes narrowed as they search your face for any indications that you may be lying. And you almost cower, almost, yet hold his gaze as willfully as you can while your hand screams in pain, mind clouds with insecurity. But you hold your ground, because the last thing you are ever going to do on this earth is stand down to Rafe Cameron.

However, your breath hitches without meaning to, unaware that you were holding it in until you couldn't anymore.

Something flickers in his expression like he's had an epiphany, eyes widening in the slightest. He might as well scream eureka with a light bulb flashing over his head, might as well point in your face and scream aha! at the gesture. Blue eyes bore into yours, bright and knowing and accusatory that it makes your heart flip uncomfortably, stomach churning at the notion that he's caught you.

But before he can say anything, before he can call you out, Sarah's (who is unknowing to the entire wordless encounter that just went down) phone shrills, snapping you out of your staring contest with her brother as you blink, gaze darting to her.

She curses, fishing for her phone in her purse and grimacing when she looks at the caller ID. "Fuck, it's John B."

"Answer it," Rafe responds immediately, eyes not leaving you. "Go grab her stuff from the locker room and we'll bring her home."

Your eyes widen at his request, and you almost scream no, no, no! at his demand. Because if she goes right now, that leaves you alone with him, and you can only guess what the isolation is going to bring. More pain? More misery? More humiliation? Because you wouldn't put it past Rafe to ask hard hitting questions that you know will give him the truth, whether you choose to answer him or not.

Yet Sarah pays it no mind, nodding as if it's the best idea in the world.

Her bright expression lands on you, placing a gentle hand on your forearm. "I'll get your bag, okay? Be back in a second."

Your heart sinks as words escape you, a plea rising and dying in your throat as you watch your best friend leave the clinic with her phone pressed to her ear, talking frantically into the microphone before disappearing altogether. You hear her voice linger for a little longer, then completely shut out when she's confirmed gone.

Sighing, you know you don't even have to look at him to know he's staring at you.

You can already tell in your peripheral, and when you do find the gall to lull your head to the side to get this interaction over with, your assumptions are correct when you notice his stone-cold expression piercing through your soul, anticipating the truth now that you've lied to him not once, but twice. He doesn't even have to say anything, you can simply tell by the look on his face that it's something deeper than what you revealed.

A flicker of panic rises in your chest and you squirm under his stare.

"Okay," you start without even realizing, scrambling. "In my defense, it's not even your problem, and frankly none of your business. I'm dealing with it."

"It's my problem now," he responds coolly. "I'm not asking again. Tell me."

You blink stupidly at his demand, still attempting to save your dignity. "I already did."

Rafe darts his gaze between your eyes, prolonging the moment longer than it needs to be just to get you fidgeting uncomfortably under his stare.

"You have a tell, you know."

That confuses you, pulling you from the tension filled moment.

"Huh?"

"You hold your breath when you lie," he murmurs, impatient. "You don't even know you do it."

All you do is ogle at him. How would he know that? And — more importantly — why is he paying enough attention to you to know that?

You swallow thickly, stuck between a rock and a hard place as he essentially blocks your only exit, and you know that he's not going to let you out of here unless you tell him the truth especially since he knows for a fact that you're hiding something from him. There's nothing that gets past him, and you curse his ability to know how to real people so well, know how to get gritty and know how to persuade people to give him all the information.

Sucking in another harsh breath, you wince. "It wasn't good."

"I figured," Rafe says immediately, tone softer than before now that you're starting to peel layers away. "Knew it must've been rough to rattle you that much."

You grimace again. "That bad, huh?"

He says your name in warning, a signal to stop stalling.

Putting a hand up in surrender, you secede. "Alright, okay, fine. He... Uh, well it was, like, six in the morning—"

"Get to it."

"Okay! He, well, alright." You're a babbling mess, and his patience is wearing thin. "He asked me if I was sleeping with you, and obviously I wanted him to suffer a bit so I didn't outright say no—"

Rafe's lips twitch.

You ignore the implication. "And he, uh, said I couldn't keep my legs closed." You figure get it all out now, especially when his posture stiffens. "That he didn't think you would ever give me the time of day."

A beat. "He said that?"

You nod gently. "And that it's a new low. Even for you."

Everything is too much: his stare, his soft tone that's borderline wavering, the humiliation pooling in your chest. The silence is too loud in the room, hearing the thrumming of your heartbeat and, practically, his too as his eyes darken, borderline in offense at your ex's words. His fingers twitch in your direction, as if itching to touch you, comfort you in a way he doesn't really know how.

You watch his jaw clench impossibly tight as his chest heaves out and in with the ferocity of such a deep breath. The gears are turning in his head, you can already tell from his angered expression, and the last thing you want is another masculine-induced conversation today, too tired and in too much pain to endure it again.

"It just caught me off guard," you say quietly, voice wavering as you try and de-escalate his brewing emotions. "That's all. It's fine."

His brows twitch to a furrow, offended.

"It's fine?" His tone is tight, almost scolding you. "He said that horrible shit to you, ruined your season, and all you have to say is it's fine?"

You fold under his gaze, frustrated by his anger as if he has any right. But frankly, you have no fight left in you today. Your hand is in indescribable pain and your heart hurts from how much you've been trying to protect it. It all hurts, every part of you physically and mentally. You're exhausted. Exhausted from the pain, from dealing with your ex constantly, from the humiliation you're enduring in this training room right now.

When tears brim your waterline, he falters, something flashing over his features to what looks like concern as you look away, sucking in a deep breath in an attempt to compose yourself in front of him.

Although, it proves difficult when you feel his hand curl gently around your shoulder. Yet you can't look at him. You can't, and instead focus your gaze on the wall in front of you while you feel the warmth of his palm press against your skin, feeling his thumb soothingly skim your bicep in a feeble attempt to comfort you.

"Sorry," he says eventually, softer then you've ever heard him. "That wasn't what you needed to hear."

You frown at his compassion, unaware that Rafe Cameron was capable of showing such emotion.

"We're playing his team tomorrow night," he adds when you're silent, still racking your brain on his hand comforting you. "I'll...play along. Get under his skin. Make him pay for what he did to you."

If you didn't have butterflies before, now you have a whole damn stampede as you peer up at him, teetering between shock and confusion at his determined gaze. You realize this is the closest you've ever been to him, the longest you've ever been touching, the softest yet most serious you've ever seen him. It throws you for a loop, and you blink stupidly for a few moments before really registering his words.

You hold up your bandaged hand. "He didn't do this. I did this. I let him get on my nerves."

"No," Rafe says immediately, so firmly, that you'd think it was law. "He doesn't get to say that shit to you and get away with it."

You furrow your brows slightly, and the notion of this is the longest you've gone without bickering with him comes to mind, yet you push it deep, deep, deep down and lock it in a chest somewhere in your mind.

"What do you mean play along?" You question curiously. You hate how you have the urge to grab his hand, unsure of where this sudden need for his affection is coming from.

He shrugs. "He thinks we're fucking, right?"

You nod slowly.

So he mimics your nod nonchalantly. "Cool."

The sudden ease in his tone throws you off, knowing that particular gleam in his eye means that he's up to nothing good. It's the look you see when he's about to toy with someone's psychological make-up, about to say the most brutal shit to throw someone off their game, to roast generations if it meant getting under someone's skin.

It makes you panic. Only slightly. The other half of you is intrigued, almost excited to see what he's thinking about doing.

"What?" You ask gently, an uncharacteristic sweetness to your tone that has his lips tugging into a lazy grin that makes your heart do a weird flip. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Rafe looks so pretty like this right now, unguarded and relaxed and sure of his next move. You're playing checkers. He's playing chess.

"Apparently, you're mine now. We'll make sure he knows."

The possessiveness makes you stupid, blinking up at him with a stammering heart and slightly widened eyes at his brazenness, especially when his tone is firm and cool and so fucking sure of himself that it makes you wonder what it's like to actually be his, to curl under his arm like you're actually meant to be there and tangle in his sheets as if it's your purpose.

You sound ridiculous, you know. (But you can't deny that you've thought about it at least once or twice. You'd be stupid not to.)

"Rafe," you drawl out, half in warning and half curious. "What are you going to do?"

He doesn't answer right away, taking a few moments to shamefully stare at you, stare at his hand on your shoulder that you haven't shoved off yet, staring at how you're subconsciously leaning slightly — only slightly — closer to him when you realize just how nice it is to be touched by him, to be under his compassion and care even if it is out of pity.

In that moment, Sarah decides to barge back in, hauling your bag over her shoulder and still talking animatedly on the phone with John B as she props the door open, beckoning you both to exit so you can finally go home.

Rafe helps you down from the high table, making sure not to brush your injured hand as his come to splay on your hips, damn near picking you up off the table and settling you onto the ground. You nearly stumble when trying to find your footing, not from the pain or the drowsiness from the drugs you got earlier, but from the feeling of his hands on your hips, digging into your flesh just for that split moment but long enough to crave more.

And then, he audaciously throws a lanky arm around your shoulder, guiding you towards the exit and tucking you into his side (like you've imagined once or twice or try a thousand times). Sarah doesn't bat an eye, especially when you feel his lips press on your hairline with such a feather-light touch that you almost miss it.

"Don't worry, baby," Rafe muses low over the sound of his sister's chattering as he escorts you down the long hallway. His voice ghosts the shell of your ear, goosebumps crawling up your arms at the close proximity and at the fact that you're not pulling away as usual. "I'll handle him."

You didn’t think Rafe was actually serious.

