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pomelace · 2 months ago

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mouse and the red bull

pairing: frank langdon x afab!intern reader

content warnings: fluff, no physical desciptors used for reader, reader is an intern, doesn't take place during the shows timeline, medical imagery, blood (mention), suggestive tension, let me know if I missed anything!

magui speaks! : I’m such a slut for workplace slowborn romance, especially since I have a major crush on my much older coworker lol. I hope you all love this as much as I loved writing it, I may or may not write a part two. as always, j hope you enjoy!

word count: 2021

There’s a particular kind of panic that sets in when Frank Langdon walks through the door—like your brain short-circuits and your coffee sloshes over your knuckles before you even register the burn.

He always arrives at the same time: ten minutes to seven, just before shift change, with his black backpack slung over one shoulder and his sweater dangling from his hand.

The first time you saw Frank, he was arguing with a vending machine. You should’ve known right then he’d ruin your peace.

He’d punched E7 four times before realizing the machine had taken his money and offered no drink in return.

“You’re robbing me in broad daylight,” he muttered. To a vending machine.

You stood ten feet away, pretending to check your phone, pretending not to watch the way his jaw clenched and his shoulders tensed under his black scrubs. How he cursed under his breath and hit the glass—just enough to make the machine rattle, not enough to get written up.

There was something about the way he stood there. Frustrated. Alone. Fighting something small because the big things were too much to name.

Minutes later, he knew your name. Two weeks later, you were his favorite intern.

“Morning,” he says, voice low, right behind you before you even hear him approach.

You nod. Try to answer. End up choking on lukewarm coffee instead.

He leans casually over the counter beside you, the scent of his cologne cutting straight through the sterile air.

“You’re quieter than usual, mouse,” he says, the nickname curling around your throat and making speech even harder.

Mouse.

He called you mouse. His excuse? You worked quietly. A person of few words, but always focused, always reliable. That’s why he kept you close—stealing you away from the other attendings, handpicking you for his rounds, his patients.

He liked you.

Liked the way you listened. No interruptions. No “buts.” Just quiet attention, steady hands, and quick learning.

“I know we’re not supposed to have favorites, but you’re mine, mouse,” he’d whispered once, bent beside you over a deep gash you were stitching, like it was a secret meant only for the thread and your trembling fingers.

“Just tired,” you finally manage, turning your head slightly to meet his gaze.

His blue eyes lock onto yours, sharp and unrelenting. You smile, like you always did when it came to him.

Then your eyes drop to his hand. Empty. No Red Bull, for once. He always had one in the morning—more times than you could count on your fingers.

“Vending machine’s empty,” he says, like he’d read your mind.

“No drinking yourself into cardiac arrest today, thank god,” you blurt out before your brain had time to veto it.

He chuckles, but you see something flicker across his face—surprise, maybe. Like you’d caught him off guard for once.

“You gonna start rationing my caffeine intake now?”

“Someone has to,” you reply, tone light, even as your pulse jumps.

He leans in slightly, like he might say something else—something to make your breath hitch.

“If my heart ever stops, I know I can count on you to start it again,” he whispers.

You freeze, cup in hand, half-turned toward him. It was nothing. Meant nothing. Just a compliment. A nod to your competence, your training. Textbook professional.

And yet your pulse flutters in your throat like it’s already preparing to fail.

“Don’t give me a reason to,” you say, quieter than you mean to. Steady, but barely.

He smiles. That same crooked, effortless smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, mouse."

You turn away before he can see what that nickname does to you—how it slinks under your skin, curls up in the hollow of your ribs like it belongs there.

The coffee’s gone cold in your hands, but you take a sip anyway. Bitter. Grounding.

Behind you, the silence stretches. Not awkward. Not quite. Just full.

“Good morning,” a voice cuts between the two of you, slicing clean through the moment. It gives you both an excuse to look away.

Dr. Robby walks towards you, coffee in hand, his gaze flicking between you and Frank with a hint of curiosity.

“Mind rounding everyone up for morning rounds?” he asks Frank, setting his cup down by his computer.

Frank gives a small nod, brushing past you with the faintest graze of his hand agaisnt your back. It could’ve been accidental. You both know it wasn’t.

“On it,” he says, already halfway past the nurses station.

You keep your eyes on the counter, pretending to study the steam curling up from Dr. Robby’s coffee. Anything but let your gaze follow Frank.

Dr. Robby takes a sip, watching you over the rim of his cup.

“Everything alright?”

You nod, too quickly. “Of course.”

But your voice doesn’t sound quite like your own.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹

After rounds, just like always, Frank asks for you—claiming your time before any of the residents or even Dr. Robby could pull you into a case.

His hand rests lightly on your back as he guides you, steering you toward one of the rooms. As you walk, he explains the case in detail—his voice low, confident, precise.

You try to focus on his words—the vitals, the imaging, the differentials—but it’s hard not to feel the warmth of his hand through the thin fabric of your scrubs.

“This one’s tricky,” he says, glancing sideways at you.

“Thought you’d like it.”

You hum in response, trying to sound neutral, professional.

“You mean you thought I could handle it.”

A small smile plays on his lips. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

You don’t answer. Not right away.

Inside the room, a patient waits—young, pale, anxious. A dinner fork juts out just above their collarbone, the prongs buried deep in soft tissue of their neck, surrounded by a bloom of dried blood. It’s an ugly wound, surreal in its domestic absurdity.

You slip into your role with practiced ease, letting your voice settle into something calm and clinical. You feel his eyes on you as you speak to the patient. Not in the way that makes you self-conscious, but in the way that makes you hyper-aware. Seen.

The patient shifts, wincing as you approach, and you take a steadying breath, refocusing. You reach out to examine the wound, careful, methodical. The metal feels cold beneath your gloved fingertips, the jagged edges of the fork pressing against the skin like it belongs there.

“Stay still,” you murmur, your tone soothing, even though your mind races through protocols and possibilities.

"We should get her to X-rays," you say to Frank, your voice steady, before turning back to the patient.

"From there, we can figure out the next steps."

You meet the patient’s anxious gaze, offering a reassuring smile.

"The X-rays will help us check for any underlying damage—nerves, blood vessels, anything important that might be caught between the fork. We just need to be cautious."

You remove your gloves slowly, methodically, your movements deliberate as you step aside to give Frank room to take the lead. His words fade into the background, your focus narrowing to the way his lips move, the steady rhythm of his hands as he works.

It’s almost like you're watching him in slow motion, and for a moment, nothing else exists except the quiet hum of the room.

"Hey," Frank's voice cuts through, pulling you back to the present. You meet his gaze, steady and intense.

"Get her line in for the X-ray, and everything else looks good. If you’re up for it, I might just let you pull this one out," he says, his tone casual.

A smile tugs at your lips, excitement flickering in your eyes as you nod, barely containing the rush of adrenaline.

You walk away, the tablet pressed close to your chest as you make your way toward the nurses' station.

The X-ray comes back clear—no major damage, no vessels hit. The fork is safe to remove, and Frank’s words bring excitement to your face.

You stand over the patient, gloved hands moving automatically as you adjust the patient, positioning her on her side.

The fork is lodged in the side of her neck, gauze wrapped around the area, the injury fully exposed under the bright light overhead.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Frank says, standing across from you, his eyes focused, though his posture tenses slightly.

You nod, wiggling your fingers inside the gloves, shaking off the rush of adrenaline. You take a steadying breath. You move closer, fingers gripping the fork carefully as you prepare to remove it.

Slowly, you ease the fork out, steady and controlled, until it slips free. You drop it into the metal tray with a soft clang. A small smile tugs at your lips as you glance at the patient.

“It’s out,” you say gently, already reaching for gauze to clean the wound.

You move with practiced care, cleaning the area and checking for any sign of bleeding. Once you’re done, you step back and peel off your gloves, your eyes finally lifting.

Frank’s already watching you, a faint smile on his face.

He doesn’t say anything—but he doesn’t need to. You can tell. He’s happy with your work.

After checking in with the patient one last time, you both step out into the hallway.

“So, how did that feel?” Frank asks, his tone casual but curious.

“Great,” you say, unable to hide your grin.

“Really great.” The excitement still buzzes in your chest, warm and electric.

He watches you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes—then he looks away.

“Good. Now get the prescription written and the discharge papers ready,” he says, his voice shifting—firm, all business again.

That familiar sharp edge returns to his expression, like the moment between you never happened.

You follow his instructions without hesitation—talk the patient through her prescription, explain the aftercare, hand her the discharge papers.

Once everything’s done and she’s officially discharged, you walk her out of the room, offering a kind goodbye as a nurse takes over and escorts her down the hall.

Frank’s at the nurses’ station when you spot him, hunched slightly over a computer, his focus locked on the screen. You hesitate for a beat, debating whether to approach.

But you do.

“She said thank you,” you offer, stopping beside him.

He doesn’t look up. Just hums, eyes still glued to whatever’s on the monitor.

“You did a good job,” he says, flatly—no warmth, no real inflection. It lands wrong, and you feel it immediately.

A small twist in your gut.

You turn to leave, footsteps already starting to shift away, but something keeps you rooted. You pause, then glance back at him.

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask quietly, not sure if you're overthinking or missing something important.

He finally looks at you.

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt, frustration, maybe even regret—but it’s gone before you can name it. He straightens up, pushing a hand through his hair.

“No,” he says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You nod, unsure if that settles it or not. The air between you still feels off. You glance at the counter, then back at him.

“I, um…” You reach into the pocket of your surgical pants and pull out a cold can of Red Bull.

“You said you couldn’t get one this morning and I guess I want to support your unhealthy relationship with caffeine today.”

He blinks, then actually smiles—small, real, the kind that barely lifts the corners of his mouth but feels like more than any words he’s said today.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, but he takes it anyway, his fingers brushing yours for just a second too long.

“I know,” you say simply, trying not to let the warmth in your chest show on your face. “But I wanted to.”

He looks down at the can, then back at you, like he’s trying to say something without saying it.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

And for the first time today, it feels like he actually means it.

©pomelace 2025

#the pitt #frank langdon #frank langdon x reader #patrick ball #the pitt x reader #dr langdon x reader #the pitt hbo

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internetdaddy98 · 2 months ago

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The Ties That Bind Us - Chapter 3

Previous | Next

[Series Masterlist]

Content Warning: Gunshot injuries; blood; medical procedures; I have 0 medical knowledge; if I've missed any warnings, please let me know.

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The sun was barely up when you walked into Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, coffee cup in one hand, badge clipped to your scrub top. Daylight streamed through the rotating doors—mocking, almost, in its calm. Unlike the night shifts that had swallowed you whole in adrenaline and triage chaos, today felt like stepping into unfamiliar territory. You preferred the dark. Things made sense in the dark, sharper instincts, fewer witnesses. But today, you'd be working under the full scrutiny of fluorescent lights, bustling staff, and most importantly, him.

You’d barely set your cup down at the nurses’ station when you heard Dana’s voice.

“Dr. Williams,” she said, clipboard under her arm. Eyes warm and friendly “You’re here early.”

“I like to see what I’m walking into,” You replied, sipping on your chamomile tea, “Chaos is more polite when you greet it first.”

She gave a low chuckle. “You’ll fit right in alright.”

As you headed towards the lounge, you began to take in the place that you had come to know after hours. The hospital felt quieter during the day, or maybe you were just getting used to the hum of codes, psych holds, the unrelenting stream of mayhem. You were nine weeks into your fellowship, and while that hardly made you a seasoned veteran, the initial fog of disorientation had lifted. You knew which nurses worked nights versus days, which CT techs were the fastest, and which vending machine had the good stuff.

You caught a glimpse of Dr. Robby’s back as you entered the lounge room, and he headed towards Dana. You hadn’t talked since that night after the Pittfest shooting, but he had become a constant thought, threading in and out of your days like a song you hadn’t meant to memorize.

You wondered what his story was. The real one. Not the rumors from the other residents—something about a patient he couldn’t save, about working too many shifts and not enough sleep.

The lingering shadows of that night in the Pedes' room had remained with you for days after. But today you’d be working together again. Officially. Attending and fellow. Supervisor and learner and you were willing to learn.

“Dr. Williams,” Robby greeted you at the nurses’ station, glancing at you through his glasses, before returning to look at the tablet in his hand. “You look awake. What’s your secret?”

You smiled as you leaned over. “Excessive caffeine and existential dread.”

He let out a soft chuckle, the kind that came from deep exhaustion. “Ah, the classics.”

“Good morning, good morning come on over. We have a new face joining us today,” he began, inviting the residents and interns to huddle around both of you.

“This is Dr. Williams, Emergency Medicine fellow fresh from night shift”, Robby continued to introduce you to the team as you smiled and waved at everyone. ”If I’m not available, she is the person you find”, Robby added.

You started walking the floor together, reviewing labs and orders, updating notes on the fly. You noticed the way he read the chart notes like he was trying to solve a puzzle that had a missing piece.

He had a way of listening that made patients lean in a little closer, and a way of speaking that made families breathe easier, even when the words weren’t good. Every patient came with a rhythm: neuro checks, vitals, med orders. Robby didn’t micromanage. He observed. Nudged gently. Asked questions that made you think but didn’t corner you.

He didn’t hover when you took charge of a GSW to the abdomen. Didn’t flinch when you suggested changing the antibiotic order for the open tib-fib. When you slipped on a word explaining a FAST scan to a med student, he seamlessly jumped in—not to correct you, but to reinforce your point.

He had a way of making space for people without shrinking himself. And you couldn’t decide if that made him more or less intriguing to your wandering mind “So Dr. Williams,” he said between cases, “day shift treating you better than night?”

You breathed out a laugh, “I haven’t had anything thrown at me yet,” you said. “Seems promising.”

He grinned—really grinned—for the first time that morning. “Give it time. We haven’t hit the lunch rush.”

Throughout the day, you slipped into your role instinctively—leading the ABCs, calling for chest x-rays, ultrasound probe in hand. Robby stood behind you, watching. You could feel his presence like static electricity on the back of your neck.

“He's hypotensive,” You called out. “FAST is positive—right upper quadrant.”

“Good eye, Dr. Williams,” Robby murmured. Then, louder to the room: “Prep for trauma laparotomy. Notify OR.”

It wasn’t until the patient was off to surgery that you realized your hands were shaking just a little.

Later, after a long stretch of back-to-back trauma codes and one surgical boarding nightmare, you caught a break in Abbot’s spot. You leaned over the rails, looking out, chewing a protein bar like it had personally wronged you.

You heard the emergency door creak open and shut, you looked over your shoulder to find Dr. Robby walking towards you.

“You did well down there, kept your cool,” Robby said once he stood beside you. “Nice work leading that.”

“I was a little worried you’d grab the probe out of my hand,” you admitted, only half-joking.

You left out a long breath.

“Is it always this insane during the day?” you asked, looking down at the ground floor of the hospital.