But now as you sit shoulder to shoulder with Sarah, chilly from the ice rink atmosphere and wearing his home jersey with ‘CAMERON’ plastered on the back, you begin to rethink your choices. Especially when you turn more heads than the population of a small country.

Girls whisper behind your back, nudging each other to nod in your direction, ducking their heads close to no doubt curse your bloodline and express their jealousy in the same breath. You even hear a gasp at one point, and roll your eyes at the dramatics of it all, at the drama that comes with a guy like him, who’s all smirks and sweet one liners that make knees weak. You didn’t think it would be that deep, not when he handed you his jersey before he took to the ice as if it was second nature.

Though when he did so, his eyes were brighter than usual, smirk a little deeper, step more peppier. And he didn’t leave until you put it on, watching the way it fell down your hips and displayed his team name, his name, bright and loud across the fabric. Rafe stared at you for too long, almost studying the way the jersey looked on you as if he could get used to the sight, and it wasn’t until a teammate of his had to physically grip his shoulder to drag him onto the ice where his eyes eventually left your body.

You’ve been shuddering at the image ever since.

For a little while, you forgot the reason you are wearing it in the first place, and are shockingly reminded when Jesse’s team takes the ice for warmups.

You see him clear as day, scanning for you in a way that he probably thinks is subtle, but is blatantly obvious and pathetic, probably to get a glimpse at your makeshift cast and his team jersey that you always wore to his games. But when his eyes do find you, the jersey you’re wearing — more importantly the name stitched boldly across your back — his skates come to a screeching halt.

Sarah nudges you eagerly. “It’s working.”

Your eyes aren’t on Jesse, though.

They’re on Rafe, who’s grinning at you from across the rink.

“Good,” is all you hum to her, eyes not leaving her brother.

The game starts, and Jesse’s already off his mojo from the tip off.

And Rafe is capitalizing on his mistakes, sliding in to steal the puck, digging his shoulder down and checking Jesse into the glass without flinching, braking intentionally abrupt to spray ice to make your ex wobble on his skates, blocking his slapshot so he can't score. The entire time Rafe makes his life miserable, you can see his mouth moving whenever they’re skating shoulder to shoulder or fighting for the puck, chewing on his mouthguard so godforsaken arrogant that you can tell he’s enjoying it.

The. Whole. Time.

It isn’t until the first period is nearly over when Rafe and your ex are in a tip off on the defensive side, to where he ducks his head nice and low and says something. From your vantage point, all you can see is Jesse’s jaw suddenly slacken, fuming in a way you’ve never seen from him before, and you can only imagine what Rafe is saying to him right now.

Next thing you know, Jesse is chucking his stick and dropping his gloves, lunging at Rafe mid-play regardless of the consequences for fighting.

And Rafe?

Sure, his gloves and stick are carelessly thrown, too, inviting the confrontation and itching for a reason to finally, finally, get his hands on your ex. But it’s the giant fucking grin on his face that gets you, showing off his pearly whites and taking the utmost pleasure in riling your ex up in a way Rafe Cameron knows how.

Jesse shoves Rafe, the gasps in the crowd mixing with the repeated whistles from the refs as they try (and fail) to separate the two, to stop the fight, to end the humiliation on your ex’s end.

Because — like in the game — Rafe is clearly winning.

The one thing about Rafe is that if he’s gonna get in a fight, he’s going to end one. Regardless if he starts it or not. The amount of concussions he’s given out is too high to count, along with the amount of minutes he’s accrued in the penalty box for roughing a bit too much. Although in all the times you’ve seen him fight, you’ve never seen him look this delighted to be involved.

Helmets are off, and Jesse manages to land a punch to Rafe’s jaw.

Sarah gasps next to you, almost clutching your broken hand out of sheer habit that makes you wince. It’s getting ugly, both guys bleeding (your ex more than your supposed-boyfriend), yet it isn’t until you see Rafe’s lips move, saying something low to your ex with a gaze so dark you swear it’s a different person, almost a possessed version of your best friend’s brother that you’ve never encountered.

Jesse falters at whatever was said, hesitating as if caught off guard.

And when he attempts to lunge again, Rafe’s fist is coming down hard and fast against your ex’s cheekbone.

Gasps echo around you when Jesse hits the ice, moving but barely, clearly tapped out of the fight he started as he spits out blood. The crimson bleeds onto the sheer white ice, staining it with the reminder that he lost, he humiliated himself, he’s not yours, not anymore.

Your ex seems to recognize this, ducking his head low and shameful when he skates off the ice and into the locker room where he’ll — no doubt — get concussion tested and sit out the rest of the game. He doesn’t look up to try and find your knowing gaze, because he already knows what expression you have on your face.

Pure fucking pride and joy.

Rafe, obviously, gets minutes in a penalty box, which is conveniently right next to where you and Sarah are sitting.

You watch him as he sits down, getting a mere clean up after brushing off the medical aide with a nonchalant shake of his head, using a rag given to him to wipe off the blood from the fight, but the splits and cuts on his knuckles are the reminder that he won, he won you. And that prick lost.

The game resumes without each team’s star players, carrying on as if nothing happened.

And Rafe could care less about the game, instead turning his body completely away from the ice to face you.

You wince at the state of his face: a bloodied cut on his lip that puffs out and swells, a bruise already forming on his cheekbone, and his nose just slightly more crooked than before. He looks fucking rough, and you can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt aching in your chest that he’s in pain because of you, he fought and bled for you, he got hurt because of you.

But Rafe hardly looks fazed, sending you a crooked smile and such an eased look that it makes your head spin.

“You know,” he says loudly to you through the glass, “you look pretty hot wearing my name.”

Before you can answer, Sarah groans next to you.

“Can you not do that while I’m right here?” She says, disgusted and barely concerned for her bleeding brother. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

Rafe completely ignores her, eyes not leaving you. “‘M serious. I could get used to it.”

Your lips twitch. “You could get used to fighting off guys for me?”

“Baby, I’ll fight off the whole damn cavalry if I get to call you mine.”

The words are saccharine, said with such ease laced with honey and a nonchalance drawl that it makes your heart lurch to your throat, especially when his pretty blue eyes hold yours as if you’re his lifeline, a small so amused yet genuine that it almost angers you. How could he have such a pretty smile on the back burner?

Although it’s Sarah who has the last word.

“Agh!” She gags animatedly, pounding on the glass as her feeble attempt to hit her brother. “You’re so gross, Rafe. Pay attention to the game.”

He ignores her. Again. Eyes solely on you.

“Find me after,” is all he says, before the ref is beckoning him back onto the ice, his penalty time finally being over.

You’ve never been more antsy in your life.

You attempt to pay attention to the game, to how Rafe’s team absolutely dominates without even trying. He scores twice, looking for you after each one and sending you the most audacious wink he could muster to fluster you even further. Your heart races each time his blue eyes find yours, and you cannot help but indulge your delusions and pretend like you’re his for the night, cheering extra loud for him and tugging on your — his — jersey whenever he takes the advantage. It’s exhilarating, knowing that your time as his is limited yet you can do as you please with everyone around you already assuming you’re with him.

You might as well act the part, that’s all.

And when you do find him after, you’ve never been more on edge.

But it’s exciting. Terrifying. Awesome. Because now you’ve (sorta?) charted into unknown territory with him. Is he simply flirting? Having some fun? There’s no way he’s actually serious about wanting you, right? You wouldn’t mind a bit of fun, anyway, something simple with no strings attached to get your mind off a plethora of things plaguing your day to day life.

You’re leaning casually on the wall outside the locker room, Sarah pacing a few feet away grumbling to John B over the phone about how her brother is an idiot, to check their apartment to see if they have ice packs and bandages and the minuscule medical supplies that could be needed to tend to her brother’s injuries. Though you’re composed, delicately smoothing over the fabric of your wrist splint as a reminder of why the night took its course in the way it did.

There’s a small swell of pride in your chest. He did it for you. Got hurt for you. Put your ex in his deserved place for you. You’ve never had anyone do anything like this for you before. Of course, you don’t want anyone in pain because of you, but the fact that he did it on his own, without your prompting, makes it seem like he knows how to read your mind.

“Hey, pretty.”

You look up, and he’s way closer than you anticipated. So close that you can see the details of his blue eyes, leaning casually on the wall next to you and peering at you as if he has all the time in the world to do so.

Though his face has seen better days. “You look like shit.”

He doesn’t tease or get offended. Just grins lazily. Proudly. As if he’s wearing his wounds like armor.

“That’s hardly a nice way to talk to your boyfriend,” Rafe muses casually, low and baritone that it reverberates through your skin.

Your heart skips. “Temporary boyfriend,” you correct firmly.

Rafe hums, unconvinced. “Doesn’t need to be.”

Your facade cracks slightly — only slightly — but he’s quick to tell, his grin deepening at your flicker of surprise.

But you brush it off, and instead quirk a brow.

“I’ll have you know that—“

“Cameron!”

The shrill of Jesse’s voice stings through the hallway, abruptly interrupting whatever bullshit you were about to muster up. Although you don’t turn to find your ex, don’t leave his gaze to look at something worse, instead keeping your eyes on Rafe, who hasn’t stopped staring at you since the moment he came out of the locker room and saw you waiting idly, perfectly composed and obedient clad in his jersey.

Now, with the little act continuing, you nearly roll your eyes when one of Rafe’s hands, calloused and bruised with split knuckles, slithers under your (his) shirt to rest audaciously on your hip, your bare hip, the skin to skin contact making you stiffen slightly as he only pulls you tighter, almost sensing your need to be at his side.

"Sorry, baby." Rafe says low to you, completely disregarding your ex stomping over. "You were saying?"

Seeing Jesse get closer in your peripheral only makes you eat your words, knowing you won't get far in speech without getting interrupted again (and also considering the fact you're temporarily breathless from how close you are to him, so attempting to speak would probably only humiliate you).

You barely get to open your mouth, barely have the ability to say a word or much less utter a noise before you can sense your ex before you fully see him. Especially since Rafe's smirk only deepens the closer your ex - and the confrontation - approaches, so you know that it's coming, there are no refs to separate them now.

Jesse's suddenly a foot away when he says your name, almost scolding you for your precarious predicament.

Yet you don't cower like you used to when he'd use that tone. You don't feel your bones seize up in terror, in fear of doing something wrong. You don't let your heart drop to your feet with anticipation of a long night of fighting ahead. You don't give in to whatever pity he's going to throw at you this time. You just...don't.

Instead, you simply spare him a glance, unimpressed.

"How's your head, slick?" Rafe instigates cockily, going that much further by letting his hands wander on your hips, under the jersey, in a way that definitely gets your ex to notice.

Not that you really mind, anyway.

Jesse looks worse than Rafe, with tenfold bruises and painful looking blotches coating his cheekbones that swells so much that it's uncomfortable to look at. His right eye is puffy and bloodshot as his bruised fist clenches and unclenches by his sight at the sight of you: the girl he lost indefinitely, cozied up under the arm of the guy he absolutely despises.

He can barely even look at Rafe, and whenever he does he gets visibly angrier. It's obvious, because you can definitely tell, which means that Rafe can tell as well. To be that much more of a prick, you hum when you feel Rafe's lips press against your hairline, another act of defiance that only shoves the fact that your ex lost right in his face. Well deserved, might you add, even though a bit redundant, but you're not necessarily complaining at the feeling of your supposed-boyfriend's lips and his hands wandering regions unknown on your body.

Jesse stares at you, ignoring your other half. "Can we talk?"

Your answer is immediate. "No."

"Please?"

You open your mouth to retort and viscerally berate him into next week, but the calloused fingers on your hips turn to iron grip.

"She said no," Rafe says simply, almost in warning that if your ex even tries it again, he'll only make the pre-existing bruises worse.

Jesse narrows his eyes and scoffs meanly, a sound you've been so used to hearing. "Wasn't talking to you, Cameron-"

You almost laugh. Almost. Especially when Rafe hums as if he's never heard anything more offensive in his life. His lips twitch with a smile, but it's not one of happiness or joy, it's mean and cold as can be, as if he's putting on a polite facade to mask what he really wants to do, and you figure that's making his injuries tenfold.

"You are now," he interrupts low, yet the lack of volume doesn't beat the sharpness of his tone, as if the matter is over. "You're done talking to her."

"But she—"

"No," Rafe warns, almost in finality. "You're done."

Jesse seizes up, because the tone is nothing nice and way out of your ex's pay grade. It's not worth instigating, especially when both guys know what will happen if Jesse chooses to escalate further and keeps trying to talk to you, to plead with you, to practically sweet talk his way back into your life for the upteenth time.

And Rafe? You'd almost say he's enjoying this. Enjoying holding onto you, staking a claim in you solely from the way he's gripping onto your hips as if he has every right to do so, shamelessly letting his hands touch you in places you'd never let someone who you're casual with. You can't say that you're not enjoying this either, completely enamored by his scent, words, touch.

Plus, it's kinda nice to have this make-shift guard dog, to get your ex to back off without you having to lift another finger.

"You don't talk to her," Rafe adds at your ex's stunned silence. "You don't message her. You won't even fucking think about her." His words are ice, and so are his steel blue eyes as they stare at the horrific swelling of Jesse's cheek. "Go ahead and try me."

Clearly, your ex is not trying to fuck around and find out, especially when he's been at the receiving end of Rafe's fist multiple times with the outcome always being the same: bruised and bloodied and so unwell that it hurts to even think about it.

You let out a breath when Jesse finally walks away.

Yet Rafe doesn't pull back or take his hands from your body, instead keeping them there as if to soak in the moment for a little while longer.

"Of course he tucks tail when you say something," you mutter under your breath, too scared to face him right now so you settle on your ex's figure gradually getting further away. "I threatened him once with a knife and he still didn't back down."

You hear Rafe snort.

"A knife?"

"A butter knife. But. Semantics."

It isn't until one of his hands is leaving your hip, and you barely register it until calloused fingers are gently gripping your chin and forcing you to face him, and the first thing you see are his piercing blue eyes boring into yours. They glint with amusement, and it’s no secret that he’s thoroughly enjoying this (the uptick on his lips and his hands still audaciously on you can attest to that) but he’s gazing at you with something other than amusement as well, and you can’t pinpoint the emotion. Endearment? Admiration?

Something synonymous to that, because this is the softest he’s ever looked (as soft as one can look with a busted face).

A look reserved just for you.

“It’s even worse up close,” you manage to jab, but it comes out disgustingly gentle.

What’s even worse is that your non injured hand comes to cradle his jaw, something you didn’t realize you were doing until your fingers skim the bruise on his cheekbone. You don’t notice until Rafe is literally beaming with delight because you’re here, you’re touching him in a way he never thought possible, you’re making his heart pound without even knowing it.

“Maybe,” he says coolly, “but I think you like it.”

You suck in a breath. “That’s a crazy accusation.”

Your facade is falling. You know it. He knows it. It only makes him lean into your touch, wincing just a fraction when your palm gently presses on his jaw. But he doesn’t care, especially when you can practically smell the shampoo he used in the locker room showers because this proximity is (somehow?) getting closer and closer.

Rafe takes the opportunity and runs with it. “Not an accusation. A fact,” he corrects as if it’s law.

Your faces are inches apart. “With what proof?”

His grin is wide, lazy, and irrevocably puffing with pride.

“You’re holding your breath.”

Fuck. You are.

You exhale deeply, and it momentarily makes you lightheaded just how long you were holding it, lying through your teeth in a way you thought was subtle. But no, Rafe’s too cocky for his own good, too observant of people in a way that scares you, because it means he’s paying more attention than you thought.

How does he even know your tells? Why is he able to read you so well? How long has he been paying attention — in all this time that you’ve known him as solely your best friend’s brother — to you?

Your ice cold palm melts under his warm cheek. His calloused fingers splay against your waist as if they’re meant to stay there. The grip on your chin doesn’t loosen so you can’t dart your gaze away or shyly turn your head.

You can only look at him.

“Breathe,” he muses low, tone teetering between mocking and genuine concern.

“I am,” you defend weakly, only coming out as a mere whisper. “Your cologne is suffocating.”

His lips twitch when he says your name. “Why keep pretending?”

If your heart wasn’t racing before, it’s now on a rocket flying into uncharted regions in space. You’re only now hyper aware of his thumb rubbing circles on your waist, and how his other hand has come to rest in the crook of your neck, thumb barely brushing over your bottom lip. Your name on his tongue shamefully sends a shiver down your spine, and you hate how you’re immediately folding to his saccharine tone.

“Pretending?”

Rafe hums low in affirmation. “Pretending you don’t want this. Don’t want me.”

Your mind is mush. “That’s presumptuous.”

You really shouldn’t keep pushing and keep prolonging the truth, because you know how this is going to end up. You know you're eventually going to secede and humiliatingly confess something you're not ready to admit (not outright, anyway). Especially when his head dips down before you can even blink, burying his face in the crook of your neck and inhaling your scent as if it's his favorite candle.

“Presumptuous?” He murmurs against your skin, his tone almost in disbelief that you were able to say such a word given your flustered state.

You’re a bit surprised as well, yet you’re unable to find words as you subconsciously grip onto his shirt almost as a way to ground yourself. But the gesture genuinely proves fruitless as you're still flipping channels in your head as to the overwhelming sensation of Rafe, Rafe, Rafe, stiffening in his embrace yet also leaning into him before your mind can tell your body no.

When he starts pressing deep, chaste kisses on you, your breath catches. “Bold.”

“Mhm.” The hum vibrates against your skin. “Still a fact.”

You say it before you can take it back. “Maybe.”

Rafe pulls back instantly to study your expression. His brows are slightly raised in surprise, maybe not expecting you to give in so quickly, bottom lip a little more swollen from before not only from his cut but from kissing and sucking your skin as if it was his only lifeline left on earth.

“Yeah?” He clarifies breathlessly.

Embarrassingly, you nod. “Potentially.”

His lips twitch in amusement, clearly over the moon that your dignity is dissipating away like dust, that you’ve inadvertently admitted your feelings from him and reciprocated his (feelings you didn’t know he even had).

Cocking his head to the side, he studies you for a moment almost in admiration, as if he could get used to looking at you this shamelessly. Touching you this brazenly. Being yours so achingly boldly. It’s terrifying. Exhilarating. Intoxicating.

Then, he surprises you. “Hungry?”

You frown in a moment of confusion, then shrug when you actually think about it. “Starving.”

His eyes daringly stare at your lips for one, two beats before flicking back to your eyes, grinning with such eased nonchalance as if he didn’t just flip your world upside down with his bold gesture. The hand that’s been pressed to the bare skin of your waist leaves its place, instead slinging over your shoulders to pull you taut to his side (careful of your wrist) and steering you in the direction of the exit.

With the sight of you under his wing, Sarah — who’s been on the phone unknowing of this entire debacle — raises her brows and slowly lowers the phone from her ear to solely focus on you and her brother who are certainly more cozy than normal.

“Finally.” She deadpans to her brother, completely ignoring the person (probably John B) on the other line. “Apparently getting beat up makes you smarter.”