“More noise. Fewer excuses,” Robby replied.

There was a beat of silence before you added, “Thanks for not micromanaging me earlier.”

“I didn’t need to,” he said with a shrug. “I trust you.”

There were so many things you wanted to say. About how you still dream of the Pittfest victims. About the guilt that creeps in when you laugh too freely or go a day without remembering the patients who coded in your arms. But instead, you just stood there in silence.

You stayed a little after shift change, scribbling down notes, double-checking charts, not quite ready to leave. You finally stood, stretching the stiffness from your spine, when you felt his presence.

“Thanks for today,” you said.

“You didn’t need me much,” he replied. “That’s a good sign.”

“I still want to learn from you.”

Robby looked at you, his gaze suddenly serious but not cold.

“You will. But don’t forget you already bring something to the table. You’re not just here to follow. You’re here to lead.”

Your throat caught, just a little. And you nodded.

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This fic is a 25 parter that kinda took a life of its own

#michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt imagine #the pitt fanfiction #dr robby #dr robby x reader #dr robinavitch x reader #dr robby imagine #dr michael robinavitch #dr robinavitch #noah wyle

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moonieandi · 10 months ago

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snapshots pt. 3 | stanley pines x f!reader

summary: a quick look through concerning the early months of your life “married” to stanley pines, particularly centered around moments on the couch

warnings (TW): mdni, contains mature/suggestive content, swearing, alcohol consumption, mentions of drug use

tags: mature/suggestive content (in act iii), fluff, early relationship described, pining, affection

notes: please note that there is heavily implied/suggestive/mature content in act iii of this posting (after the second break)- if you do not wish to interact with this type of content i swear to you you can completely skip it if you like, i attempt to not tie TOO much significance to the written scene- and if you would prefer that the postings stray away from this kind of content i will attempt to better balance it in the future! i am in no shape or form a very “smutty” writer (mainly bc i have never written it), so i hope the scene isnt like… terrible ya know lol (also i don’t consider it much for “smut”- i am def using said word very loosly). annnnyyywayyys hope you enjoy and as always my dms are open for suggestions in the future and general conversation and encouragement! enjoy!

also to note! I believe the story is best read in order- i put certain dependences on certain words and bring descriptions back to really solidify the importance of certain scenes/interactions ! but completely up to you, lol

edit 8/27/24: hello! below i have linked the up to date masterlist for this series- thank you for reading, hope you enjoy!

word count: 4.5k

| masterlist | part iv |

She had caught him sleeping on the couch in the early heat of June.

They had a late night on the couch, discussing Ford’s margin notes and rewatching The Price is Wrong. Stan had a certain affinity for price matching, and she was more than a little stunned to learn of it the first couple of months they resided in the shack together.

She just didn’t expect this 30-year-old man to know the price of most common household appliances.

After his divulgence last month, in which he had confided a little bit of his background in sales, she began to piece together that although Stan considered himself a conman in every way but words, she considered it pure brilliance.

So she quickly got used to late-night T.V. shows, as they discussed next steps back and forth, with Stan interrupting conversations to yell out extremely accurate prices at the small box T.V. in front of the couch. It had grown on her, actually, and had turned rather… endearing.

If not also incredibly hilarious, as he was so passionate about his own accuracy he usually forgot his volume, and sometimes took to ranting at her.

“Hun! Hun! This is a load of malarkey I tell ya! That vacuum price is way too high! It don’t even come with added nozzle attachments!”

She would laugh, and he would revel in making her do so.

They had concluded the night in a similar fashion, and she had stumbled up to her bedroom. The first one on the right from the stairs. But he had lingered in the living room, muttering about tidying up some soda cans and taking the trash out quickly.

She had shrugged it off, giving her goodnight, and made her way up the stairs. She had fallen asleep so quickly, she hadn’t heard the usual meandering steps of Stan as he made for his own room across the hall from her.

She almost never woke up before him, another thing that surprised her. She figured he was the type to doze in and out in the early morning, but he seemed to be quick to rise and even quicker to make a pot of coffee, usually stumbling down the stairs thirty minutes before she could manage to roll out of bed.

So she thought it odd to look down the stairs and not see the usual kitchen light on, and the usual grumble of the shitty coffee machine either.

She found him snoring on his back, the throw blanket she had brought with her half on half off him. It had grown a little muggy in the shack, due to the distinct lack of central air, but Stan’s solution seemed to be very simple.

Just wear less clothes.

Something that wouldn’t disturb her in the slightest, if it were not for, well… Stan.

She was a scientist, a usual logical thinker, and only slightly prude (due to her upbringing), but she was no idiot, and she knew the man she was cohabitating with was attractive.

I mean, he was also funny- made her laugh more times than she could count. He was oddly sincere for his age and even more oddly protective. He was flippantly affectionate and even more flippantly kind to her.

And he was also shirtless.

Something she takes note of instantly, instinctually. Whipping her head to make for the kitchen, and trying to forget the curve of his broad shoulders and the slight swell of his stomach. The smattering of dark hair on his chest all the way down to the crisp edge of the boxers she had folded two days ago.

Coffee, coffee coffee!

She didn’t make as good of a cup as he did, she had never had to before. Something he scoffed at, but quickly took to doing himself. He made it every morning, now. Always up before her, with her mug waiting for her by her worn kitchen chair.

She turned to the stove instead, moving pans and turning on the burner. She’d make breakfast for them instead of her shitty burnt coffee special. Pulling eggs and bacon out of the small fridge she went to work.

The smell woke him up, and she noted his groggy fumbling to redress himself. Glancing out the archway from kitchen to living room she watched him pass to the stairs, still shirtless. He takes the stairs two at a time, back up to his room to retrieve new clothes she presumed.

He returns in minutes, in typical fashion it took him not too long to get ready in the morning.

He walks in, still stretching, with hair muddled from sleep. A pair of work jeans that had seen a lot of love in the past month, and a shirt that was quickly growing too tight around his arms and shoulders. She decided to ignore that sliver of stomach that peaked out when he raised his arms a little too high, otherwise, the bacon would burn.

He made his way to the coffee machine, beginning the usual morning routine as it spurred to life. Moving to the sink he began washing their shared mugs.

Breakfast was always a little quiet like they both couldn’t be bothered to open their mouths beyond sating their appetite. They still moved the same, instinctually and without words. Falling into their unassigned assigned seats, Stan moving to grab her feet and drag them across his lap, while she moved the salt and pepper between them both. She always reached across to his plate, grabbing his toast to butter first and then moving to her own.

She had decided to interrupt their usual silence this morning, looking across to Stan as he fumbled with the morning paper. He always went straight to the comics in the morning, hoping to pick up on a joke to read to her that day, hoping to make her laugh first before anything else in the morning.

But she had thrown a wrench in his usual plan (that she still hadn’t picked up on yet).

“Why were you on the couch?” She asked, biting around her toast.

“It’s cooler down here hun.”

“I know heat rises Stan, but the sun rises on my side of the house in the morning. It ain’t that hot upstairs yet. Is there something wrong with your bed?”

When first rearranging rooms he had resolved to take Stanford's old one. He didn’t want her to have to live in the shell his brother had left behind. His more intimate nick-nacks and sticky notes had been scattered around what is now Stan’s room. Along with his random mismatched socks and sweater vests, and his cologne. And he didn’t want to think about having her live around the last remnants of Stanford, because she got this weird look in her eyes already when she retraced his brother's writings and he couldn’t stand it. He had lived with Stanford for eighteen years, and sometimes entering the room was at least therapeutic.

Except Stanford always had a weird affinity for sleeping on the ground.

It’s the main reason Stanley even had the top bunk during their preteen years to begin with, because Stanford would find himself stiff on the floor most mornings. His brother had a tendency to doze away on any hard surface he could rest his head on, starting at his desk most nights, moving to his bed, but usually rolling off it in favor of the floor. Stanford was… not one for restful sleep. And his hard ass mattress showed it.

“Ya.” Stan muttered behind the newspaper. “‘Ford trying to fuck my back up from another dimension.”

“You can have my bed?” She offered up her own mattress, one she had splurged on with her own money. He still remembers her playing Goldilocks that day at the flash mattress sale she had circled in the classifieds the week before.

He shook his head at the memory, them both laying side by side on each bed as she had discussed odds and ends. She had argued that she needed approximately 5 minutes on each mattress to sink into each, and that she couldn’t be intrinsically thinking about her comfort when doing so. So she had him lay beside her and talk to her, as she flipped from her back to her side testing out her comfort and considered the gravelness of his voice. Until she had landed on the right bed, the tenth one, declaring it her perfect match as she looked over at him beside her.

“Nah, I can’t take your perfect match, hun, your one true love.” He joked, folding up the newspaper with the comics up, setting it aside in favor of looking at her. “Besides my bed is fine for now. I just… sometimes I like being close to the door.”

She hummed. “I can rearrange the living room today? Do you want to move your bed downstairs?” She hadn’t even questioned it, still searching for something to sate his comfort.

He laughed at this, he would never let her rearrange things without him and she knew it. He had hovered something harsh those first three months, moving around most things for her as she pointed from object to object.

“No, no.” He shook his head. “I just, I ain’t used to sleeping in a room without a straight way out of it yet.” He admits, munching on his bacon, shrugging like he was discussing the weather. “So sometimes I just, sleep on the couch. No big deal.”

She sits back in her seat, shock marring her face. He had spent so long hopping from place to place she had forgotten he hadn’t had a place to call home in a decade- besides his car. Something that may have four walls, but had no heart.

Hotels, to cars, to floors of shelters, he had slept in questionable places for far too long, and in some cases Stanford’s room sometimes felt like a new prison, or at least reminded him of a certain Colombian one. Except this one contained taunting memories and a stupid amount of sweaters.

It hurt more, to open his door to find hers closed, for some reason. He didn’t like the thought of her trapped either, nestled in a part of the house he couldn’t get to. But he didn’t know how to voice this to her without sounding mad in a way. Or obsessive maybe.

She digs her toes into the junction of his ribs, grabbing his attention. She’s smiling across from him, and standing before he can ask why. Grabbing his hand, she pulls him up the stairs to their own parallel doors, not even hesitating to walk through the door Stanford used to call his own.

She’s muttering under her breath as he stands in the doorway, landlocked by witnessing her in this exact space for some reason. She moves to the window, opening it all the way and fumbling with the screen. She gets it off and makes to climb out the window before he can protest.

“If you want a way out, you got it right here!” She grunts, footing her way through to the shingled roof, his protests falling on deaf ears.

“Get the fuck back in here!” He leans out, making to grab her. “Ain’t no way this shack's roof is any good!”

She prances around, slightly mocking him by moving away from his waving arm. “Stan! It’s fine!” She laughs, the sun shining on her figure. Suddenly serious she stops, hands on her hips. “Seriously, if you need a way out, keep the window open, okay?”

She crawls back through the window a moment later, using Stan’s hand as a weight as she balances back on the wooden floor.

Still serious, she continues, “Stan if you need to keep the window open, you can keep the door open also if you feel like it.”

She smiles like she has a brilliant idea, moving across the hall she opens her own room to display her own mess of things. “I can keep mine open also if it helps.”

How the fuck had she read his mind? He was continually dumbfounded by her unquantifiable amounts of patience she had for him. Like it was a reserve she tapped into, to specifically deal with all his dumb bullshit. He would let it pile in the back of his head, but she’d reach back in and shake him awake, present him with a solution, and he forgets himself in his need to question “why?”.

He had taken too long to respond, and she stands in the hall, hands wringing her too large t-shirt and looking surprisingly bashful. “Is this okay?” She asks, is this what you need? Vying for his approval as she continues. “Because really I don’t mind you sleeping on the couch, I really don’t, you can keep doing it if you like! Really! I just… I just…”

Unspoken between them, he already knew. She meant well, she meant the best actually. She wanted him to be comfortable, here, with her. Wanted him to stop moving from place to place in the house because no where felt right because it all felt like a trap. Wanted him to know the four walls they shared could never be a prison, and that she didn’t want him to hop around anymore searching and clawing his way out of it. To not have to Goldilocks around the house, because across the hall from her had to be just right.

And it was. Because she had read his mind as usual, and he was almost tired of being absolutely astounded by it.

He nodded, smiling across from her, his confirmation in the squeeze he gave her hand as he reached for her again, and in the ruffling of her hair he gave her as he slipped from the house later. Making his way outside to his work, somehow lighter than usual.

They ended up on the couch most weekends, or at least most Saturday nights.

She had insisted, against his better nature, that it was not appropriate to drink yourself into a stupor on a weekday. So he had gotten used to the shared moments on the weekend, routinely looking forward to shitty VHS movies and even shittier boxed wine and beer.

She laughed at fucking everything when she was drunk. He almost wondered if she had ever been high, or if she even needed to be. He might as well be a stand up comedian most weekends, because if he thought he had a great audience Monday through Friday, well he had an even more endearing one on the weekends.

It was a hot July night, and she had scoffed at his light beer that resided in the back of the fridge. Tisking at him as she danced around the kitchen, pouring sweet red wine into mugs (their only cups), and shooing him back to the couch. Only wine in the summer, only wine when it was this hot.

And it was hot, and humid, unsurprising for Oregon really. So hot in fact, that she had decided pjs were appropriate attire for the night, luckily for him. So he shed his jeans in favor of loose boxers and a well worn shirt. Unluckily for him, she had decided upon much the same wardrobe, which was odd for her and only uncomfortable for sober him.

But he wasn’t sober anymore, and he had to admit she was rather enchanting hunched over on the couch, laughing at his shitty jokes with one of his old band t-shirts on, shorts that she made no indication of even owning, bagging up around the tops of her thighs.

He had been intoxicated on numerous amounts of things, nothing, of course, too hard or addictive per say, but it’d be the first time he was this drunk on wine.

And it was… different.

He had scoffed at the movie she chose originally tonight. She always chose the second movie, and he chose the first. They had a habit of in depth discussing during films, especially when more intoxicated.

But he had never been so incredibly invested in a romantic comedy in his entire life, he blamed his company and the alcohol.

“I can’t believe that he thinks he stands a chance with the likes of her! She’s sacrificed so much! Her jobs on the line here and he won’t even consider marrying her for a green card!” He yelled, just about jumping at the screen. This man in the movie was ridiculous, demanding things from his assistant and throwing her away the next.

She ran back into the room, mugs full with their next round. She had become the bartender tonight, waiting on him and grabbing snacks when he’d ask in exchange for rubbing her aching shoulders.

“What did I miss!” She rushed back, handing him his mug and taking her seat back in front of him on the floor, her throw blanket being used as a cushion.

He takes a sip, setting the mug aside her own on the floor and moving back to place his hands on her tense shoulders.

“She’s being kicked out of the country right in front of her boss and he ain’t gonna do anything about it! She basically does everything for this man, why doesn’t he see he needs her?”