Rafe ignores the jab. “We’re leaving. You comin’ with?”

She makes a sour face as she darts her gaze between you and him. “And third wheel while you fondle her the whole time? Pass.”

You open your mouth to protest (and defend whatever is left of your dignity because it is absolutely dwindling by the very second) but he beats you too it, apparently used to the quick quips that the siblings often have for each other.

"Hoped you'd say that," he responds simply.

He sounds almost relieved that he has you all to himself without his sister to act as the buffer between you. Yet before you can investigate the inner workings of his demeanor, Rafe gently pats your arm once, twice, as if to beckon your attention to him, solely him. You peer at him, blinking stupidly at the entire sibling-exchange so you know you're definitely wearing the same dumbfounded expression, mind still reeling from the fact that you basically just confessed your feelings for him.

But Rafe doesn't jab. Or tease. Or even throw you a signature smirk.

Instead, he leans forward and fucking kisses your hairline.

He pulls back before you can even register the gesture, blue eyes swimming with a softness that makes your knees weak and thumb rubbing absentminded circles on your arm, the arm that's adorned in his jersey, his number, his name. The thought of being completely encapsulated by him regretfully makes your mind mush, and all you can think about is him, him, him. His touch. His eyes. His voice that is so honey that it makes your stomach grumble.

"Ready?" Rafe's tone is saccharine. "I'm drivin'."

The words are spoken as if laced with honey, but you blink once, twice at him before registering what he actually said. You're suddenly jolted out of your little daydream, scoffing in his beautiful face at the offer.

"Absolutely not." You pride yourself on finding your own footing again (barely). "You're the walking definition of CTE, you are not getting behind the wheel anytime soon."

His grin is lazy and lopsided due to his split lip, but it doesn't seem to slow him down in the slightest. "Whatever you say, baby."

Sarah gags.

"Blah!" She throws her hands up in surrender, squeezing her eyes shut. "Ew, ew, ew. I'm leaving. Goodbye."

You watch as she practically spins on her heel, dramatically striding towards the exit and putting the phone back up to her ear. She talks animatedly with the person on the other line, most likely her boyfriend, probably complaining that her brother stole her best friend right in front of her eyes.

Once she's out of sight, Rafe's wasting no time moving his arm that's around your shoulders to, once again, seek refuge on your waist (under his jersey, might you add).

Yet as nice as the feeling is, it makes you frown because you want to feel him, too.

So instead, you paw at his arm with your good hand, ignoring his look of surprise when you trace your hand down the smooth skin of his arm, to the inside of his wrist, and into his palm to gingerly intertwine your fingers, careful to not hurt his already split knuckles as you gently coax him forward to walk with you, hand in hand and side by side.

You can tell in your peripheral that he's fucking beaming.

"So," you quip, ignoring his glee expression. "How about Thai?"

"Anything you want, baby." His tone gives it away that he's grinning as much as his injuries will allow him to. "As long as I'm paying."

You're trying really hard not to overanalyze the fact that you're about to go on a date. With Rafe Cameron. The Prince of all Pricks. Not to mention you're holding hands like middle schoolers, enduring whispers and looks from the people around you.

Although you can't find it in yourself to care. Not when he's this warm. Not when his voice is alluring as a siren. Not when your stomach is pooling with pride that he chose you. He wants you. He needs you.

"Figured you wouldn't let me," you muse. "Besides, I don't even have my wallet. Sarah does."

Despite his bruised knuckles, he manages to give your hand one, two, three gentle squeezes, a wordless promise that he's yours, whether you like it or not. Not that you necessarily mind, because (not that you'll ever admit it to him) but it's really nice to be held by him, even though this is where your dignity dies.

"Good," he says simply. "Pretty girls don't pay."

You figure that's going to be his excuse from now on. (Not that you're complaining.)

notes hope you guys enjoyed! lowkey debating on a part 2 for them....anyway

#rafe cameron #salem-s works #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #rafe x y/n #rafe x you #reader insert #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe x female reader #outer banks #outerbanks #rafe cameron outer banks #obx rafe cameron #rafe cameron fanfiction #female reader

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isuckatwritingsobenice · 1 year ago

Text

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞.

Synopsis: What I think Alastors wife would be like, if he had one of course.

Warnings: mentions of blood, pinning, harassment?, Alastor being himself, not in a specific time period but at some point shifts to hell? Let me know if anyone is interested in a part two!!

Navigation!! // Masterlist!! // Serendipity Writes (event)

Alastors wife probably didnt like him at first, and that’s a guarantee. He likes a challenge, but Alastor also likes being liked by people. It fills his ego, makes him feel good about himself. He likes to watch people stumble and fall but quite literally cracks under the pressure of doing just that when it comes to winning you over. Chances were he was constantly trying to figure you out, for two reasons. One, being that he didn’t understand how you couldn’t like him. I mean come on, look at him! He’s got the charm, the manners, the style and the class, the status. What more could you want? The second reason being, the more you denied him, the more he took it as a challenge, the more he wanted you.

Well, surprise surprise, you dont like people with an image to keep up; and to his dismay, that’s exactly what he does. He projects an image. One he refuses to change, and even after marrying you, still doesn’t drop the image, but starts to become more real and honest with himself.

“People who project an image of themselves to others are just trying to fool themselves into being someone they aren’t.” Was what you told him.

Alastor had also asked you out multiple times before you finally said yes. Everyone knows Alastor is very picky with the people he chooses to surround himself with. Everyone he associates with is either there to serve him, or to provide him with something, even if they’re unaware of it. Which only made you trust him less. What purpose did you serve him? What if one day he found you no longer useful and tossed you to the side? Well what were you to do then?

Denying him proved to be a challenge in itself, seeing that he’s quite literally everywhere all at once.

He’d try cheap tricks first. Buying you gifts, constantly showing up at your doorstep with a bouquet of flowers or a stuffed animal. One time he even got you a whole gift basket of your favorite treats. How sweet~ if it was actually about you and not him just trying to patch up his ego. Well at least that was what you thought on the matter.

If that didnt work he’d resort to going ghost. After all, people only miss you when you’re gone right? Well not in this case. He had left you alone physically, at least to your knowledge, but he had still kept a close watch on you. Why, he just knew it would bother you that he suddenly stopped! Until he overheard you speaking with a friend about how happy you were to finally get some peace and quiet. Well that simply wouldn’t do. After all, you should always make an impact, and what kind of impact would he be leaving on you if you went back to your old boring life? No no that just wont do dear.

He’ll start showing back up at your doorstep, taking you on surprise outing to force you to spend time with him. He’ll take you on a walk around a nearby park, a restaurant one day, the picture show the next. He has a long list of places to take you, so you’ll never go to the same place twice! Get your dancing shoes because he’s gonna take you out to the town for the night, after all the city never sleeps! This is when he becomes less forceful, but more of a decent calm. He begins to listen more when you speak, and you actually begin to care about what he’s saying, what a shock!

It’s almost like a switch flips after your outings. He’ll take you to an orchestra show, snickering to himself when he sees your eyes begin to water as the show closes out. He’ll force you to hold onto his arm as he walks you across the street on a rainy night, making sure you don’t slip or trip on the wet pavement. If you ever do, he’ll try his best to catch you and if he doesn’t? Oh what a nightmare, it seems he’s fallen too! For you that is~

You two begin to feel closer, not only physically but emotionally. He gets you to open up about your personal struggles, and in turn, he’ll share some of his own, but not too much. He doesn’t allow himself to be fully and completely vulnerable with you, not yet. But he does try his best to sympathize with you when you share your piece of mind with him. He feels accomplished to know this part of you, and his ego is the last thing on his mind anymore, but instead you take up all the space.

He doesn’t use pet names for you, not cute ones anyway. He’ll call you his devilish belladonna, especially if you love flowers. His creepy spider Lillie. He’ll often speak in the ‘language of flowers’, and will educate you on it if you don’t know so you know exactly what he’s talking about.

He’s the type of person to correct people in public to make them feel stupid, but he never does that with you. Instead he’ll wait until it’s just the two of you and tell you jokingly how wrong you were. You’ll get upset because he let you look like a fool, but in his mind he’s just protecting your feelings. If anyone else corrects you, they’ll have their mouth sewn shut that’s for sure!

He never gets you the same bouquet of flowers. They’re always different, and every week or so you have a new one. He keeps a separate batch for himself so he knows when to get you another. That being said he also makes the bouquets himself, he does not buy them for you already made.

When you finally take Alastor up on his offer to court you properly, he is over the moon about it! Finally, you seem to be coming to your senses dear! Though you quickly follow that comment up with a “Let the blood rush to your head first.” He just bats his lashes at you with a smile. You always know how to make him feel so loved!

Gets very jealous very easily. If he sees you laughing with someone that isn’t him, he’ll size them up before deciding if they’re a threat or not. Heaven forbid anyone actually put their hands on you and uh oh! Limb of the floor someone come get it!

His possessive nature is rooted in abandonment, and thus being said, he has deep attachment issues to you. You are never out of his sight when you two begin dating, and you’re hardly ever far from him in general. You two dress similarly too, especially if you’re from the same era. He’ll switch up your wardrobe slowly so it complements his.

He isn’t one for strong PDA unless he feels like he needs too or just has a strong want too. Usually it’s an arm around your waist, or you hanging onto his arm loosely. The most he’ll ever really do is a kiss on the back of your hand or to your temple. That being said, he’s like this for various reasons.

One, he has a lot of enemies, which means that not not only does that put you in danger, but if you’re also a powerful overlord, it puts him at risk too, though he doesn’t care much about that part.

Second, he doesn’t like physical contact much, and though he always makes an exception for you, he has his image and pristine reputation to keep up. Which you extremely dislike but tolerate because it’s Alastor and if he hasn’t changed much in centuries, nothings going to change ever.

Alastor is very very fond of you, whether you believe it or not. Your fiery attitude has him whipped more than he likes to admit. He’ll joke with other sinners that he’d sacrifice you to save himself but you both know that isn’t true, his nervous ticks prove it to be false, if you do say so yourself.

He’s very fidgety. He’ll tug a piece of your clothing or twirl a strand of your hair between his claws. If you claim he’s messing up your hair he’ll cast a tornado of shadows around you to fuck it up even more, and then smiling at you lovingly when you threaten to cut his ears off because you can’t tell if they’re his hair or just furry ass ears. You always give him a good laugh.

Other sinners are actually convinced you both hate each other, but turf wars on the news show that you two are the most in love when you’re wreaking havoc on innocent sinners for no possible reason other than the fact you two had an argument and the best way to settle it? Dancing in the rain, which actually isn’t rain, just blood falling from the sky because you like to kill people for fun.

“My darling looks the best in red if I do say so myself! Especially if she’s dressed by another’s remains, oh the beauty!”

Alastor has and will continue to get in his feelings about you and his mother getting along so well. He loves you both to pieces, so seeing his two favorite people together makes his dead heart swell with joy.

He’ll ask you to accompany him to the tailors, he values your opinion more than others so you often make adjustments to his suit and he’s just like ‘Whatever she says that’s what’s going on the suit.’ You also make him your personal dressing doll, trying different patterns and styles on him for fun. Alastor is a true skinny jeans hater and he will die on that hill, again. He really appreciates the 60’s style, but prefers to stick to his own decade.

He will take you out hunting with him, and the two of you share breakfast together with the fresh meat you’ve caught. He only gets the best quality for you because he refuses to have you two ‘eating like chums’. A restaurant tried to lie to the two of you, saying their meat was high quality and fresh. Alastor killed everyone in it and you two shared remains like a true power couple. Hells finest of course. ;)

He’s very critical of picking out jewelry for you. Hunting for the perfect ring for you took him ages, mainly because he knew exactly what he wanted but no jeweler had what he wanted all in one ring. So instead he forces them to make him a custom one. Torn limbs and bloody parts later, you have the ring that Alastor worked so hard to give you. He proposes to you Extermination day, claiming he’d love to spend another year in hell with you before the angels come to rip you two apart from each other. It was such a sweet day, at least to you it was.

The type of relationship where he plays the piano and you sing. He loves when you sing and will gush about you to anyone in sight even if he doesn’t know them.

Is very needy in private. He’s a stage 10000 clinger, and will stick to you like his life depends on it, but will be damned if anyone catches him. You don’t tell anyone about it, you like the private life.

You two have cook offs all the time. You make the hotel staff judge, and ultimately Niffty is the tie breaker because she’s brutally honest. Once she told Alastor he should stay out of the kitchen because women were better at it for a reason… harsh!

He was fine though, he got her back by ridding the hotel of bugs. He knows she likes chasing them around and for that she sobbed at his feet for ten minutes asking him to bring them back. It didn’t take much actually, Sir Pentious brought them back on his own, much to Charlies dismay.

He loves to read with you. You two often read a book and once you both finish you have a tea session over it. It starts off being about the book and then somehow shifts to just gossiping and talking shit about the other overlords, except for Rosie, we love Rosie in this household.

Speaking of, Rosie is usually where you get your clothes from. She’s a sweetheart when she isn’t picking pieces of muscle from her teeth, that sharp smile is a killer! She loves to talk about Alastor with you, and usually she’s where you go after you two have had an argument. You’re also her personal Barbie doll. She puts you in outfits and she and Alastor judge over them. Nine times out of ten you leave her boutique with a new wardrobe every time.

Now let’s talk about Vox.

Honestly the whole reason Vox knows about you is probably because he was digging through Alastors shit. But when he sees you? Oh lord, this man is HOOKED.

He doesn’t even know how Alastor managed to get you entangled with him. He finds out about you when you and Alastor aren’t dating yet, and he basically jumps at his chance to try to be with you.

Vox will forever consider you the one that got away, you can’t change my mind.

Alastor has proven time and time again that he’s basically better than Vox. He took a seven year back, came on the radio one day and boom all his viewers were back. In Alastors mind there’s no competition, just Vox being obsessed with the fact Alastor said no.

Valentino uses it against Vox all the time, and it will always make Vox buffer.

#hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin demon #alastor #Alastor and vox #Hazbin hotel #helluva boss vox #hazbin hotel rosie #hazbin valentino #charlie morningstar #hazbin niffty

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bitters-n-sweets · 1 month ago

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seize the moment — michael "robby" robinavitch x fem!reader When a recurring patient returns to the ER after a medical scare, Robby is given another chance to finally ask her to stop running from what they yearned for

warnings: reader has a recurring illness that is unpredictable—i'm thinking epilepsy, but i have no history in medicine to fully dive in and accurately portray that in the fic, again, everything is googled. angst with happy ending. a/n: idk why writing robby is a challenge for me :)))) masterlist

[flashback]

"We can't do this, Robby," you say, "I can't do this to you."

"You're not doing anything, okay? I want to be here. With you."

"You don't know what you want!" You yell, "You have no idea, Robby. This will eat you alive—the anxiety, the worry, the helplessness—it will break you down, and you’ll hate me for it."

"And label me selfish," You bite back a sob, "but I really don't want you to hate me that way. Anyone but you. I'm sorry."

Robby didn't get a chance to say anything, you'd left him.

[present day]

Robby sighs, eyes dragging over the whiteboard. Maybe he woke up on the wrong side of the bed, but something feels off. The air’s heavy. His skin itches with a bad feeling he can’t shake.

Then the doors slam open.

"We’ve got a known seizure patient!" the EMT calls. "Post-ictal when we found her—had another in transit, two minutes, generalized. She’s still unconscious."

Robby’s head snaps up. He jogs toward the gurney—and stops cold.

"Fuck," he mutters, already moving again. "Trauma Five."

Dana catches sight of her. "Is it—?"

"Yeah," Robby breathes. "It’s her."

It's been four months since Robby last saw you. That last time, you’d had another episode, but he was buried in patients and never made it to your bedside before you were discharged. He knows you’ve been avoiding him — ever since you decided it was better to end things before either of you got in too deep.

Robby’s known you since his early years of residency. It was your first episode, and though he wasn’t the one to take your case, he sat beside you anyway — waited until you woke up, and offered you hospital pudding, the only decent food in the place. He didn’t know why he stayed, not really, but when your eyes finally opened and he saw how scared you were, unsure of where you were or what had happened, he was glad he had. And so were you.

You're stable. Vitals steady. There's nothing to worry about now — you just have to wake up. And Robby's been at your side the whole time, not moving an inch. He’s making sure you don’t slip away this time. Not again.

Robby sighs, his hand wrapped gently around yours. He remembers when the two of you first started flirting — how you used to call him the handsome doctor with sad eyes, and how he’d call you sweetheart. Because you were. Still are, at least to him.

There were moments when he nearly broke — when the weight of it all pressed too hard, when he couldn’t see the point, couldn’t see the light. He was ready to quit, ready to fuck all, walk out of this hellhole and never look back. But then he'd go to see you. And somehow, you were always there—willing to listen, to take in all his mess, his flaws.

Even with everything you were going through, you still smiled. Still lit up the room. You were his light. You still are.

Then Robby finally worked up the nerve to ask you out. Years later. You were—unfortunately—hospitalized again, but the silver lining was that it gave him the chance to ask if you’d be his girlfriend. You said yes, gleefully.

The two of you went on a few dates, sweet and slowly getting to know each other. But after a few months, reality started to sink in. You realized Robby couldn’t have a��normal relationship with you. Your condition wouldn’t allow it — no roller coasters, no jump-scare horror movies, no late-night parties that bled into sunrise. None of the reckless, youthful things a guy his age was supposed to enjoy.

And Robby said he didn’t care. Said he didn’t mind missing out. But you’d heard him turn down one too many party invitations, brush off plans with friends like they were nothing.

You told him to go, insisted you were fine on your own. But he always chose you instead. Always.

You were grateful, truly. But the guilt sat heavy in your chest. You couldn’t help but wonder if one day, he’d start to resent you for it.

That's when you broke up with him.

Robby lifts his head when he feels the faint twitch of your fingers. You’re stirring, slowly adjusting to the harsh hospital lighting as a groan escapes your throat.

"Hey," Robby calls out gently, "How are you feeling?"

You shift and can finally see who's hovering above you. The earthy, woody smell lets you know it's Robby right away. "Hey Robby."

"Hey sweetheart."

You want to scold him for calling you that, but you're still tired to do so.

"I'm here." He whispers.

And you look at him—really look at him—and wonder why he’s still doing this. Why he won’t let himself be happy. There are plenty of women out there who could give him everything he deserves. A simple life, a normal one. The kind that doesn’t come with unnecessary emergency room visits and fear tucked beneath every smile.

But he’s here. Still choosing you.

"You've been avoiding me."

"That, I have." You smile, guilty.

"And I'm still here for you. Always will."

"Robby—"

"Rest." He kisses your temple. "You're still recovering. We'll talk about this later."

You sigh as he steps out.

You're dischared a few hours later, and you try to sneak out without Robby catching you, but of course that's impossible.

As soon as you’re done changing and ease the door open, you bump right into a solid chest, and you hold your breath, knowing it's Robby. You don’t even have to look up to know his arms are crossed.