She groans below him, her head rocking back as she takes her own drink. “Are we gonna discuss the intricates of them having a relationship though? I love marriage of convenience, don’t get me wrong, but that’s her boss! Isn’t there a weird power dynamic here?”

“Oh ya!” He agrees, nodding along as his fingers began to dig into her muscles. “We gotta talk about that because if this gets creepy we gotta pick out a different one. He’s already pissing me off!”

She looks up at him, eyes glowing with an idea. Enchanted, she moves away from him, crawling to the cabinet beside the T.V., and he really swears that he tries to look away. But he also reasons that it’ll be a while before he gets the chance to see her in shorts again. And fuck.

She turns back, a new VHS in hand. “This!” She exclaims. “Now this is my favorite rom-com!”

A shitty picture is well worn on the front of the movie sleeve, a VHS he doesn’t recognize from the donation bin sitting in her hands. She must have brought it with her, and she must have had it for a while.

She crawls forward, movie in hand and a bright, flushed smile on her face.

“Please, please, please Stanley! This one!” She all but yelled as she leaned up into him. His legs had already been parted to accommodate her sitting in front of him, but now were warm with her torso between them, as she crawled into his lap, movie still in hand and smile still on her face. She leaned up onto his chest, a fake pout on her lips as she looked up at him.

He forgot himself for a minute, excusing her silently for calling him Stanley in her drunken plee. His hand finding her waist as he answered.

“Okay, okay!” He snorted. “Better be a better love interest because this guy sucks.”

He missed her as soon as she left, but his heart still felt something sick when she yelled victoriously on the ground, hand raised in celebration, movie clutched to her chest. Rolling from her current position to the VHS player and popping out the current horrendous movie. All the while she giggled, and he followed in much the same manner. Laughing while running his hand through his hair, trying to soothe himself to forget her warmth.

She crawled back to him (fuck) settling back into his knees from her position on the ground. The title screen flashed, but he was much too busy watching it illuminate her face. Heart sick again when she leaned her head all the way back, hair across his knees and thighs, she smiles up at him, a thank you on her lips. Clutching his mug in her hands, bringing it to her lips for a sip before passing it up to him too.

And when he carried her to bed that night he wondered when the tight sickness would leave him. He never closed either of their doors.

It didn’t happen like this, that night.

Not from what he could remember anyway, but he felt too groggy to care about accuracy and too intoxicated by the image of her to care much for what was right.

Her hands had continued up his thighs from her place knelt in front of him, his back hot against the living room couch. She had climbed up on top of him, creeping up to sit on his knees and thighs like she had been there before. Her smile turned sweet into something twisted as she leaned in close to his face, the closest she had ever gotten to it. Whispering something between the heat between the two of them, something lost on him, as he tried to lean closer, tried to bridge the gap between their chests, aching to feel her against the very front of him.

He knew it was different because she had never worn this in front of him before, at least willingly. He had caught her in the middle of the night, stumbling from her open bedroom door to the bathroom down the hall, panties striped and endearing on her ass. He had seen them in the washer, had seen her fold them and tuck them away. And she was in them, sitting on his fucking lap.

His hands made for her, reaching behind her and dragging her close, his fingers edging the back of the band of her striped panties.

She gasps like she does when she’s happy for him, always jumping from her position on the couch cheering along with him when he gets a stupid fucking The Price is Wrong answer right.

And it’s how he imagined it, fuck, how he was currently dreaming of her noises. In bits and pieces he could remember, his brain scrambling to paint an image of her wanting him.

Her hands edge along the back of his head, running through his long hair, and tracing to the front along his jaw. Mouth open, her fingers glide along the bottom of his lip, teasing.

She whispers again, closer now. Her chest heaving against his own, her ass waits precariously positioned above right where he dreamt of her being. Right along the space he places her feet every morning, right where he thought she may kill him.

He catches it this time, between them. Her voice wavering like it had that day in the car when she had apologized for calling him him. He thought of begging for it, allowing her to say his name, but she had read his mind like she always fucking managed to do.

“Please, Stanley.”

He had surged forward like his own tidal wave, meeting her in the hot space between them. But he could only imagine a kiss with her, dream of it here.

He imagined it slow, and building. Imagined her hesitation and the pout of her lip between his fucking teeth, imagined her moan when he eventually came back for more.

Her hands pulled at his fucking hair, the only time she had placed them there to harm, and he groaned as she pulled him forward, meeting again in the middle of the heat they shared there on the couch. She moaned, her hips rushing to his own, making a new heat between them.

The friction between them was the same as the kiss, slow and building. Grinding herself in the curve of his lap, right where they both needed each other. Every pass slightly faster, every groan from her more imagined, more unreal.

The pressure felt real though, and her fingers in his hair felt even more so. His head thrown back on the couch, he looked down his nose at her, a groan leaving his throat as she makes a home in his shoulder, as her hips cause waves against his fucking lap.

Her breath is hot on his neck, something real, and her echoing noises move up his shoulder to his ear and it makes him hotter than he could imagine. Her groans come to a precipice, getting higher in octave and volume and she thinks to fucking bite him there, right on his shoulder.

The image she makes shakes him, his hands remembering where they are on her ass and hips, as he makes to work them harder, to somehow bring her closer and harder to the crook of his boxers. Her teeth nestle into him, and it makes him groan more, her hot breath and aching moans reverb off his skin back to him.

It sends him reeling forward, his own head rushing off the back of the couch, groaning in heat, moving in blind passion. His head rests against the top of her own, his big hands digging into the fat of her behind, finger creeping in through the top of her panties.

“Fuck.” He groans between them. “Fuck, honey.” His hips canting up, her moans echoing again, her teeth unlaching, like she can’t ground herself to him anymore, because all the movement is him now. He’s fucking using her, the pressure hot, and she peels back to look at him, a heat in her eyes he can’t have imagined. He must have seen it before, marring her face. He had, he swears, seen her with this heat in her eyes before.

He was using her.

It stops just as abruptly as it began, and he wakes to his discomfort. His room is cool despite the morning sun, the curtains by his windows billowing out with September wind. His door wide open, and his hand curled around something that no longer needed relief.

His other hand, clutching his hair in a fist. The back of his head tender from the pressure, and his fingers heavy from sleep.

He got up quicker than usual, his heart still pounding oddly in his chest as he attempted to catch a breath he didn’t remember losing. On his way out of his room, dresssed for the day, he peaks into her parallel room, her door wide open like it was every day now.

He groans low, she’s wearing the fucking stripes.

He tries not to think about it the rest of the day, tries not to be disgusted with himself, but his chest aches something odd and his stride is somehow uneven for the rest of the day. His heart carries something sickly when he sees her that day, and she pretends it doesn’t hurt he’s oddly quiet that day, or that he doesn’t read her the morning comics like usual.

She thinks it has something to do with how flushed he is, when she catches his staring that evening, as they sit beside each other on the couch, T.V. echoing in the background.

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #stanley pines x reader #stan pines x reader #stanford pines #stan pines #grunkle stan #gravity falls imagine #smut

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wanders-in-wonderland · 1 year ago

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~Welcome to Wonderland~

Disclaimer: If you are a minor, please please do not interact with my content and I will block you if I see you. I absolutely do not condone any true non-consensual activities, all sex should be performed with consenting adults, clear communication, and trust. Just because I write about non-consensual topics does not mean it is okay in real life. My blog contains content that may be triggering and I do my best to tag accordingly but please be warned and engage at your own discretion!

Hello! Thank you for stopping by my little corner of the internet and welcome! I write long- and short-form content (and now make audios!) that spans a variety of my own kinks that most commonly include overstimulation, consensual non-consent, rape fantasies, and being a breedable, submissive slut ;)

I try my best to tag my content accordingly and this post will (hopefully) always be the most updated list of my long-form content. Short-form content is posted in pink text and tagged with #drippythoughts. I’m open to requests and suggestions and my ask box and DMs are always open for anyone who wants to play! Also, I love when y’all interact with my posts by commenting or reblogging so please feel free!

~ Story Masterlist ~

A Game | Drugging, Aphrodisiac, Mind Break, Choking, Breath Play, Overstimulation, Predicament Bondage, Vibrator

As Planned | Consensual Non-Consent, Anal (Painal), Fake Safe Word, Aftercare

Broken Rules | Overstimulation, Daddy Kink, Vibrator/Fucking Machine

Countdown | Overstimulation, Sybian, Edging, Exhibitionism, Mind Break

Date Night Distractions | Overstimulation, Cockwarming, Praise

Difficult Decisions | Overstimulation, Vibrator, Bondage, Gaslighting (ish), Daddy Kink, Clit Pumping

Doctor’s Orders | Overstimulation, Medical, Rape Fantasy, Vibrator,

Don't Move | Drugging, Paralytic, Rape Fantasy, Mind Break, Overstimulation

Don't Run From Me | Yandere, Kidnap, Overstimulation, Rape Fantasy, Drowning, Choking, ANGST

Electrified | Consensual Non-Consent, Overstimulation, Drugging, Aphrodisiac, Electrostimulation, Medical (ish)

Ex-Boyfriend | Rape Fantasy, Mind Break, Edging, Overstimulation, Bimbofication

First Date | Consensual Non-Consent, Rape Fantasy, Mouth Fucking

Forgiveness | Female Dom/Male Sub, Edging, Blowjob, Choking

Fuck Me Like You Hate Me | Overstimulation, Mind Break, Vibrator, Dacryphilia

Glocking Out | Gun Kink, Consensual Non-Consent, After Care, Kidnapping

Jealousy | Daddy Kink, Overstimulation, Edging, Mind Break, Exhibitionism (ish)

Let Me Learn to Love You | Angst, Groveling Man, No Smut

Lover Boy | Overstimulation, Cuck, Threesome (ish but not really), Exhibitionism

Marriage is a Contract | Fluff, Arranged Marriage, Romance, No Smut

Match My Freak | Drugging, Aphrodisiac, Rape Fantasy, After Care

My Roommate | Spanking, Rape Fantasy

New Toy | Daddy Kink, Brat, Edging, Overstimulation, Vibrator

Obsession | Stalker, Kidnapping, Soft Rape Fantasy, Overstimulation, Cunnilingus

Ownership | Electrostimulation, Overstimulation, Forced Orgasm, Rape Fantasy

Pay to Play | Rape Fantasy, Kidnapping, Mind Break, Overstimulation, Medical (ish)

Paid and Played | Rape Fantasy, Kidnapping, Mind Break, Overstimulation, Pierced, Electrostimulation, Body Modification

Please Professor | Rape Fantasy, Overstimulation, Mind Break, Academia/School, Vibrator

Rise and Shine | Oral Fixation, Cocksucking

Roles Reversed | Overstimulation, Daddy Kink, Brat, Rope Bondage

Set Up to Fail | Overstimulation, Edging, Degradation, Praise, After Care, Mind Break

Smile for the Camera | Cam Girl, Consensual Non-Consent, Rape Fantasy, Exhibition, After Care

Sparks Fly | Cervical Stimulation, Electrostimulation, Overstimulation, Medical (ish), Mind Break

Taken: Denial | Rape Fantasy, Kidnapping, Edging, Mind Break, Vibrator

Taken: Refusal | Rape Fantasy, Kidnapping, Overstimulation, Edging, Somnophilia, Vibrator

Technical Mastermind | Rape Fantasy, Somnophilia-ish, Stalking, Dual POV

The Monster in My Bed | Consensual Non-Consent, Overstimulation, Choking, Intruder

The Popular Vote | Rape Fantasy, Mind Break, Fucking Machine, Vibrator/Sybian, Clit Torture, Electrostimulation, Overstimulation, Edging, Ruined Orgasms, Exhibitionism

Treatment Plan | Rape Fantasy, Tickling, Overstimulation, Restrained, Medical, Mind Break

~ Audio Masterlist ~

Babe Are You Done Gaming Yet? | [F4M] [GFE] [Blowjob] [Gaming] [Distraction] [Cock Praise] [Teasing] [Established Relationship]

Drugged Into a Mindless Slut for My Best Friend | [F4M] [Drugged] [Rape-ish] [Aphrodisiac] [Blowjob] [Begging for Your Cock] [Riding Your Cock] [Begging for Your Cum]

Kidnapped and Raped by My Stalker | [F4M] [Rape] [Kidnapping] [Tied to Bed] [Knife] [Overstimulation] [Vibrator] [Forced Orgasm] [Blowjob] [Daddy] [Mindbreak]

Not Tonight Babe | [F4M] [Rape] [CNC] [Forced Blowjob] [Hair Pulling] [Struggle] [Established Relationship] [Forced Orgasm] [Crying] [Begging to Stop] [Saying No] [Implied Off-Screen Negotiation]

Your Bratty Girlfriend Pushes Your Buttons Until You Break Her | [F4M] [Brat Taming] [BRAT] [Vibrator] [Edging] [Overstimulation] [Begging] [Crying] [Daddy] [Needy] [Gagged] [Established Relationship] [SFX]

Updated June 14, 2025

#masterlist #nsft concept #overstim kink #cl1t torture #cnc overstim #dark fantasy #mind break #cnc k!nk #rap3 fantasy #edging kink

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gremlin-girly · 17 days ago

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Dorky & Do-able

For @yenzys-lucky-charm 's Cranky! Grumpy! Stabby! Oh my! Challenge

Pairing: Jake Jensen x f!reader

Prompt: "Are you trying to turn me on or are you just that oblivious?"

Not beta'd and I don't give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI machine.

Tags/warnings: Highly Suggestive Content, no smut but hoe thoughts ✊🏻😔, fluff, a sort of confession, Jake being an oblivious dweeb (bless him), 18+

Summary: Aisha's cute friend Jake drives you insane with impure thots thoughts. And there's only so much a girl can take.

Word count: 1.6k

A/N: I had a few prompts lined up (because this was so fun!) But I just had so many wips I couldn't make it through 🥲 shout out to @bigtreefest who I word associated with Jake and @brandycranby for sandwich one snippet!

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

Jake Jensen Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Alisha had warned you about flirting with her other friends - about Clay's Cassanova Cowboy charm, Roque's brtuish tough-guy facade, Cougar's silent sultriness, how Pooch was happily married... however, she had omitted to warn you about one adorably dorky and utterly do-able Jake Jensen.

He half trips over himself when he greets you and beams a smile so bright you swear puppies and rainbows magically surround him. You were smitten at first sight and tried so very hard not to flirt or flounce every time you saw him, per Aisha's warning glare.

That did not mean, however, that Jake made it easy on you for the week you spent visiting your best friend.

The first time it happens - you can kind of blame yourself. You were staring. It's not your fault he was a snack, or your fault you'd used your laptop as a bath bomb and asked him to fix it, but the way his tongue runs over his bottom lip ought to be a crime.

His eyes are fixed on your motherboard - you think that's what that is anyway - focused with an intensity that surprised you and it did things to you that was only spoken about in books.

"How did you learn to do this?" You ask more dreamily than you intend - not that Jake notices. He has to shake himself from his thoughts to give you a smile and an answer.

"Oh... you know - I was just always good at fixing stuff like this." He shrugs and turns back to the pieces of your laptop.

"Uh huh."

He picks up a tiny screwdriver and gently pries under a piece of metal. "It came in handy when my mom or sister needed me to do something."

"That right?"

Jake peeks up at you, smiling again and you want to tackle him. "It was nice to feel useful. Like a handyman or something."

"Well, it's nice to jnow you're more than a pretty face." You're about to wink at him, but the slam of Aisha's mug on the countertop startles you both, and you resign yourself to an apologetic smile her way and watch Jake's cheeks grow pink in your peripheral.

Chin in your palms you continue to watch him work, hoping he or anyone else in the room, didn't suddenly develop the power of telepathy.

You feel cursed. Wanting something you can't have is one thing but craving something you've never had is an entirely different ball game.

You had popped to the store for some snacks and had totally accidentally bumped into Jake. Well, he bumped into you. You were too busy trying to look nonchalantly to the snacks at the very top of the shelves - ones you certainly could not reach.

"Hey!" Jake greets, again with that goofy grin. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Hi." You try not too excited. "What a coincidence."

"Yeah!" Jake clears his throat and looks up to where you'd been staring before looking back at you. "Want me to grab those chips for ya?"

"Oh, if you wouldn't mind!"

You couldn't care less about the chips. They weren't even your favourites. Any excuse to talk to him without Aisha present was a chance worth taking.

However, as he reaches up, your eyes catch on his bright graphic tee just in time for the material to rise up and reveal his snail trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath his jeans.

Time stops. You wish you could rewind time. The unbearable throb of want coursing through your body like a drug makes you want to scream in the middle of the store. You dont even notice, in your stupor, that Jake is holding the chips to you until he says your name.

"You okay?"

He looks so concerned, bless his cotton socks and you have to wipe your mouth to make sure you haven't drooled anywhere.

"Headache." You lie quickly. "I'll be fine."

"Oh, man, uh... do you want me to drop you back?"

You cant think of anything worse than being trapped in a close space with him at this moment in time so you wave your hand and tell him you'll enjoy the stroll back alone (with your impure thoughts).

The following day, everyone is gathered for a late lunch. Jake had promised the sandwiches from a local deli were the best around and the comment had gone uncontested so, suffice to say you were excited to try what was on offer. However, once again, you were only here to suffer.

"Oh fuck -" Jake moans around his sandwich loudly and as he moves it back, he's licking away sauce from his lips and fingers. "Tastes so good."

The table creaks under your white knuckle grip. You are close to your fucking limit with this guy. Your jaw sets, your thighs clamp shut and you beg for mercy on your soul. Someone this hot cannot know what he's doing.

You are seconds away from slamming your face against the table when Jake's blue eyes flick up from his sandwich (which does look ridiculously good) and meet yours with an innocently curious gaze.

"You not gonna eat?"

There is only one thing on your mind right now that you want to eat and that is one Jake Jensen.

"It's good I promise." He continues when you only stare at him wide eyed as he licks a finger again. "It'll blow your mind."

"Are you trying to turn me on or are you just that oblivious?" You blurt suddenly, causing Pooch to almost choke on his sandwich and Roque to gag on the straw of his drink.

Jake's cheeks go pink and he half gapes at you like a fish unsure of what to say while you continue to stare him down waiting on an answer. You then point at Aisha who's sat across from you.

"Did she put you up to this?"

"I - what - no!" Jake blunders looking around the table for help but his friends are either being rescued from choking or snickering to themselves.

"I didn't do anything." Aisha protests and fixes you with a sarcastic smile. "But watching your brain break has been great."

"I hate you." You say flatly, staring at your best friend in disbelief, trying not to let the corners of your lips twitch. "This week has been torture."

"Uhhh, can I ask what this is about?" Jake says quietly, taking another bite of his sandwich and looking between you and Aisha.

"To answer your previous question; yes he is just that oblivious." Aisha says, leaning back to pop a fry in her mouth. "And your ban is lifted."

"Oh wow," you raise your eyebrows. "That's.... wow."

Jake shakes his head slightly going back to his sandwich. He'll just have to make sure he asks you later.

Later, as you pad to the bathroom ready to complete your nightly routine, you bump into Jake on his way out; hair and skin sparklingly moist, taut muscles and tats on display all the way down to the towel cinched around his slutty waist like nobody's business. Without his glasses he looks just as good, if not better. You can't help as your tongue darts out across your lips, it's the best you can allow otherwise you would be licking him.

"Hey."

"Hi." You eke out, mouth dry. You force your eyes to stay on his face but there's taunting rivulets of water running down the lines of his muscles, following his snail trail and into the towel.

"I need to-" he points past you to his room and you jump out of his way.

"Sorry."

As you enter move to enter the bathroom, he calls your name and you turn back and he's studying you closely, as if trying to catch you out.

"Earlier today, at the table." He begins slowly. "What was that about?"

This is the worst interrogation ever.

"Uhhh... when?" Playing dumb was a dumb play.

"About me turning you on?" He presses, making both of your cheeks grow hot.

"Maybe don't... say it like that." You wince a little but somehow managed a smile. "But look at you! You're gorgeous! Who wouldn't want a piece of that?"

Jake's blush deepens, spreading pink splotches over his neck and chest too. But this was an opportunity to get it all off your chest, you couldn't not take it! Anything to make that boy blush...

"Aisha made me promise not to flirt with you - since I have a bad habit of collecting cuties." You lean against the doorway, hoping the shift in your legs draws attention to them (it does) but giving a half chuckle of relief. "I stuck to my promise but holy shit, you did not make it easy."

"I didn't?" Jake is a strawberry now, clutching his towel in a death grip.

"Nah," you snort. "But since Aisha lifted the ban; you're fair game now lover boy."

He blinks for a moment and then a grin spreads across his face. "You're gonna put the moves on me?"

"Not just the moves," you say proudly. "My moves."

"I think you're going to eat me alive." He chuckles, raking a hand through his wet locks; inadvertently flexing his muscles.

"And then some." You add quietly, glancing up at him to catch a delightful deer-in-headlights look. "But I should let you get to bed..."

You sigh dramatically before fixing him with a smirk and sultry gaze. "Unless you want to jump into mine?"

Jake swallows thickly and has to adjust his towel while you try not to giggle. "Yeah, um, that... that works."

"Let me brush my teeth and I'll see you in five." You wink at him and skip into the bathroom feeling higher than life. This week just got so much better.

End

A/N: if you haven't seen this post, @buckyys-babydoll and I are trying to boost engagement across fics in the writing community. If you liked this fic, please reblog - you dont have to leave a comment. You can leave a reaction image, gif or emoji(s)!

Support writers. Support artists. Support the fandom.

Love ya! 🫶🏻

A/N 2: I didn't think this was 1.6k - it was supposed to be a drabble! 😩 but that's 2 of 13 fics done 💪😌

Taglist - add yourself here

@stargazingfangirl18 @late-to-the-party-81 @irishhappiness @looking1016 @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @almostglitterybear @blackhawkfanatic @peaches1958 @alicedopey @brianochka @steviebbboi

#gremlin girly writes #jake jensen the losers #jake jensen fanfiction #the losers jake jensen #jake jensen x reader #jake jensen #jake jensen x fem!reader #jake jensen x y/n #jake jensen x you

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luvvixu · 1 year ago

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mind over matter pt. 3

synopsis: witness how your marriage was bound to fall apart with you on the front seat and your husband gojo had missed the show—now, he gotta figure out the story on his own.

content: arrange marriage au, angst, husband!gojo, mean!gojo, mention of blood, strong languages, some unsettling scenarios, emotional trauma, read at your own risk

a/n: yooooo, finally an update!! thanks for waiting everyone~ i actually took a small break because my friends and i had a beach outing and that was great!

previous / masterlist / next

you feel like you had the longest dream in your entire life the moment you slowly open your eyes and reveal the white plain ceiling with matching beeping sound coming out from the machine.

it takes a second or two to realize that you're in a hospital.

like a seemingly newborn, your half lidded eyes traveled across the room until it reached the sight of some peculiar white haired male with his face buried on your arm, sleeping uncomfortably while sitting on the cold hard chair.

you could feel your whole body ache when you tried to move some parts of your body to stop it from numbing when you noticed some kind of empty feeling—like something was missing.

it did not take you a while to realize that your stomach feels so empty right now, and you know it's not because you're hungry, but because you couldn't feel your baby anymore.

an anguish screech escapes from your mouth when you realize that the baby isn't part of your body anymore. tears stream like a waterfall as your body automatically sits up and hugs your lower body, specifically your stomach, because you cannot accept the fact that your baby has been taken away from you.

this immediately woken satoru up and started to console you. “hey, hey, y/n! i’m here. i'm here.” his voice was soft and comforting but there's a hint of shakiness due to your sudden outburst.

“satoru, my baby! i can't feel my baby! my baby is gone!” as an upcoming loving mother, it hurts you so bad that you'd rather die than to accept this.

the sound of the machine keeps on loudly pulsating, meaning that your heart rate is rising quickly and it's dangerous for you to get stressed since you just came out from the operation.

“y/n! the baby is fine. our baby is fine. they were being cured by the best doctors so don't worry.” pulling your body close to his, satoru caresses your hair and keeps on murmuring some comforting words to calm you down.

but it seems that his actions were no avail when he saw your lower stomach bleeding. feels like his own blood had disappeared, his pale face becomes more paler when your extreme sadness cry turns to extremely painful cry.

his body seemingly moves on its own and presses the button to call for help while still managing to calm you down.

“where's my baby? g-give me back my baby! satoru, do something!” it pains satoru to see you like this. a whole crying mess who cannot even digest the fact that her baby was in intensive care so they can become better.

suddenly, the door in your room opened, revealing the doctor and their nurse—shoko was there too. they immediately inject you with midazolam to calm you down and it works almost instantly. satoru watches your body go limp as your wound continues to bleed.

satoru and shoko were instructed to wait outside as they transfer you to another room to tend your wounds. after you were scouted to exit the scene, satoru fell on his knees and leaned his back on the wall.

god, what did you do to deserve this kind of thing?

letting out a soft sob, satoru prayed once again—something that he just learned yesterday. he prayed that all of your pain, burden, suffering, and all must disappear because satoru couldn't list any single reason why you must suffer like this.

“you should go back at least for now, gojo. i’ll handle things here while you freshen yourself up.” shoko suggested but satoru just shook his head, refusing to leave your side.

“don't be a fucking stubborn. you still have other things to do, don't forget that.” shoko hissed.

“but i need to be by her side. i need to be there to support her whatever i can.” satoru slowly let himself up and looked shoko straight in the eye.

“do you think she still needs you to be by her side? oh please, not after what you had done.” the doctor rolled her eyes as she toys with the unlit cigarette on her lips.

for some reason, satoru was having a deja vu, it was like they're in her clinic once again and they argue where you heard things that you shouldn't have. as much as satoru would like to shut her down, he's worried that you might hear him say nasty things that he didn't mean to say.

“shoko, please…i know you're mad at me and you wanted to be hostile towards me. i actually don't care if you hurt me or insult me, just not now. i need to stand by her side and i don't need you to tell me what to do.” satoru stood up and his gaze on shoko became hard.

the doctor just tsked and decided to drop the conversation for your sake. there's a whole silence in the atmosphere when satoru suddenly thinks about your little breakdown earlier. you're looking at your child and he is too. he really wants to go to the baby but he thinks it would be better if the two of you are together.

satoru was excited to see his baby, sure. but something inside stirs up something that he personally couldn't explain. was it because he remembers your conversation when he first knew of your pregnancy? that he found himself unable to answer your questions during that night?

but whatever the reasons are, satoru was ultimately willing to ignore it and just focus on becoming a better husband and now a new father towards his child with you.

the strongest sorcerer of his generation, the one and only satoru gojo, the pride of his clan, your husband on papers, your most hated person, your child's father—swore to himself that he will treat his son as his own flesh and blood, not as the heir that will dethrone him from being the pride.

and most of them all, he swore to himself that you will be treated way, way better than everyone, specifically and especially him. satoru will patch up the wounds that he had caused you.

but not all wounds can be treated by a mere bandaid.

an hour had passed and now you're once again in your room, but this time, you're more than calm as you finally understood the situation—thanks to shoko who patiently explains everything to you.

like right now, she's standing by the end of your bed while satoru was on his seat just like the first time you saw him in this hospital. shoko carefully and softly explained what was going on with you and gave you some sort of assurance.

“you suffered from placenta abruption which caused your placenta to detach from the inner walls of your uterus. it unables the baby to receive oxygen and nutrients with the placenta detached. that is why the doctors had no choice but to put you into a cesarean delivery so it can save both of your lives.”

“and about your baby, don't worry, they're in safe hands. currently in the neonatal intensive care unit where the baby is under process of developing it since it came out during your six months of pregnancy and is premature.” she continued.

then, shoko put a hand on your shoulder, slightly massaging it to give you some comfort. “worry not, y/n. we're not going to let anything hurt your baby. they're safe here and are guarded with blessings and restrictions so no other curses or unauthorized people could touch your child.”

all this time shoko speak, your head was hanging low and it seems like you're having a hard time digesting everything. but you still get what she meant by putting you under a cesarean because it's the only way to save you and your baby's life—which you're incredibly grateful for.

“c…can i see my baby?” your tone was quite hushed, probably because you hadn't really talked to anyone after what happened to you.

shoko gently shook her head and gave you an apologetic smile. “i am so sorry, y/n. but you need to rest first and we, the doctors, recommended you to not move too much since it can open up your cesarean stitches once again.”

to everyone’s relief, you nodded at her words, like you agreed to get better first before seeing your child.

“alright, i gotta excuse myself now. i have an appointment later this afternoon.” shoko gives you a smile before sending a knowing gaze at the man beside you, saying ‘you better not forget that you still have other things to do’ look.

“mhm. take care and thank you for helping me during all of this, shoko.” you replied tried to return the same smile but it only reached a have, you just wished she could feel your sincerity towards her.

“i don't accept thank you’s, yet. i can only accept it if i see you in a much better condition. so if you want me to say you're welcome, then get better.” her words make you giggle a little but you take that as a note.

giving you a one last smile and a secretive glare at your husband, she finally left the scene…and that leaves you two, you and your husband. silence engulfs the whole room, only the sound of your beeping monitor keeps on echoing and adds awkwardness to the atmosphere.

you take a small peak at satoru who's looking at an empty space somewhere, looking like he's in a deep thought. you're not sure if you want to talk to him or not, but taking the preceding events from earlier, you see no reason.

on the other hand, satoru was lost in his thoughts because he's trying to construct everything that he needed to say to you. he's kinda bad at impromptu when it comes to you and mostly forgot his points and other subtopics because he's being blinded by the emotions that keeps on distracting him.

satoru also noticed your small gazes towards him and it feels like you're not planning to talk to him first, so he finally initiated a conversation.