"Just gonna leave again?" He asks, visibly upset.

You wince and glance up at him, already forming some half-hearted excuse. "I didn’t want to make a scene."

"This isn’t a scene," he says. "This is me trying to talk to you. Something you’ve been avoiding for months."

You sigh and glance away, gripping the strap of your bag a little tighter. "Robby, don’t—"

"No. You don’t get to do that again," he cuts in, softer than you expect, but firm. "You don’t get to almost die, make me sit here all night thinking I’m going to lose you, and then walk out like none of it happened."

Your throat tightens. "It’s not fair to you."

"And you think just standing back, watching you go through this alone, not being able to hold you after—it’s somehow better?" His voice cracks. "You’re the reason I lose sleep, and the only thing that makes any of this feel worth it. That’s what you are to me."

You swallow hard, your gaze locked with his.

"Why won't you let yourself be happy?" Robby asks, and it hits you like a gut punch—for a second, you almost laugh at the irony.

You let out a breath. A long, shaky thing that trembles in your chest.

"It’s not that I don’t want to be happy," you say quietly. "I just… I don’t want you to end up hating me."

Robby flinches like the words hit harder than he expected.

You press on, voice barely holding steady. "People don’t stay. They try, at first. They say it doesn’t matter. That they can handle it. But then it gets hard—too hard. And they leave. And I get it, I really do. But I can’t watch you do that. I don’t think I’d survive it."

He’s silent for a moment, taking in everything you've said.

"I’m not them," he says. "I’ve seen what this looks like. The good days, the terrifying ones. I’ve been here for all of it. And I didn’t stay out of pity, or because I felt obligated—I stayed because I wanted to. Because I care about you in a way that doesn’t vanish when things get hard."

"So let me take care of you, okay?" His forehead nearly touches yours. "Let me be the one who’s there after nights like this. The one who holds you when it’s hard. I’m not here for the easy parts. I’m here for all of it."

"Are you sure?" Your eyes blur with tears, but you don’t look away. "Because I really don't want you to regret this—"

"Oh my god—"

Robby can't take it anymore and pulls you to him. The kiss is slow, making up for years of aching and near-misses. His hand cradles the back of your neck like you might vanish if he lets go, and you press closer, grounding yourself in him.

When you finally part, you're both a little breathless, foreheads touching.

"I’d rather fight for you than ever wonder what it would’ve been like to love you all the way."

#the pitt #robby robinavitch #dr robby #robby x reader #robby robinavitch x you #michael robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch #dr robby x reader #robby robinavitch x fem reader #robby x fem reader #robby x female reader #robby robinavitch angst #dr robby x you #dr robinavitch

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undercoveravenger · 3 months ago

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Sleep Like the Dead

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Male!Reader

Requested: No

Summary: Everyone on the team thinks Ghost is the worst person to share a bed with. You don’t mind and Ghost finally gets a decent night’s sleep.

-----

No one ever wants to share a bed with Ghost on a mission. It happens every time, at every safe house, so he’s not surprised when Gaz and Soap call dibs on sharing one of the two double beds. They’re both pretty calm sleepers and won’t disturb each other’s rest so it makes sense for them to pair off. Price posts up in the battered recliner mumbling something about being “too old to share.” And that leaves Ghost with you, the 141’s newest addition. You haven’t been on the team long enough to know to find other sleeping arrangements.

You trail him easily into the other bedroom and strip down to your boxers, climbing under the covers without complaint at being stuck with him. He slowly settles beside you, just as tense as he’d been out on the field - adrenaline not quite fizzled out yet. You don’t seem to mind, eyes closing and breathing slowing basically as soon as your head hits the pillow and just like that Ghost is alone with his thoughts.

Despite himself, his mind echoes with the sound of Soap whinging about bruises he’d gotten from Ghost’s less-than-gentle “readjusting” and Gaz’s complaints of his snoring - “What, you running a chainsaw in there, Lieutenant?” “There a thunderstorm in your room last night, Ghost?” There’s a reason Price would rather go for a kip in some ratty old armchair than sleep anywhere near Ghost, even if he never voices why. He knows he’s not an ideal bed partner and he hates it. Hates that he’s exposing you to it - you, who’s never looked at him like he’s weird for keeping his mask on and who’s never seemed to be afraid of him, even the first time you’d met him. You, who’s seen some of the brutal things he’s had to do out on the field and never once judged him for it, who’s done plenty of nightmarish things yourself.

But this is the first negative trait he’s willingly exposed you to and he doesn’t want to see you try to duck him as a bedmate the same way the rest of the team does, especially when he’s starting to suspect that he feels more than camaraderie for you.

You move then, rolling onto your side and hooking an arm round his middle to tug him back against your chest. Ghost’s frozen against you, muscles tight and breath shallow, even as your heart beats steady and slow against his back. He settles slowly, breath evening out to match yours. He’s not used to being… cuddled, let alone being the little spoon, but it’s sort of nice to be held. Like you’ve got his back, even unconsciously.

He shifts slightly, nudging himself back into your arms further and brings one hand up to curl around yours, settling your joined hands against his chest above his heart.

Simon’s eyes slip closed somewhere between one breath and the next and he sinks into the most peaceful sleep he’s had in years.

-----

Everyone’s looking at him strangely when they all gather in the morning to prepare for evac and he’s not sure why. He can only take so long of Price’s concerned stare and Soap and Gaz whispering around furtive glances before he snaps.

“What,” he says, and that seems to be all the permission Soap needs to sidle closer, studying him intently. “Got somethin’ to say?” Ghost challenges, arms crossing over his chest. “Say it.”

Soap hesitates only a moment before he says anything, fingers tapping rapidly against his thigh like he’s nervous. “Did you, ah, did you sleep last night, LT? Like, at all?”

Ghost blinks. Blinks again. It’s not the weirdest question Soap’s ever asked him, not by a longshot, but it feels strangely pointed and he’s not sure why. “Slept fine. Why?”

Gaz cocks his head, dark eyes puzzled as they dart between Ghost and the door to the bedroom that he’d shared with you. “Did he?”

Ghost is saved from answering by you making your way out into the living room with the rest of them, go bag already packed and ready. You’re shifting your weight up onto the balls of your feet like you’re ready to take in a run, like you’re itching to move. Your eyes are bright, not a hint of sleeplessness to be seen about you.

“Maybe they tuckered each other out?” Soap suggests, eyebrows waggling suggestively as he looks between you and Ghost. “Surprised they were able to keep that quiet-”

“Shut it,” Ghost growls, trying to keep the teasing from letting you on to the feelings he’s finally admitted to himself. “We both slept fine. What’s all the fuss about?”

Price claps a hand over Soap’s mouth before he can make another raunchy comment, interjecting himself to help move the conversation along. “Just glad to hear that you were finally able to get a good night’s sleep, Ghost. Seemed to us you hadn’t slept well the last few ops.” His eyes slip to you and back quickly, lingering just enough that he knows that Price knows. “Seems whatever change you’ve made to your nightly routine might be a good one to keep up. Maybe try to make it a regular thing?”

Ghost wants to argue. To protest that sleeping in your arms wouldn’t have changed anything for him, especially not enough for his team to notice, but he knows Price is right. Knows that it’s having you with him that’s finally allowed him to rest. That you make him feel safe, as crazy as he feels admitting it. He’s not ready to really do anything about whatever it means quite yet, but he knows that he’ll be seeking you out to share a bed again on the next op. And maybe, if that goes well, inviting you back to his flat in Manchester while the team’s on leave to see if the effect you have on him goes both ways.

#call of duty x reader #call of duty x male reader #call of duty x male!reader #male reader x call of duty #male!reader x call of duty #cod x male!reader #cod x male reader #cod x reader #tf 141 x male!reader #tf 141 x male reader #tf 141 x reader #tf 141 ghost x reader #ghost x male!reader #ghost x male reader #cod ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x male reader

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dduane · 3 months ago

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...This concept started as a joke, but I'm thinking that I've finally found the story behind it. Maybe I can write it now... :)

ETA: Added a link to a higher-definition version of the cover image without text. (And I can see I'm still not done fiddling with the materials on his damn shirt. In fact, the shirt itself is in question now. [muttering] Never mind. Can't make a judgment call on this when I haven't even had my tea yet...)

ETA 2: No, not this shirt either. (I mean, dammit, I like looking at pecs as much as the next lass or lad, but the cut on this shirt isn't right for this angle of light, or for the way it drapes when animated. Dammitall, why do all Daz's men's shirts have to be so crap?)

(from an earlier rant on this subject:) (re: @rembrandtswife‘s comment [”Find that man a GOOD shirt, because his CHEST deserves it.”]: well, not arguing…

…But finding a decent shirt at all on Daz is the challenge. Some of the ones that seem like they might have possibilities are just frustrating, because they either aren’t dForce enabled (that being the draping and animation engine) or they’re just badly made.

The one below would be typical. (“’What, do you call this a sleeve? It is like a demi-cannon, carved up and down like an apple tart.’”)