“do you feel any pain in your body?” he asked you.

however, it took you a while to answer because you're not sure if your following responses are gonna be normal, sarcastic, or not answering at all. but you choose the first one because the two other choices would most likely put you into stress and makes your healing process becomes slower.

“my tummy hurts but i'm fine…and i'm also hungry.” you replied, that's it.

satoru was glad that you're answering him…well. anyway, he smiled at you and carried on with the conversation. “if the pain gets worse or it causes you discomfort, you must tell me immediately. and about that hunger, we still need to wait at least eight hours for you to eat something heavy. but for now, you can only take liquids and…the doctor said you could eat oatmeal and eggs—maybe we should get that. the doctor also to avoid greasy food and it would take at least six weeks for you to recover, and then…what are the other things he said again?”

while satoru was busy yapping, you slowly think that he's speaking to himself more than he's speaking to you because of how concentrated he looked and it somehow brings some sort of warmth in your chest because he really tries himself to remember all of the things that the doctors had prescribed him for you.

“satoru…” you called out to him, but he's still busy talking about do’s and don'ts and keeps on going while you occasionally call his name.

“satoru.” he's still busy talking.

“...satoru?” yep, still talking.

his yappings are getting too long and you're running out of thin patience, so you hold into his arms and that makes him look at you and stop talking instantly. breathe in relief, you finally stopped him from his own shenanigans.

“i—i’m sorry, i talked too much.” satoru awkwardly chuckles to himself, but you just shrugged it off. “anyway, what is it?” he asked.

“satoru, i was wondering…how did i end up here? all i know is i was in my room, i feel my tummy hurts really bad and it got me so worried about my baby. then all of the sudden, there's blood seeping down on my legs then everything black out.” you said.

“well…” then satoru proceeds into another minutes of yapping about what happened based on what they had said to him back then. you'd understand that yuuji and megumi were planning to cheer you up by a surprise room visit when they smelled blood and that made them instantly realize that something was going on with you. so they called shoko and yaga to break into the room, and there they saw you lying in your own pool of blood.

nodding slowly, the question that was formed because of the preceding events were finally put into the end. “oh, so that's what happened. anyways, do you think yuuji and megumi could be here tomorrow? i wanted to thank them.”

“sure. i’ll come with them tomorrow. but now, let's get you some light foods so you can sleep tonight.” satoru stood up but he froze as his feet were not walking. you watch him turn back to you while you give him a confused look.

“will you be alright being alone for like…five minutes? i’m just gonna be quick and get you some food. i promise i’ll be back before you know it.” you just let him do what he wants and just continue watching him. satoru looked at you for a long seconds, rather seemingly so hesitant. but you told him you'll be fine and just do his thing, so satoru assured you once again that he'll be back then uses his teleportation.

now, you're alone (for a while) in this room. your thoughts wandered towards your baby who you knew is in the same building as yours. you really want to run towards that room where they are located but you forcefully shut yourself because it'll just make things worse. you're still in the process of healing and you want to be at your strongest when you're with your baby.

but something was still arguing inside your head. it's the desire to run towards your child and the desire to get better—

“y/n.”

“shit!”

something—no, someone was suddenly in the room. it was satoru who's pouting at you like a puppy who got lost. his sudden appearance makes the beeping machine beside you go wild as you curse out profanity because you're that shocked.

thankfully, your heart beat becomes normal again and nothing bad happens. but you'll be sure to send out a death glare to your husband who's still pouting.

“what the actual fuck, satoru?! do you want me to die of a heart attack?!” you glared at him, still your hand is at your chest.

“i'm sorry about that. but i cannot bring myself to leave you like that even for a minute.” he said.

“i told you i'll be fine. you don't need to guard me 24/7 anyway, so go and grab or do whatever you want.”

“no!” satoru whined…and that surprises you, because this might be the first time you saw him whine like a child, especially without any involvement of alcohol or sugar to activate this kind of his system. this was just a new sight to you.

“then how are you going to get some food?”

“i’ll just have them deliver it here.”

“seriously? you're going to order and deliver oatmeal and eggs?” your eyes were wide at his crazy idea. like yeah seriously, for an oatmeal and eggs? he could literally get it from a convenience store.

“what? i'm gonna order some food for myself too, you know.” he pouts, again.

“okay, you order your food online. and we'll get mine at a convenience store.”

“what? no! i told you i don't want to leave you alone.”

“then i’ll come with you. we'll go and buy my food together if you're really that worried about leaving me alone.” you said sarcastically.

“what the hell is that suggestion? absolutely not!” satoru gasps. he's so dramatic.

“well then, i’ll just starve!” you huff at him before turning your head away from him.

“i—wait, i'm sorry. i really can't force myself to be away from you. i'm just scared that when i'm gone even for just a minute, s-something might happen again and i’m not there to help you out instantly.” the sad look on his face is back, similar to what he looked like when he confronted you in the hallway.

after hearing his explanation, you turned back to him and said, “there are things that come unexpectedly. you cannot also force yourself to stick with just in case an emergency would occur, you'd be there. for all that i know, you still have other things to do, like you have your priorities.”

“but you're my priority,” he said seriously. well that caught you off guard.

“whatever, just go and get me some food.” you brush it off.

“...”

“...ok.”

the night ended with satoru eating his ordered food happily while you were still glaring at the man because he really stick to his words and ordered your food online instead of just running to a convenience store or buying the hospital once. although, it makes you wonder, how is there a plain, plain! oatmeal and a boiled egg that has been selling online?

well, whatever it is, at least your hunger has lessened and your relationship with satoru has gotten…at least a little better.

[part 4 is up tomorrow! and you know the drill, for those who would like to be added to the taglist , just comment — ©luvvixu2024]

taglists: @mistymuii @kalopsia-flaneur @sherryuki-callmeyuki @aish777 @tttttttf @username23345 @slyhersophia @netyxms @rirk-ke @lvstru @roscptalsaa @labelt-san @shinruo @yaninnaacu @testrella @sad-darksoul @kurookinnie @mountvesuvu @chwesuh-imnida @cole-silas @elernity @buttermilktea11 @berenevenstarzetaestelar @maddie-jayne @yozora7154 @kawaiivillainess98 @jiupark @forourpoets @aishies-stuff @numblytemporary @souyasplushie @hotsauce247 @catarinemirandax @aerithsthingss @h1gh4ru @ssetsuka @jskodn @khoiyyu @the2ndl @veryverysadauthor @vebbiewuzhere @kouyoumarryme @dreamyescapesfromreality @local-mr-frog @haesify @openthenyoor01 @blkmystery @slowlyshycomputer @babybarbs12 @thickemadame @bleppt @leavem3al0n3 @arminloverlol @roscpctals99 @megumisthirdog @shirabane @skepticalleo @sheismaryy @tragicgirl444

a/n: istg guys i'm trying my hardest to get y'all tagged but some really did not appear when i @ your blogs huhu. but don't worry, that won't stop me from tagging y'all, so i am just going to manually mentioned you on every chapter update ;)

#gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen #anime #jjk gojo #fanfic #luvvixu

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distantlcver · 13 days ago

Text

POISON ME, PLEASE

bartender!sevika x f!reader ‼ non explicit suggestive content MDNI The feeling of being undesirable mixed with intense longing translated through arcane and music of course

"Water down what I call being grateful" - We'll Never Have Sex, Leith Ross

Sevika never cared for love stories.

They belonged to a different kind of person; people with soft lives and soft hands and futures they could actually imagine. Not someone like her. Not someone who’d spent most of her life clawing her way through shadows, surviving on scraps of loyalty and bitterness and smoke. People like her didn’t get love. Not the kind that stayed. Not the kind that didn’t ask for something first, flesh, obedience, silence.

So she’d learned not to expect much.

A body to warm the sheets. A few hours of distraction. Quick hands in back rooms. Sharp mouths saying things they didn’t mean. Sevika knew how to navigate that world. She was comfortable in its shallowness. It didn’t ask anything real of her. Anything deeper?

She’d stopped reaching for that a long time ago.

She was nineteen the first time she tried. Fresh into adulthood. Too full of hope she didn’t recognize as naivety. The object of her affection had been a mechanic; brilliant, fast-talking, all calloused fingers and oily overalls. They made her laugh. Listened when she spoke. Once even kissed her knuckles like it meant something. She mistook kindness for care. Touch for intimacy.

They slept together a few times. Nothing serious. Nothing committed. But Sevika, she felt. She tried to say so once. clumsily, like someone speaking a language they never really learned.

“I like being around you,” she’d muttered. Post-fight. Lip split. Hands still twitching with adrenaline.

The mechanic had laughed. Not cruel. Not kind either. Just… surprised.

“Oh, c’mon, Sev. Don’t go catching feelings. You’re not really built for that kind of thing.”

That sentence stayed lodged in her chest like a scar. Not visible. But deeper than most of the others.

After that, she stopped trying to be seen that way. If all people wanted was the rough exterior; the arm, the brawler, the cold woman with a sharp tongue and quicker fists, she’d give them that. It was easier than the sting of hoping.

Years later, she gave dating apps a shot. Bored. A little drunk. Thought it might be funny. It was, in a way. Funny like a bad joke.

The matches came fast and dirty. People didn’t want her, they wanted an idea. A kink. A novelty.

↳ What’s it like with the arm? ↳ You look like you’d wreck me in the best way 😘. ↳ God, you’re so intimidating. I love it.

Sevika played along at first. Picked a few matches. Hooked up once or twice. The experiences were forgettable. Sometimes degrading.

She even tried to take one girl on a real date once; rooftop bar, bottle of halfway-decent wine, even cleaned up a bit. The girl ghosted her. Never showed. Left Sevika alone at a high-top table, flower in hand, watching the shimmer of Zaun’s skyline tremble in her untouched glass.

She deleted the apps that night. Stopped pretending she wanted more. Love stories weren’t made for people like her. She was the side character. The lesson. The cold hand someone touched before finding someone softer.

So she built her life around not needing anyone.

Started working at the bar, then running it. It was small. Reliable. Quiet most nights. She liked that. Liked the control. The rhythm. She could pour drinks. Shut people down with a look. She didn’t have to feel much of anything.

The bar wasn’t even her idea. It belonged to some old friend of Silco’s who skipped town when things got dicey. Sevika took it over in a kind of reluctant inertia. Found comfort in the way it didn’t demand anything too emotional of her. Pour the drinks. Clean the mess. Throw out the assholes. Smoke when it got too loud inside her own head.

The loneliness was manageable. Predictable. Like the hum of an old machine she’d learned to live beside.

Then you walked in.

You arrived on a Thursday night. All easy charm and wide eyes. Sat down at the bar and asked about the jukebox like you’d been there a dozen times. Smiled when she handed you your drink, really smiled, like you saw her. Not the arm. Not the scars. Just her.

She didn’t smile back. Not right away. Didn’t know how.

But she remembered you. Remembered the way you laughed at your own dumb joke and looked to her like you were waiting for a reaction. She gave you one, a smirk, a scoff, something close enough to a laugh that you beamed like you’d won a prize.

At first, you didn’t seem like much. A soft face. Shy smile. Nervous hands wrapped around a water glass while you studied the drink menu too seriously. She saw you for what you were; too clean for the Lanes. Too gentle.

You left a good tip.

Came back the next week.

Then again.

And again.

It became a thing. Thursdays. Your favorite stool. Sometimes you read. Sometimes you talked to the other bartender. Sometimes you asked Sevika stuff, what drink she recommended, whether she liked the mural in the back, what her favorite band was growing up.

That last one… that one threw her.

No one asked questions like that. No one seemed to care about who Sevika was before the grit and metal. She didn’t answer. Just shrugged.

But that night she went home, dug through a pile of old junk under her bed, and found a dusty player. Played a track she hadn’t heard since she was a girl. It made her chest hurt.

You smiled at her when she poured your drink. Said thank you like it meant something. Made some stupid joke about the jukebox skipping like it was haunted. And you laughed at your own joke, then looked to her like you hoped she might laugh too.

And she did.

Just a little.

Just enough.

She started watching you more. Noticing things. The way your nose crinkled when you laughed. How you always ordered the same drink but pretended to consider changing it. The way you said her name, carefully, like it mattered.

And without meaning to, without even wanting to, she started hoping again.

It showed up in small things.

She swapped her old coat for a cleaner one. Bought cheap cologne. Tried lining her eyes once, but wiped it off before she left the house. Thought about cutting her hair. Or growing it out.

She looked in the mirror more than she used to.

One night, she brought a flower. Just one. A zynara bloom. Purple-pink, delicate, the kind that survived in the cracks of Zaun’s streets.

She kept it behind the bar. Waited for the right moment.

But when you walked in, radiant and effortless, smile soft and eyes bright and she panicked. Hid the flower. Said nothing. Pretended her hands weren’t shaking when she poured your drink.

She threw the flower out after closing. Watched the petals float in the gutter like a confession she never got to make.

That night, she stayed late. Lit a cigarette. Stared at nothing.

This was stupid.

She was stupid.

You weren’t flirting. You were kind. Friendly. Maybe a little lonely. But not interested.

Not in her.

Why would you be?

She told herself it didn’t matter. Just another customer. A blip.

But you kept coming back.

Week after week.

You brought your little books. Talked to the other bartender. Still talked to her—about the weather, about the mural that maybe looked like Vander. You even asked her what her favorite song was again.

No one had ever asked her twice.

She started pulling back. Stopped with the cologne. Let her clothes get wrinkled again. Answered your questions with one-word replies. Thought if she made herself smaller, duller, that the ache would go away.

It didn’t.

You still smiled. Still tipped. Still talked to her like she was more than the sum of her damage.

And that… that was the worst part.

Because deep down, a part of her wanted to believe it.

Wanted to believe you saw something worth loving in her.

But she knew better. She’d learned better.

People didn’t love women like her.

They tolerated them. Feared them. Fucked them.

They didn’t ask them questions about their childhoods. Or bring them flowers. Or look at them the way you did.

They didn’t choose them.

Not in the end.

So Sevika poured drinks. Took out the trash. Lit another cigarette. Tried to forget the way your smile warmed something long-frozen inside her.

Because you were kind.

And she was the kind of person kindness didn’t stay with.

And Sevika, who never believed in love stories, was terrified of what it meant that, for the first time in her life, she wanted one anyway.

She wanted you.

It should’ve gotten easier, pretending.

Pretending she didn’t watch the door at 6:45 every Thursday. Pretending her stomach didn’t tighten when she saw your silhouette in the doorway, hair caught in the neon glow, lips parted like you were already laughing at something she couldn’t hear yet. Pretending she didn’t slow her hands when pouring your drink, didn’t linger just a second longer when she slid the glass toward you.

It should’ve dulled by now.

But Sevika had never been good at slow deaths. She felt things all at once or not at all, and this, the waiting, the aching, the sharp bite of silence, was driving her mad.

You were wearing something different that night. Lighter, more skin, soft lines and colors she didn’t have the words for. Something about it made her forget to speak when you sat down.

“Sev,” you said brightly, resting your chin on your palm, “you look tired.”

It wasn’t the words themselves, it was the way you said them. Not like an insult. Like you noticed. Like it meant something to you. Like someone worrying about her didn’t have to be an act.

Sevika grunted. “Don’t start being nice to me now. I might actually collapse.”

You laughed. She could’ve swallowed glass and it would’ve gone down easier than that sound.

“I’m always nice to you.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned away, focused on the shelves like they were suddenly urgent. Her pulse was heavy in her throat.

Because it wasn’t true. You weren’t always nice to her.

You were kind.

And there was a difference. One she couldn’t ignore. Kindness was consistent. Soft. It didn’t expect anything in return. It showed up, even when it didn’t make sense. And somehow, you gave it to her freely.

She didn’t know what to do with it.

That night, when you left, you touched her hand.

Just lightly. Barely enough to register. A casual graze as you took your receipt from her fingers. But she felt it, skin to skin, your warmth against the rough heel of her palm.

She watched you disappear into the street, then stared at her hand like it had betrayed her.

And then she broke.

She walked home in the rain.

Didn’t bother with a hood. Didn’t light a cigarette. Just let it soak her to the bone. She needed to feel something that wasn’t you.

By the time she made it back to her apartment, the ache in her chest was too loud to ignore. She sat on the floor, back against the door, and stared at the ceiling for a long time. Her arm whirred softly as she rested it over her knees.

There had been others, sure. People she’d wanted. People who didn’t want her back. But this was different. This was slow. Deep. It carved her out day by day like water through rock.

It had never been like this.

With them, the rejection came fast. Sharp. Clean. You learn not to bleed too long when the knife’s already out of your back. But with you, it was like drowning in sunlight. Hope blooming where it shouldn’t. Her own mind betraying her with daydreams she’d long ago buried.

She imagined you laughing at something she said. Reaching for her hand in public. Sitting on her lap and teasing her about how gruff she looked before you kissed the edge of her jaw.

She imagined waking up with you still there.

It was stupid. Desperate. She knew better.

But the part of her that wanted to believe that small, starved, trembling part refused to go quiet.

Maybe that was the worst of it.

Not the rejection. Not even the loneliness.

It was the hope.

Hope that whispered maybe you see her the way she sees you. Hope that made her wake up on Thursdays with her heart a little too fast. Hope that told her if she just tried a little harder, softened a little more, maybe you’d fall in love with the woman she was trying so hard to become for you.

But love doesn’t work like that.

People don’t change for someone who was never looking.

The next week, she didn’t speak much when you came in. Just nodded. Took your order. Kept her head down. You noticed, she could tell. Your words were hesitant, lighter than usual. You watched her like you were trying to understand.

She wished you wouldn’t.

She was unraveling and she didn’t want you to see it.

“Everything alright?” you asked.

Sevika cleaned a glass that was already clean. “Fine.”

A lie. But the kind she knew how to say.

You nodded. Smiled, even though your eyes looked a little dimmer than usual. You didn’t stay as long that night. You left her a napkin with a doodle on it. A tiny sketch of her arm holding a flower.

She stared at it after you left. Didn’t crumple it. Didn’t throw it away.

Just stared.

Because it hurt. Gods, it hurt. This fragile little world she’d built out of glances and imaginary maybes.

She wanted to tell you. Wanted to lean across the bar and say it. That you made her feel human again. That you were the only softness she’d ever trusted long enough to miss when you were gone.

But Sevika didn’t do softness. She didn’t do risks.

And you?

You were the kind of person who deserved certainty.

Not someone who would fall apart the second you loved them back.

So she tucked the napkin into her coat pocket and pretended her hands weren’t shaking.

She would keep loving you from across the bar. Quietly. Pathetically. Completely.

Because even if you never saw her that way, even if you never chose her, at least for a few hours every week, she could pretend.

Sevika had always been good at leaving.

Not quietly, maybe, not with grace or tact, but with finality. She knew how to disappear, how to burn the bridge before she ever walked it. It used to be a survival tactic, back when she still believed the worst thing someone could do was hurt you. Now she knew better.

It was the hoping that ruined you.

So when things with you started to tip, when your kindness grew teeth and started to resemble something dangerous, something real. She did the only thing she knew. She started to leave. Bit by bit.

First, she stopped asking you questions. Stopped watching your hands when you talked, or catching your eye when you made a joke. She stopped pouring your drink without you having to ask. Let other bartenders take your orders when she could. Stayed in the back just long enough to avoid you.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because you noticed.

And you weren’t sure when exactly you started noticing her. Not just the way she moved behind the bar—effortless, like the world bent a little to make room for her—but the little things. How her mouth twitched when she was trying not to laugh. How she always rolled her eyes when she was embarrassed. How, for a few months, you always had a napkin doodle waiting on the bar—something stupid, but thoughtful. You kept them all.

When those things stopped, you felt it in your chest like missing a step on the stairs.

You noticed her pulling away, and it hurt more than you wanted to admit. Not because she owed you anything, but because you liked her. And not the way you liked most people. With her, it felt different. Quiet, heavy. Real.

You watched her closely, like she was a puzzle missing a piece you were sure used to be there. You caught yourself frowning when her laugh didn’t reach her eyes. Noticed how she flinched when you said her name too softly. You didn’t know what you had done wrong, but the silence between you started to grow sharp.

She tried to ignore it. Ignore you. But you didn’t make it easy.

It was a Tuesday the first time you backed her into a corner, both metaphorically and, to her horror, literally.

The bar was quiet, shadows stretched long across the floor. Most people had cleared out, and Sevika was halfway through counting bottles when she heard the shift of your chair and the soft scuff of boots against tile.

She didn’t turn around. Maybe you’d go smoke outside. Maybe you’d give up on her. Maybe you already had.

“Hey.” Your voice was right behind her. “Got a second?”

Sevika tensed. She didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to crack open her chest and let you see what lived there. But when she finally turned, you were already there. Inches away. Eyes locked on hers, searching for something you weren’t sure you wanted to find.

“Have I done something wrong?” you asked, brows pulling together. “Because I can take a hint, Sev. But I don’t get it. One minute you’re—”

She shook her head, too fast. “You didn’t do anything.”

��Then what is it?” you asked again, voice lower. “Why are you looking at me like I’m the one who broke something?”

Sevika blinked hard. You weren’t angry. You just… cared. That made it worse.

She couldn’t think with you this close. She could feel your warmth in the small space between you, smell the soap on your skin, the faint citrus of your shampoo. Her heart beat so hard it made her ribs ache.

“I just—” she started, then stopped. Her throat was dry.

You waited.

Her voice came out low, rough. “You make it hard to breathe.”

The silence after that was instant. Crushing. Like the whole room had inhaled and forgot how to let go.

You froze. Blinked. Said nothing.

Sevika watched the expression fall from your face. Watched you pull your lips in slightly, your eyes going wide. Not in disgust, but in something else she couldn’t place fast enough to stop the spiral inside her.

Fuck.

She stepped back, hit the wall with her shoulders, and scrambled to fill the gap. “I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to be weird. Shit. I just—forget it. Forget I said anything.”

Her voice cracked at the edges. That made her panic more. “I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable, I swear—”

“Sevika,” you tried, but it was too late. She was already sliding past you, already grabbing her jacket, already moving like her limbs were full of lead and shame.

You stood there for a long moment, stunned. Her words echoed in your head like they were made of glass. "You make it hard to breathe."

The day after were quiet. Then quieter.

She changed her schedule. Volunteered for early shifts. Said she needed time to fix the inventory system. Told herself lies until they started to sound like reasons.

Because you knew now. And Sevika… Sevika had always known what people did when they saw her too clearly.

They turned away.

Maybe not with cruelty. But with silence. With avoidance. With gentle rejections that felt like blade points just the same.

She’d been the good time once, twice, too many times to count. No one had ever stayed. No one had ever wanted more.

So when you stopped coming in for a few days, she told herself it was over. She ruined it.

And it was better this way.

Friday night. Her shift ended late. Rain hung in the air like breath. The back alley was damp and quiet when Sevika stepped outside, coat collar turned up, cigarette half-lit between her lips.

She wasn’t expecting to see anyone.

She definitely wasn’t expecting to see you.

Leaning against the brick wall like you belonged there, arms crossed, damp curls stuck to your forehead.

You looked up. Your eyes found hers immediately, and she froze.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, voice rough. Tired. Not cruel.

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you, Sev.”

"Stop calling me that."

Her whole body screamed to turn around, to disappear back into the safety of routine and silence.

“Don’t,” you said, gently but firm. “Just—don’t go. Please.”

She hesitated, half in shadow.

“Why did you say that?” you asked, taking a small step forward. “That I make it hard to breathe?”

She swallowed. Her mouth opened, then closed again. Her fingers twitched at her side.

“Because I’m an idiot,” she said finally. “Because I thought,” her voice cracked, “that if I got it out, it would stop hurting.”

You didn’t flinch.

“Do you think you’re the only one who’s scared?” you asked, voice soft. “Because I didn’t say anything either. I thought… I thought you just didn’t feel the same.”

She looked at you then. Really looked. The worry behind your eyes. The way your lips trembled with something you weren’t saying yet. You were just as terrified as she was.

“I thought I pushed you away,” she murmured.

“You did,” you said, but gently. “But only because you didn’t know you didn’t have to.”

And then, your hand found hers. Fingers tentative. Careful. You didn’t demand anything. You just waited.

And Sevika, who had spent her whole life being looked past or looked through felt, for once, seen.

She didn’t speak. Just nodded, once. And for the first time, she didn’t run. Not when you stepped closer. Not when your forehead brushed hers.

It was slow.

You didn’t expect her to pour her heart out all at once. She didn’t know how to. But she started showing up again. Started walking you home after shifts, brushing your hand with hers, lingering when she said goodbye.

She let you lean against her on the couch. Let your hand slide across the back of her neck when you kissed her temple. She let herself enjoy it. Even smiled, sometimes, like it surprised her to be happy.

And the physical closeness god, it scared her. But it healed her too. Because you didn’t touch her like she was a convenience. You touched her like she mattered. Like you chose her, again and again, not because you needed anything from her, but because she was herself.

And Sevika, who used to think the only thing her body was good for was fighting or fucking, started to learn that closeness could be soft. Could be kind. Could be mutual.

You didn’t push. You didn’t ask her to be someone she wasn’t. But when she gave you little pieces of herself—stories, silences, thoughts she hadn’t said out loud before—you held them gently. Like they were worth something.

Sometimes she cried. She didn’t always know why, and you didn’t ask her to explain.

You just held her. Let her hide her face in your shoulder. Let her exhale without flinching.

Sevika had never had that before. A safe place to feel messy. Ugly. Real.

And you, who had seen her at her worst, loved her anyway.

Maybe she wasn’t good at talking about her feelings. But she started showing up with dinner when you had a bad day. Started writing little notes and shoving them in your coat pocket. Started letting you hold her hand in public, even when it made her ears turn red.

And she started to believe it. That she could stay. That she could be wanted. That maybe she didn’t have to leave anymore.

And when she whispered “I’m not good at this, but I’m trying,” you squeezed her hand and whispered, “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

It was a while before you both kissed.

Sevika thought about it. God, did she, but something in your touch, the quiet way your hand stayed in hers, told her she didn’t need to prove anything to be wanted. You just wanted her. And for once, that was enough.

You walked her home through puddles and broken streetlights, your coat over both your shoulders, your arm brushing hers with every step. When she paused at her front door and looked at you like she didn’t know if this was where the story ended or began, you smiled and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Not goodnight. Not goodbye.

Just tomorrow.

And that was the first gift.

It wasn’t perfect. She didn’t know how to be a girlfriend, even the word made her flinch. Too soft. Too open. It didn’t fit her rough edges, her scarred knuckles, the weight of shame she still carried from every time she’d been made to feel like nothing but a body and a burden.

But you didn’t want perfect. You wanted her when she was tired and cranky after a double shift. You wanted her when her arm was acting up, when she couldn’t sleep, when she snapped at things that weren’t your fault. You saw through her silences and past her bluster, straight to the soft, sore thing underneath that she’d hidden for most of her life.

And she tried, every day, to meet you in that place.

It started with small things. She’d make your coffee exactly the way you liked it without you having to ask. She started keeping your favorite tea in her cabinet. She let you nap on her couch and didn’t make a big deal about the way your hand always found hers, even half-asleep.

The big things came later. She told you about the dating app matches who used her like a challenge. Told you about the girl who once ghosted her after she opened up. About the person who said they “weren't into scars” and made her feel like she should be grateful for any scrap of attention.

She didn’t cry. But you did.

Not loud. Just a quiet kind of crying, like your heart was leaking through the seams. You pressed your forehead to her shoulder and said, “You didn’t deserve any of that.”

And for the first time, she believed it. Not entirely. Not all at once. But something cracked open in her chest that night, omething tender and aching and alive.

She started looking at herself differently.

She caught her reflection one morning, hair tangled, tank top askew, sleep still crusting her eyes. Before, she would’ve turned away. Would’ve muttered something under her breath about looking like hell.

But you were there, brushing your teeth in her bathroom, singing off-key to the radio and wearing her T-shirt like it belonged to you. You saw her in that state every morning, and you smiled.

Not because you pitied her.

Because you loved her.

And it made her wonder: what if I’ve been wrong about myself this whole time?

So she started trying.

She wore the nicer shirt you said brought out her eyes, even if she felt weird in it. She let you run your fingers through her hair without pulling away. She even smiled in photos when you insisted on taking them, her real smile, not the tight-lipped one she used to give to strangers.

And god, when you finally kissed her, slow, deep, reverent, like she was a cathedral, like your mouth was making a prayer out of her flaws, something in her shattered. Not in the way that destroyed. In the way that remade.

She took care of you, too. You didn’t ask. But she did.

She rubbed your back when you were stressed. Learned your tells, the way you bit your lip when you were overwhelmed, the way your fingers curled when you needed comfort. She started leaving little notes in your bag:

Drink water. :) I’m proud of you!! Come over after work—I’ll make dinner. ♡.ᐟ

She wasn’t good with words, but she was fierce with care. She protected your joy like it was sacred. Like giving it room to grow was a kind of holy work.

And when you had bad days, when you cried into her chest and mumbled things about not being enough she held you so tightly the world couldn’t touch you. Whispered, “You are. You always are.” The same way you had done for her.