(…sigh) There's too much else going on today to go any further down this train of thought. But most of the shirts that fit at all acceptably are very idiomatic (i.e. obviously “pirate shirts” or whatever…). It just makes my head hurt. :/

#Middle Kingdoms #Middle Kingdoms meta #spoof covers #Herewiss #is a snorer #meanwhile #more ranting about shirts (digital)

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hazbinhotei · 4 months ago

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a little too prideful.

read part two (a semi-standalone comfort fic) here

warnings: blood, mimzy, violence & gore (alastor), injury & gun violence (you), cannabalism (alastor again), light angst w/ a happy ending

word count: 3735

summary: When Mimzy lures a group of vengeful loan sharks to the hotel, you’re left to deal with the fallout—both physically and emotionally—while Alastor is forced to realize that his pride blinded him to the one thing that truly mattered: you. (story takes place during ep. 5)

alastor x f!reader—technically gn!reader minus the ~two instances i use 'her' pronouns for clarity. whoo this one's a doozy. i'm not necessarily sure if i'm proud of how this turned out, especially since a good chunk is just taken from episode 5. i also struggle a lot with multi-character scenes like this, so please let me know if i could improve on anything. nonetheless, though, i hope you all enjoy!

Life at the Hazbin Hotel with Alastor was many things—chaotic, unconventional, but above all, it was yours. The two of you had carved out a comfortable existence amidst the madness, his constant grin and ever dramatic behavior a fixture in your day-to-day life. It was hard not to adore the way he’d hum while cooking, or the way he’d twirl you in the hallway just for the fun of it. You had accepted him despite all his flaws, including his particular flaw of being obsessive over his power. But, hey, they don’t just call it the Pride Ring for no reason.

Tonight was no different. You sat with the rest of the hotel group, half-listening as Lucifer and Alastor bickered back and forth in song, their battle of wits crescendoing in dramatic flair. It was an odd sort of game, something between posturing and genuine irritation, and though you were used to Alastor’s theatrics, the sudden appearance of Lucifer had only seemed to make him more insufferable.

And that's when she arrived.

Mimzy. A name whispered from the past, a figure Alastor knew from his time alive. She waltzed through the doors of the hotel like she owned the place, all charm and nostalgia, completely interrupting Alastor and Lucifer—the goddamned Radio Demon and the very King of Hell. Everyone else seemed bewildered by her unexpected entrance, save for you and Husk. Because unlike the others, you both recognized her. Mimzy wasn’t just another demon Alastor knew: she was perhaps the only one still lingering from his life before Hell. And that was a life he never spoke about to you.

You weren’t jealous. Of course not. That would be ridiculous. Petty, even!

Which is why you smiled and offered her a drink when she settled in like she belonged there. Even when Alastor seemed more preoccupied with his initial task of challenging Lucifer, you continued to make polite conversation, keeping Mimzy company like a good host as Alastor waltzed off with Charlie and Vaggie to show Lucifer around the hotel. You even decided not to question why exactly she was there, because you definitely weren’t someone who was even remotely bothered by the way she looked at your lover—your Alastor—like she still knew him better than anyone else in the room. You must simply be paranoid!

Thankfully, Angel Dust and Husk kept you entertained by the bar with their usual banter, sparing you from being the sole communicator with Mimzy. You were actually starting to have a decent conversation with her, listening to her talk about how she used to perform at the jazz club Alastor commonly frequented, finally excited to get a glimpse into Alastor’s life before his fall to damnation. But Mimzy had a way of causing commotion, and she knew it. She, like Al, seemed to share the same sin of pride, which resulted in her slipping a sharp, snide little comment hidden beneath her layers of old-timey charm.

"Oh, sweetheart, I do admire ya dedication. Must be so tiring, trying to keep a man like Alastor entertained. I mean, he does get bored so easily, doesn’t he? I’m even surprised he kept me along for this long!"

The words struck deeper than you wanted to admit. Her comment made Angel Dust’s amused grin falter, his mismatched eyes widening in offense for you. Even Husk paused, ears flicking at the sheer audacity.

But you? You simply smiled.

Because you weren’t petty. You were raised better than to stoop down to her level, knowing just how much she wanted to see the worst in you come out. So all you did was smile, your hand tightening on your glass imperceptibly.

“I like to think I do alright,” you replied, voice saccharine. And before she could get in another jab, you excused yourself, turning on your heel before anyone could see the way your jaw clenched just a little too tight.

You needed to find Alastor.

It took some searching, but you found him shadowing Charlie, Vaggie, and Lucifer as they walked the halls, his posture perfectly poised, his expression fixed in a grin that was just a little too flawless. Lucifer’s presence was, as expected, a threat to the power balance in the hotel, and Alastor was treating it as such.

Your feet picked up the pace, jogging up to him as you called his name. He didn’t turn.

You tried again, and this time, his head snapped toward you, his entire neck cracking with the speed of it. His smile was still there, but his eyes… they were strained.

“Dearest,” he greeted, the word drawn out with thin patience as he twisted his body to match his inhumanely turned neck. “I’m a little busy at the moment.”

You purse your lips sourly, crossing your arms as you replied. “Mimzy said something to me. Something rude. I—”

“Oh, she does that all the time,” Alastor interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “Don’t take it so personally, cher.”

Your brows furrowed, impatience rising. “Al, she—”

“Really, must we do this now?” His voice, usually so smooth and lilting, held the barest edge of frustration. His focus was drifting back to Lucifer, and that—that stung more than it should have.

“Alastor,” you pressed, but he cut you off again, his expression flickering with exasperation.

“I’m trying to ensure Lucifer Morningstar doesn’t throw this place into absolute chaos,” he said, his usual theatrics dampened by irritation. “Forgive me if I don’t have time to entertain every little grievance.”

That was the breaking point.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. You weren’t asking him to start a war over this, you just wanted him to listen. But apparently, his pride, his status, his stupid fixation on proving himself compared to Lucifer—that mattered more.

“Fine,” you bit out, voice tight. “Go ahead. Play your little game. I’ll be downstairs.”

And with that, you resisted the urge to bark anything else at him and left, ignoring the way his shadow frowned as you stormed away.

By the time you reached the lobby again, your anger was simmering beneath the surface, hot and unresolved. Angel Dust raised a brow as you rejoined them, Husk grunted in acknowledgment, and Mimzy?

She just smirked.

And that—oh, that just made your blood boil all the more. You bit your cheek harshly, letting the pain distract you from the way you wanted to absolutely tear your claws into her snobby little head.

Just as you were about to say something, the hotel trembled violently, sending dust raining from the ceiling. Your eyes shot open from the interruption, the four of you jolting from the bar in surprise. Angel Dust barely had time to curse before another explosion rocked the walls, and even Sir Pentious and Niffty had rushed out into the lobby to see what was happening. Husk’s ears flicked in irritation, eyes narrowing as he downed the rest of his whiskey in a single gulp.

“What the hell is goin’ on?” Husk grumbled, pushing himself off the counter.

Niffty skittered toward the window, peeking outside. Her single eye widened, smile terrifyingly wide: "Oh, wow! Lots of company! And they don’t look very friendly!"

You pushed yourself up from the bar stool, already seething from your argument with Alastor, only for your frustration to triple when you caught sight of what was happening outside through the windows. Your hotel was under attack.

Explosions continued to pelt the exterior, fire and debris scattering across the pavement. Figures lurked in the smoke, their silhouettes illuminated by the flickering flames. Loan sharks. Armed. Dangerous. And heading straight for the entrance.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you hissed, storming toward the door, ignoring Angel Dust’s warning call.

The moment you stepped outside, the gunfire ceased momentarily as the gangsters caught sight of you. Their expressions twisted into rage, and before you could say a word, one of them barked, “That must be her—Mimzy! Get her!”

You barely had time to register what they meant before pain exploded through your side. A gunshot rang in your ears, the impact knocking you backward as agony tore through you. You hit the pavement, breath wheezing from your lungs as Angel Dust and Husk shouted your name.

“Oh, hell no!” Angel snarled, grabbing you before they could get another shot off. Husk swore under his breath, hauling you back into the hotel as more bullets followed, splintering the doorframe. “What the ever-loving fuck did you do, Mimzy?!”

Inside, you gasped, hand pressing against the wound in your side as black blood seeped through your fingers. The injury wasn’t too damaging and you hardly worried since it wasn’t an angelic bullet, but your vision still swam from the sudden sting. Angel crouched beside you, protective, his face set in grim determination (and annoyance of this entire situation) as Niffty rushed off to grab medical supplies. You were too busy focusing on the teeth-clenching pain to hear Husk arguing with Mimzy over why these loan sharks had said her name, hearing her say she apparently owes them fifty grand. Before you could even respond to her words, Sir Pentious’ shouted at everyone as he dodged a fireball. “Take cover!”

You watched as the hotel descended into chaos. Angel lunged forward, yanking Niffty out of the way before another fireball could flatten her. Husk abandoned Mimzy without a second thought, his wings fluttering as he rushed to your side. He grabbed you gently, hauling you against the bar wall, out of the direct line of fire.

Angel was back in an instant, Niffty dangling from one of his arms. The moment he drops her onto the floor, she tears through the hotel's makeshift first aid kit, muttering curses about bloodstains on her carpets.

(A passing reminder to thank Charlie for creating a first aid kit for the hotel entered your mind, the temporary thought stored in the back of your adrenaline-filled brain as you realized how genius the idea was even if you all had originally found the concept laughable.

Who knew you would need one when fighting and pain was practically a daily guarantee in Hell?)

Charlie, Lucifer, Vaggie, and Alastor descend from the staircase a minute later, their eyes scanning the chaos. But it was Alastor who froze, his entire frame going rigid as his eyes landed on you. You two locked eyes for a moment, his foot hovering mid step as he took in your pained expression.

The ever-present smile on his face faltered, just for a second.

Then his world snapped.

Alastor’s gaze darkened, his static flickering erratically as he shadowed towards you in the blink of an eye. His movements were slow, almost mechanical, as he crouched before you, reaching out to gently touch the black blood on your fingers. When he pulled back, his hand trembled, shadows pooling below his kneeling body exponentially.