Months passed. The bar kept humming. The world spun on.

But in the quiet corners of your life together. In the unglamorous, soft routines of brushing teeth side by side, of folding each other’s laundry, of learning what meals made the other feel warm. You built something neither of you had ever had before.

A home. Not in a place. But in each other.

One night, you were curled up on her couch, her head in your lap while you absentmindedly played with her hair. The TV buzzed low in the background, forgotten.

You said, sleepily, “You know you’re allowed to have good things, right?”

She didn’t answer right away. But then she shifted, turned her face toward your belly, her voice muffled against you. “Yeah,” she said. Quiet. Steady. “I know that now.”

You smiled. Kissed the crown of her head.

Touch had always been a negotiation for Sevika.

Even before the scars. Before the metal arm that made people flinch, or stare too long, or ask weird questions like she owed them something.

Even before all that, she’d already learned her body was something people either wanted to conquer or ignore. She was too tall, too strong, too quiet. Too butch to be the right kind of woman, too much of a woman to be anything else. Touch was something to survive. It was muted, hungry, temporary. It got taken from her, or she gave it with conditions.

So when you touched her, and didn’t want anything, she honestly didn’t know what to do with that.

And when you touched her and did want something, wanted her, not her armor or her sarcasm or the thrill of getting close to someone like her it messed her up in ways she didn’t expect.

The first time you kissed her like she might break, she almost laughed. It was instinct. Almost made a dumb joke just to shake off how heavy it felt. But then you held her face like it was something delicate, like you were trying to memorize her, and she went quiet.

Then you whispered, “I want all of you. Not just the pieces you think are safe to give.”

No one had ever said that to her. Not with their mouth. Not with their hands. Not with their body.

But you did. Every time you leaned into her space like she wasn’t something to be scared of. Every time you touched her shoulder without hesitating when your hand met metal. Every time your lips followed the line of her neck like you knew she held tension there, like you knew she’d been waiting for someone to finally touch her right.

It wasn’t about sex. Not just.

It was the way you lingered. The way you kissed her like time didn’t exist. The way you moved like you were worshipping something. Not because she was flawless, but because she was real. Because she felt things. And let you feel them too.

She started letting you see her in the dark. Not just her body, but all of it—the way her jaw sometimes shook, the way her mouth got soft when she said your name, the quiet little sound she made when your lips brushed the corner of her scar. You kissed every part of her like it belonged to you, but not in a way that tried to own her.

Like you were thankful.

Like you loved her.

And eventually, slowly, she started touching you the same way.

Not because she had something to prove. Not out of fear she’d lose you.

But because she wanted to. Because it felt right.

She traced your spine with her knuckles when you were curled up on her chest. She pressed her mouth to your ear just to feel the way your breath hitched. She held you after, like it was the most normal thing in the world, and eventually, it started to feel that way too.

Like maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to earn softness by being useful.

Like maybe she was already enough.

Just being her.

It happened one night in late autumn, when the wind rattled the windows and the bar had closed early. The streets were emptying, and you’d waited like always, leaning against the lamppost outside, scarf looped twice around your neck, eyes soft when you caught hers through the glass.

She stepped out into the cold, and you fell in beside her without a word. You always knew when she didn’t want to talk. And you always knew when she needed to.

She hadn’t said much the last few days. Hadn’t touched you as much. There was that slump to her shoulders again, that familiar edge of retreat. You hadn’t pushed. Not yet. But tonight, you took her hand.

And for the first time in a while, she didn’t pull away.

She spoke when you got to her place, after she’d changed out of her uniform and made tea like she always did when she didn’t know what else to offer. You sat together on her old couch, the silence soft and heavy between you.

“I used to think,” she said slowly, “that people only wanted pieces of me. The parts that were fun, or easy, or didn’t ask for anything back.”

You didn’t speak. Just listened. Just stayed.

Sevika stared into her mug, brow furrowed in that quiet, guarded way she had.

“I don’t… I don’t know how to do this. All of it. Sometimes it feels like I’m messing it up before it even starts.” She gave this small laugh, kind of bitter, kind of fond. “Even now. Even with you.”

You reached for her hand again, and this time you took it with both of yours.

“You’re not messing it up,” you said. “You’re showing up. That’s enough.”

Her throat worked around something she didn’t quite let out. Maybe a laugh. Maybe a sob. It didn’t come.

She didn’t cry much. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she’d trained herself not to. Crying used to be dangerous. Too vulnerable. Too easy to use against her. In Zaun, it had never felt safe. But here, in your arms, on this couch where you’d laughed and eaten and kissed and talked late into the night about nothing at all. It felt like maybe it wouldn’t break her.

Maybe this time, it would be okay.

“I don’t know how to need someone,” she said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “But I think… I think I want to learn.”

You leaned your forehead to hers, your eyes stinging, heart open in that way she still didn’t know how to brace against.

“Then let’s learn together.”

And you did.

You learned how to hold her when she flinched from comfort. Learned that sometimes she needed quiet more than conversation, and sometimes she needed to hear I’m not going anywhere until it stopped sounding like a lie.

And she learned, too.

She learned that needing you didn’t make her weak. That softness wasn’t something she had to earn by being perfect. That when she let you see the parts she hated most; The shame, the rage, the ache, you didn’t walk away.

You leaned in.

And that changed everything.

The relationship didn’t fix her. It wasn’t magic. But it gave her something she’d never really had before.

Room to breathe. Room to come undone. Room to be loved, even when she didn’t feel like she deserved it.

One night, lying in bed with you tucked against her chest, your heartbeat steady under her hand, she whispered, “I used to think I’d die alone.”

You looked up at her, sleep still in your eyes, but serious when you said, “You’re not alone anymore.”

And for once, she believed it.

Not just in her head. Not just in the moment.

But all the way through.

Because now, when she reached out in the dark, her hand always found yours.

And for Sevika, that was the most radical kind of peace. Not power. Not armor. Not distance.

But love that didn’t ask her to shrink. Love that didn’t hurt. Love that saw her, all of her, and stayed anyway.

A/N: incredibly self indulgent but anyway, butch sevika truther!!!

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writeformesinpie · 17 days ago

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Citrus and Rum

Sunghoon x Fem!Reader

Summary - The casino is bustling and you’re on a roll, that is until the owner sends his goons to collect you. He’s been watching you all night and he’s ready to collect.

Genre - Yandere

Warnings - Suggestive, yandere content, dom/sub tones (dom Sunghoon/sub reader), abusive behaviour, toxic relationship

Word Count - 1.3K

A/N - This is part of the 2k follower event from this request. I hope you like it and thank you for the request! <3

Two men in cheap black suits tower over you while you sit at the blackjack table. They’re looking at the small fortune you’ve accumulated in the form of little plastic chips. Judging by their broad shoulders and angry scowls, they’re security. One’s shorter than the other, his muscles giving him a meaty look while the other makes up for his lack of brawn in height.

“Can I help you?” The question is directed at the men although your eyes stick to the table as you twirl a thousand dollar chip over your knuckles. Cards spread out across the green felt table before you and the other guests who are now paying more attention to you and your company rather than the game at hand.

“We’re gonna need you to follow us,” the muscle says, motioning toward the back of the casino with his head.

“And leave all my newly acquired funds?”

“We’ll have someone pack it up all nice for you”, the height says with a smile, his lips pulling back across his teeth.

“Somehow I seriously doubt that.” Tossing the chip on the pile with a sigh you get up to follow.

They lead you down past the slot machines, the happy whir of the spinning reels, the dings and chimes. The sound of lost fortune follows you as you walk down the row, the boxes taunting. A squeal of glee erupts from one of the gamblers as the machine offers her quarters. Most of the guests are bent over in complete concentration as they continue to offer the machine their life savings.

You continue past the slots, the games, the players and those being played. The muscle walks in front while the height ushers you from behind, keeping you at a quick pace until you arrive at a locked door near the back. He swipes his keycard and it opens with a loud clang.

“Go ahead,” the muscle says and you roll your eyes before stepping in. “You know the way.”

The door closes behind you, the jolt of metal on metal reverberating down the corridor in an eerie echo. The lights are dim. Taking a deep breath you make your way down the hall, turning left then right before you come to the door you know he’s behind.

Testing the handle proves lucrative: it’s unlocked. You inch the door open, taking your time and allowing your eyes to scan the room with each nudge. He’s sitting on the lounge chair against the back wall, masked in shadow. You can’t see his features and it makes you uneasy.

“Well?” you ask with your hands on your hips. “I’m here. What do you want?”

“Come in.” The words leave a sour taste in your mouth. You do as you're told, easing the door closed behind you. The soft sound of the lock latching permeates the room as you stand, your back to the door, waiting for his next command.

He doesn't offer you one, instead allowing the silent buzz of the room to frustrate you into blurting out, “Well? I don’t have all day here.”

“And you think I have time to deal with your insolence?” The words bite, his cool tone hiding the rage underneath them. You take a step back, forgetting how close you are to the exit, and bump up against the door. Who knew he would get this angry over a few hundred Gs?

“You got your money back,” you mutter, looking towards the opposite side of the room. There’s a small bar and a door. You know what’s behind it and it’s something you’d rather not revisit, not today. “What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal, my love,” his voice is curt as he says the words and you shiver, you hate it when he calls you that, “is that you never seem to learn. No matter how many times I try to teach you.”

“It was just a card game–”

“No.” He’s on his feet moving swiftly towards you before he finishes the word. Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. Sunghoon’s about to knock over your candlestick. “No, it wasn’t. This was a direct deviance of my orders.”

“Sunghoon…” the word drifts off, lost under the weight of his gaze. Narrowed eyes and pinched lips have you fumbling for the door handle. “Well, I mean. I should get going. I didn’t mean to get you all riled up.”

Relief floods across your skin as you locate the knob, turning it slightly before his words still you. “Did I say you were dismissed?”

“No but…”

“No but what?”

“I’m sorry,” you say, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. The obvious gesture is ignored as he steps closer, invading your space, his breath close enough to taste. Citrus and rum.

You jut out your hand in an attempt to create some space between you, instead he grabs your wrist and pulls you into an embrace. His hand twists within your hair and pulls it tight causing you to yelp out in pain. His lips press down hard against your neck.

“Sunghoon, please. You’re hurting me.”

“Sunghoon?” His hard kisses turn to harder nips and he chuckles as you cry out. “At least show me the respect I deserve.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper as tears well in your eyes. He knows.

“I’m sorry, what?” he spits, pulling your hair hard enough to snap your neck back. You’re gonna feel that tomorrow.

“I’m sorry, sir.” The words are hard to get out over the lack of air and sound like a breathy whisper.

“Are you though?”

“It won’t happen again.” Talking hurts more than breathing and you wonder if you might just pass out when he finally releases his grip, moving his hand down to your waist. “Sunghoon, I–”

“I’m sick of your games. It’s time you realised who you belong to,” he says, venomous and cold as he circles his hands around your arse, pulling your body into his. He grinds his hips up against yours, sending a jolt of pleasure to your core. “Say it. Tell me who you belong to.”

“I belong to you.”

‘I belong to you what?” He continues to move his hips back and forth as heat spreads across your skin.

“I belong to you, sir,” you moan, wrapping your legs around his waist as he pulls you up to him, your back flush with the door. “Only you, sir.”

“If you know that then you shouldn’t test me.” His lips find yours, crashing together in desperate need. Sucking on his tongue you hum and rub your body against his as hot trails of fire dance across your skin.

He pulls back, pushing against your chest to hold you at arm's length. Furrowing your brows you reach out but he flicks away your hand. You unwind your legs and slink back until your toes are on the floor.

“What are you doing? Stop teasing me.” You try to lean in again to no avail.

“You tried to run away, my love.” Swallowing hard you watch as the previous moment of lust falls from his face to be replaced by calm indifference. “Did you really think you were about to be rewarded for that?”

“I didn’t–”

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

Looking down at your feet you shake your head. “What are you going to do?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, digging his fingers into your jaw. “I’m gonna punish you, of course. I’m going to make it so you can’t even walk, let alone try to leave me again.”

~~Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this content! If you did, please consider liking, commenting, reblogging and/or following, and check out my masterlist for similar content. Have a great day!~~

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nanamis-bigtie · 3 days ago

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morning after

↬ nanami kento, higuruma hiromi, kusakabe atsuya x gender neutral reader ↬ masterlist // ao3 version

cw: suggestive themes, implied bottom reader a/n: repost from the old account. divider by saradika

nanami kento

Kento is not used to noise and smells in the kitchen so early in the morning. Such disruption of his routine would bother his mood under other circumstances—but now, with the soft sound of your bare feet at the other side of his apartment, it feels only right. Familiar, he would even say, despite the atmosphere of a special occasion lingering in the air.

When was the last time he made breakfast from scratch, he wonders when the door of his bathroom closes behind you. Normally, he would be still asleep at this hour; his alarm would go off in thirty minutes, he would take a necessarily short and cool shower, check emails in case of an emergency, and then head to the 7/11 on the corner, to eat a humble meal of a pre-made sandwich and a cup of coffee from the machine, maybe an onigiri too, if he felt particularly greedy. Today, he barely slept and rose with a crack of the dawn—yet he felt the most relaxed since what seems to be ages to him. He still had the taste of you lingering on his tongue after the night, and decided to savor it until the flavor of cooking he had to test on the way would eventually wash it away. Scratched marks on his shoulders and back stung when he leaned to check what he had in the fridge. His hips, unlearned of moves he had been using on you since you had devoured the takeaway dinner together, ached as he tiptoed to reach the rice cooker, left dusty on one of the highest shelves. His eyes kept the afterimage of your blissed out face over the selection of vegetables and seasonings he chose for this meal.

When was the last time he was so peaceful?

Kento finishes cutting the fresh cucumber and tsukemono, pours water into mugs with instant miso soup inside, and finally checks on the rice. It's warm and fluffy, just waiting to be put into the bowls he prepared—the cutest he had, with a long-tailed tit pattern. He brought them from Hokkaido and didn't use them even once, until he spotted them today and decided you would love them.

Rice has to wait; he can't let it grow cold like the sheets you two left behind are undeniably growing. First, he checks on the piece of salmon—a luxury that waited for a day when he could cook again—getting ready in the oven, then cracks a few eggs and beats them well with a pinch of salt and pepper. His stomach growls when they hiss on the red-hot pan—and he can't help but wonder if you're as hungry as him. Things you had in your mouth through the night couldn't feed you, as your corny, vulgar jokes suggested. Kento rarely smiles but the memory of them and the startled look you gave him as you worried if you hadn't been too much for him has him grinning for a short moment.

When was the last time he felt strain in the corners of his lips?