You had never seen him look like this before.

Vaggie took a step forward from behind the broken front doors, holding her spear in her hands with a pissed off expression. “All of you, get a safe distance. I’ll take care of this.”

Alastor didn’t even glance at her. His voice came out in a low, sickeningly sweet purr. "No, my dear, leave it to me. It’s time I remind everyone why I am here."

Mimzy, pops up from behind the bar counter, perked up. “Oh, finally! Took ya long enough!”

Alastor didn’t react. His shadow twisted violently beneath him, tendrils stretching, shifting, writhing as an eerie green glow seeped through the cracks of the floorboards.

Outside, the gangsters were reloading their catapult and guns, laughing amongst themselves—until the air grew thick with static. A heavy, suffocating weight pressed down on the street, the distant flickering of the hotel’s neon sign the only warning before a massive tendril shot out, smashing the catapult to pieces.

The loan sharks barely had time to scream before more tendrils erupted from the ground, slicing through them like they were nothing but paper dolls.

Alastor’s laughter rang through the chaos, distorted and wrong. His body grew taller, limbs elongating unnaturally as his smile stretched too wide, his antlers curling into jagged points. His form twisted, pulsing with raw, unfiltered eldritch power as his shadow spread across the pavement. You heard Husk curse next to you in horror, your eyes glancing to the terrified bartender as he crouched beside you.

“A reminder to all,” Alastor’s voice boomed, shaking the very ground beneath them, “not to mess with the Radio Demon!”

The remaining demons screamed, scrambling to retreat, their weapons useless against something so vastly beyond them. Alastor stepped forward out of the archway of the once undamaged doors, unforgiving and unrelenting as he grew in size with every step. His eyes turn into two red radio dials floating in dark pools of shadow, his radio staff puny compared to his now gigantic form.

“I will devour each and every one of you,” he broadcasted from his unmoving smile, voice rich with unhinged delight.

You winced as you watched your lover start to swallow the mafia members whole, unleashing his stress from today as distant cries of terror fill the hotel. Unfortunately, the broken windows of the lobby did no justice in shielding any of your eyes from the chaos outside, resulting in you having to grossly look away at the gore happening in front of you.

Angel Dust watches beside you, shaking his head as he’s mesmerized by the scene. “I can’t believe you date this guy.”

Your chest huffs in an attempt to laugh, groaning softly as you hear Charlie and Lucifer arguing in the background. The hotel was filled with the sound of family drama and cannibalism, yet somehow that seemed to be even better than the sound of Mimzy’s grating voice cheering Alastor on.

After a mere few seconds, the battlefield was silent save for the faint crackling of embers and the distant, gurgling groans of the last unlucky gangsters who had met their demise at The Radio Demon’s hands. Alastor, now shrinking back into his usual form, let out a sigh of satisfaction, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves.

“Oh, I missed getting to let off steam!” he chirped, his voice dripping with amusement.

The tension in the air hadn’t yet settled when Mimzy emerged from the hotel, peeking out to ensure the coast was clear before prancing toward Alastor with a delighted grin. “Oh, Alastor! What a fantastic show! Bravo! As always. Thanks for helpin’ lil’ old me out of a tough spot, you're always such a pal!”

Before Alastor could respond, a loud crack split the air above you.

Your head snapped up just in time to see a massive chunk of debris from the ruined floor above give way, plummeting toward you and Angel Dust.

“Move!” Angel yelped, grabbing you as the two of you dove aside. The wreckage slammed into the ground where you had been leaning on the wall just seconds before, sending a gust of dust and gravel into the air.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, adrenaline and pain mingling in your veins as you looked up, meeting Alastor’s gaze. His red eyes flickered between you and Mimzy, and for the first time since the carnage began, his smile began to wane as the static in the air crackled with unease.

You weren’t just glaring—you were seething.

It was a rare sight to see you so angry, your emotions normally hidden well behind your mask of calm, poised indifference. Typically, Alastor would be reveling at the fire blazing within your eyes, delighted to see his darling so full of wrath it made anyone in your line of sight shake in terror. Yet in this instance, as Alastor stared a moment longer, he realized he was technically in your line of sight, along with the blonde flapper next to him who caused this whole mess.

Alastor watched as you narrowed your eyes even more at him, taking a mental picture of your fury to cherish forever. Then, with a slow turn of his head, he set his gaze upon Mimzy, his usually cheerful aura twisting into something cold. He realized Mimzy had been speaking to him, something along the lines of apologizing for the mess—really, he could care less what Mimzy was saying given the full extent of things.

“I think you should go, Mimzy.” His flat voice was devoid of amusement.

Mimzy scoffed, twirling a stray curl of hair between her fingers. “Oh pff, Alastor, you're such a kidder, you! Haha, you are so funny—”

“I mean it.” His voice sharpened, cutting through the tension like a knife. “You deliberately brought danger to this place just to have me clean up your mess. I can’t have that here.”

Mimzy’s smug expression faltered, but she quickly recovered, waving a dismissive hand. “But you love takin’ care of me! What? You don’t actually give a shit about this tacky little place, do ya? Come on. I know you.”

She took a step forward, jabbing a sharp-nailed finger into his chest with every word.

“You heartless son—” poke.

“—of a—” poke.

“—bitch!” poke.

Before she could finish, Alastor caught her wrist in midair, his grip like iron. His smile had all but disappeared.

“I do care about this place.” He let her wrist go, stepping past her to glance where you sat on the ground in the hotel, still nursing your injury. His fingers twitched, desperate to shadow next to you, but he simply clenched his twitching hand into a fist. “And more than that, I care about her.”

Mimzy’s face twisted in disbelief. “What?”

Alastor’s eyes sideglanced at Mimzy, his voice laced with something genuine. “I am madly devoted to her. And I refuse to let anyone—anyone—disrespect her. Especially under my roof.” His eyes flickered with finality as he fully turned back to Mimzy. “So unless you plan on giving a damn well and sincere apology to her, you are no longer welcome here.”

Mimzy stood there, mouth agape, before scoffing dramatically and throwing her arms up. “Well, fine! Who needs ya?! Have fun with ya little sweetheart and ya little hotel. See if I care!”

With one last huff, she stomped off, disappearing into the distance.

The moment she was gone, Alastor turned back to the hotel, his sharp gaze softening with concern as his eyes landed on you. Everyone in the lobby had seen this little fiasco unravel, Husk, Sir Pentious, and Angel all sharing snacks as they hummed in appreciation at the drama. You simply sat on the ground a few feet away as he appeared in front of you, his shadow curling around your ankle as it stared up in worry from the floor. Alastor crouched down, his fingers ghosting over your wound, his usual devil-may-care attitude completely absent.

“You should have listened to me,” you muttered, still glaring, though your voice had lost some of its edge.

Alastor winced, his breath hitching at the exhaustion laced in your voice. His fingers twitched against yours, his usual bravado faltering for just a moment. He averted his gaze, as if the sight of your pain was too much even for him, before forcing himself to meet your eyes again.

"Yes… I see that now." His hand finally rested over yours, pressing lightly against the wound as if to assure himself that you were still there. “I was wrong. I should have listened to you from the start. I was too… preoccupied.”

You raised a skeptical brow. “Too prideful.”

He let out a soft, breathy chuckle. “That, too.”

A moment of silence stretched between you before Alastor finally sighed, something deeply regretful in his expression. “I’m… truly, truly sorry, mon cœur. I should have protected you. I will make this up to you.” His voice lowered, his fingers gently lacing with yours. “Just… tell me how. Anything you ask for is yours, even though it was already yours before this whole incident occured today.”

You sighed, the tension in your body slowly easing, though not entirely. A part of you still wanted to stay angry, to let him sweat a little longer, but exhaustion tugged at your limbs. The ache in your side throbbed as if reminding you that you had bigger things to worry about. Still, you weren’t ready to let him off the hook so easily, exhaling deeply once more as you spoke. “You owe me, Al.”

His grin returned, softer this time—devoid of its usual mischief, holding only sincerity. “Then I shall spend every waking moment treating you the way you deserve. Like royalty, my love.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the tiny smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Damn right you will.”

Alastor chuckled, finally helping you to your feet as you rejoined the group. His grip was firm, steadying you a little too carefully, his fingers lingering at your waist even after you were standing upright. His usual boundless energy seemed restrained, his eyes flickering over your wounds before he forced his smile to remain in place. You could tell—he was still shaken, even if he’d never admit it.

You watched as Niffty scurried around the hotel, eager to clean up the damage. It seemed like Charlie and Lucifer had made up, your anger at today’s events lessening ever so slightly as you watched the two. Even Husk, Angel Dust, and Sir Pentious had seemed to be helping clean up, even if Vaggie was yelling at them to do it.

As Alastor wrapped a careful arm around you, leading you toward a more comfortable place to rest on one of the less damaged couches, he leaned down, whispering just for you to hear.

“I do love you, you know.”

Your heart fluttered, but you played it cool, nudging him in the ribs. “You better.”

His smile widened, his head lowering to give you a hidden kiss behind your ear as he paused for a moment. “I’m sorry you got hurt… because of me.”

You hum slightly at his display of vulnerability, your own mouth morphing into a soft smile. “You’re an idiot, but,” You pause, closing the distance between you as you rub his head with yours, “I love you as well.”

And despite the pain, despite the chaos, despite everything—you knew he would spend the rest of his afterlife making sure he never let his pride come before you again.

#this was supposed to be angstier #and it did not satiate my angst crave #so buckle up for the next angst fic everybody #there might be a part two comfort fic to this #alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x you #alastor x reader #oneshot

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