The omelet is ready in no time. Kento knows how you like your eggs, but he can't remember how and when he learned about it. He's sipped many details like this from your lips, through the whole year of waiting for the day you crossed the threshold of his bedroom. He was feeding on crumbs for so long... Being full out of the sudden fills his heart with content and anxiety at the same time. He wants to savor this moment, afraid to stomp on the thin shell of happiness too strong, but he knows he's already too addicted to stop. Whatever happens, happens.

And the food can wait only as long. He can't feed you a cold meal.

The hum of the shower ceases shortly after he takes the salmon out of the oven. Kento listens to the commotion in the bathroom while he finishes the last cuts. Bowls are filled with steaming rice, plates and mugs find their right place on the table. He hasn't cleaned the kitchen—but even if he could do it quickly before you join him, he can't bring himself to disturb this disarray. It looks—it feels—so good to have his place messy at least once, at least today, at least for the first hour you spend together after the night of passionate lovemaking.

His hands still remember the shape of your hips, he realizes when you appear at the entrance, fresh yet still sleepy—and smiling bright at the sight of him by the table.

Kento doesn't want to ever forget it.

higuruma hiromi

Out of the first mornings Hiromi experienced, this one is not the most...extraordinary. But he definitely would place it somewhere at the top of the list.

Seated on the edge of the bathtub, head leaned down, he still feels drowsy. The night was deliciously long and so worth the lingering fatigue in his muscles. He hasn't worked that hard in a while—well, physically at least—and he's undeniably going to pay the price with the top soreness of the last decade. He's more than okay with it...as long as you're not going to ask him for the repetition within the next few days. He's crazy for you—but he's not twenty anymore, and his job squeezes much more energy from him than he would have sacrificed, if he had any choice in this matter.

Speaking of squeezing—he barely managed to find time to bring you home, for dinner and a movie you didn't even start watching, hungry for something else than a story. And he did so only by nipping time off somewhere else—and by paying the carrying charge now, in his bathroom, awaiting the blind judgment of your skill...or the lack of it, to be honest. He has no idea if you've ever done a haircut before.

But you seem at least familiar with it enough to know how to hold and turn the hair clipper around. Hiromi watches you from the corner of his eye: you're right behind him, scrunching your nose as you're studying the shape of the device and options the various buttons provided. Bare-chested, wearing your pajama shorts only, you secure the towel wrapped around your head with the other hand. It's on the verge of falling apart, some of your hair already got out. He feels an urge to get up and help you tuck it where it should stay but just thinking about feeling it pushes blood where he really doesn't want it, if he wants to leave for work on time. He had his share of touch a few hours ago, stroking and playing with your locks as you had your sweet lips wrapped around his cock.

He's ruined the position when trying to take a better look, so you gently nudge him to lean fully again, a brush of your warm palm enough to have hair on his forearms standing. He had your hands all over him for hours, pulling him close, securing him next to you when you both finally collapsed into well-deserved sleep, so he could swear he's learned your touch enough.

But now...it's different.

You run fingers through the hair at the back of his head, testing the line you want to cut—and Hiromi is melting. He has to clench hands on the edge of the bathtub to stay collected; the last thing he wants is to get scolded and deprived of your digits slowly threading through his locks. You mumble something about being jealous of how thick they are and something about how badly he needs this cut—but all he can think of is how your voice is so raspy after moaning out his name over and over again. He wonders how your mewls would sound with this tone but thoughts evaporate from his head as soon as they've appeared, this time with the steady buzz of the clipper.

So the sound can be ticklish, such a weird sensation...

You're quick and as precise as only you can be at six in the morning, scrunched over his back in a rather tight space. You cut his hair just enough to keep him somewhat tidy for the few days before he can see an actual hair stylist; there's no time for more and Hiromi doesn't want to make it too much of a struggle for you. Even if it was his own request, he immediately regrets it when you're finished with brushing the cut dust off his neck and shoulders. It's such a pity you have to abandon him and rush with your own preparations. If only you had more time...

Right as he's straightening his back, you touch him with both hands, fingertips scratching lightly at the freshly shaved part of his head, right at the point where it meets his neck. Warmth explodes in his chest—and Hiromi lets out a low, needy growl. It's good, so good, oh gods, just touch him more, just do it one more time, he hasn't had anything like this for so long...

Humming, you move towards the longer strands, then down the sides of his face until you're cradling it between your palms. You tilt his head back and pull him close, until he rests it against your exposed, warm belly. Dry sob shakes his whole body and tears prick at the corners of his eyes—but Hiromia can't bring himself to close them or at least to look away. He's begging for your attention like starved and he's not ashamed.

All he wants is for you to never let go of him.

kusakabe atsuya

Holy shit.

Atsuya didn't get a wink of sleep through the whole night—and the fact that he doesn't have anything to do for the day to come doesn't help the case. He always had problems with falling asleep after sex, but he thought the long break since the last time and, well, the overall busy period in his life would crumble this irritating habit by sheer force of exhaustion. He's as good at taking an accurate measure when it comes to love as he is with dozing off, it seems.

You're sprawled by his side, lying face down and on his arm, butt-naked with the exception of the blanket loosely wrapped around your leg and covering half of your ass. You've taken his share of sleep since you collapsed as soon as he rolled to his side and reached for wipes to clean you both, much to his amusement—and horror once he realized he was sentenced to his thoughts alone for the hours to come. Your smell, soft, twangy breathing, and warmth is just helping them race now. Your weight, pressed tight from his wrist to shoulder, keeps him in place too, cutting any attempt of shameful retreat short. It's nothing he wouldn't be able to move, he's carried you around not once and not twice and it meant nothing to his strength, but he dreads to wake you up.

You deserve that rest after taking his pent up tension over and over again. And he really has no idea what to say to sound appropriate.

Good morning? Good job? Did you sleep well? I love you?

Atsuya groans and does another trip around the room with his eyes only. The more light sips through the loosely drawn curtains, the more details he could pick up, and shame already pricks at his cheeks. He couldn't remember the last time he cleaned around properly but even if he had it squeaky clean for the night, the area just screamed: a confirmed bachelor. Well, at least there's no trash lying on the floor or furniture, but he could easily pick up the smell of cigarettes and badly aired room. None of it mattered when you tussled in darkness, sucking sloppy kisses from each other's lips and peeling clothes off your bodies. But once you wake up and take a look around—Nope, he doesn't want to think about it. That's a problem for Atsuya from in-a-few-hours-future.

He rolls head to the other side, ashamed to even look at your sound asleep body, and stares right at his shirt, casually thrown over the bed stand. He doesn't have to look at it to know it definitely has its best days behind it. He could at least wear something presentable when seeing you for that unplanned job, hasn't he learned anything from his past relationships? Maybe he did, but it was so long ago he wasn't sure anymore if his sloppiness was ever addressed. His chain-smoking, however, is a different story.

Holy shit, he really needs to smoke.

Atsuya knows there's a spare cigarette and a small pack of matches hidden in the little pocket of his shirt, this very shirt within his reach. Carefully, he scoots to the side and reaches for it, fingers already brushing the sleeve, just an inch more, just a little...

You mumble his name and shift, sheets rustling around your legs. Atsuya freezes, sure he's finally done it and woke you up, but you just adjust your position, face turned to him, and continue with your softest snores. You're all messy and exhausted, in need of a shower even more than his room is in need of tidying. With amused relief pushing his worries out of his mind, he reaches out and gently strokes your hair.

You repeat his name, with a mewl dangerously close to what you screamed into his ear a few hours ago.

Out of the sudden, the thought of smoking by your side has him disgusted. You're going to wake up to this mess, to crumbled sheets and clothes all over the place and dying plants and papers lying on the floor in piles—and he wants to add smoke right into your eyes? You deserve better than that. You deserve him to be better than that.

Hell, he's been thinking about it for a while anyway. Maybe if he remembers your face from now, so calm and smiling through your dreams, it will be easier for him to finally quit.

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dross-the-fish · 3 months ago

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What about writers and chat gpt?

same principal. Whether you hire a human writer to write your ideas into a novel or you use the AI to do it you're still using an external source to do the writing for you rather than being a writer yourself. And again I don't really think AI is an effective tool to help someone grow their writing skill or help a disabled person become a writer since the generative function also means results are going to be randomized and very limited in what it's actually going to be able to do for you. Even if it generates a serviceable result it's not going to be able to output a consistent quality or style, it's just a machine's closest approximation of what you want based on how it understands a prompt. I could put out a detailed prompt and hold a writing contest and get a bunch of random people to write me something then pick out which story I liked best. I have a story, possibly a good one, but I did not write it and therefore cannot call myself an author. That is effectively what Gen AI is an alternative for commissioning a writer. You didn't make this. I would even argue it's not really a good disability aid as it doesn't actually assist you in making your creation, it creates in place of you. And I'm speaking as someone who has always struggled a lot with both reading and writing and who frequently uses aids when they are available to me. Whether it's writing with more spacing or dyslexia friendly formatting. I don't write completely unassisted.

There are plenty of writing tools you can use if you struggle with writing, I sometimes do audio recordings of my writing and have my partner help me transcribe it when I find the actual process of writing to be overwhelming or difficult. But I do write. It is still my words, my characters, my prose, such as it is. It may not be good or up to a professional standard of writing, but it is unquestionably my work and that's really the crux of what makes an artist or writer. I had to painstakingly learn how to slow down and organize my thoughts and learn how to make an outline and a draft. Any skill is going to take a measure of work or dedication and for a lot of us that is going to be difficult. At some point we do have to accept that there will be things we can't do and some of our setbacks cannot be compensated for even with assistance. There will be times when you do have to let go of the notion of making something "good" and focus on making it because you want to create something. Generative AI created content will never be anyone's work. I don't care how much skill it takes to input the prompt or how long it takes to filter through the results and give suggestions for changes. That's literally what a client does when they hire an artist or writer but in this case your artist/writer is a subscription to an AI program. It's not different and the fact that this is even in question seems weird to me. We don't call people writers when they hire an author to pen a work for them. So it stands to reason that we wouldn't call them writers if they ask a program to do it.

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breckstonevailskier · 2 months ago

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Frederick Sinclair's true colors were shown during the TV series

Among the other named business oligarchs we see in attendance at the Vault-Tec meeting in the final episode of season 1, besides Robert House, is Frederick Sinclair. He's representing Big Mountain.

Those who played the Dead Money DLC for Fallout: New Vegas will recognize Sinclair, as he's the guy who constructed the Sierra Madre Resort & Casino at which the DLC's events take place.

However, some fans have felt that there's a discrepancy between how Sinclair is depicted here vs. the image of him we are given from reading terminal entries and looking at murals around the Sierra Madre.

For instance, Dead Money and Old World Blues have it stated that Sinclair is just a client of Big MT, whereas the TV series has him serving as Big MT's representative at this meeting.

Another point of contention is how Sinclair's physical appearance and personality in the TV show is very different from how it is depicted in Dead Money. In Dead Money, Sinclair is portrayed as a suave man of average weight with brown hair and a mustache (albeit only on pre-War murals), and has a much more youthful and regretful personality. But the TV series makes him older, portly, and very crass.

We have remarks made by Dead Money's project director Chris Avellone where he felt that Sinclair's physical appearance on-screen "didn't really mesh with his appearance in the Sierra Madre."

However, I'd argue that we're not seeing any retcons at all, and nothing about Sinclair's presence at the meeting contradicts what we learn about him from Dead Money. In fact, if anything, his presence in the show informs a lot of the backstory we learned in Dead Money.

Sinclair's foreknowledge:

One thing that is clearly noted from reading terminal entries and a few journal entries, is that Sinclair clearly believed that a nuclear war was imminent:

Now that we know he was at this meeting to collaborate with Vault-Tec, we understand why he felt this way: much like Mr. House, he had foreknowledge. That's why he built the Casino like a fortress. That's why he invested in technology like the Vending Machines, the holograms, and the Auto Docs.

Sinclair and the Cloud:

Sinclair almost went broke in the process of procuring the Vending Machines and the holograms for the Sierra Madre. To compensate, he permitted Big MT to conduct some experiments in the Villa. One of the experiments that Big MT did at the Villa was put an airborne toxin in the Villa's shoddy ventilation system, and then pump it out to see what would happen. This put several construction workers out of commission due to the effects it had on them, and is ultimately the source of the Cloud. To deal with the problem, Sinclair negotiated with Big MT to procure hazmat suits for the workers to go in and try and find where the Cloud had originated from. Unbeknownst to Sinclair, the hazmat suits were intentionally designed poorly, such that the users were exposed to the Cloud and also found themselves getting trapped in the suits (and could only be freed by having someone else cut them out with a Cosmic knife). These two experiments combined are what led to the construction crew becoming the Ghost People who inhabit the Villa.

While terminal entries in Old World Blues suggest that Sinclair didn't know about the Cloud being a Big MT experiment, the TV show makes me think that actually, he DID know. When the executives begin tossing out ideas for vault experiments, listen to the second idea that Sinclair pitches: he proposes a vault where psychotropic drugs are pumped into the air supply (which was ultimately implemented in Vault 106 out in the Capital Wasteland). That's an experiment that's very similar to the Cloud experiment, which involved an airborne toxin being pumped out of a ventilation system. Perhaps Sinclair knew exactly what the Cloud was, and its true origins, and this discovery was still fresh in his mind at the time of the meeting with Vault-Tec.

Sinclair's relationship with Vera Keyes:

Sinclair's depiction as an old and crass businessman does change the nature of his relationship to Vera Keyes. If the Sierra Madre murals of Sinclair are taken at face value...

...he comes off like a middle aged man in love with someone close to him in age, who was very heartbroken by finding out she was an unwitting accomplice to Dean Domino's plans to rob from him.

But with his depiction in the show, his relationship with Vera looks a lot different. Instead of being this middle aged man pining for a woman close to him in age, he's an old man who's obsessed with a young starlet at least 40 years his junior (information on Vera suggests she was in her late 20s when the Gala Event took place, and Sinclair looks to be in his late 60s/early 70s).

Him being an old man also makes a lot of sense when one considers his relationship to Dean Domino. Dean Domino was probably in his early to mid-60s in 2077 (going off Barry Dennen's age at the time that Dead Money was being developed), so close in age to Sinclair. It makes it more believable that Sinclair would've readily trusted Dean regarding Vera and the Villa construction, and thus be blinded to the truth that Vera was Dean's accomplice in the scheme to rob the vault, and also not be aware that Dean was profiting from Mr. Yesterday's scheme to cheat Sinclair by intentionally constructing the Villa with subpar building materials.

There's also these lines from Dean's dialogue regarding Sinclair and Vera that make a lot more sense when you know Sinclair is an old man:

"Ghost in name and image. Still a looker, though. Got to hand it to Sinclair, sure can pick 'em. Well, or get picked. Whichever."

"Vera was a big star, back before the Bomb. Not the best actress, but… well, she had other talents. Nice voice, nice legs. For some reason, Sinclair... he built this place... she caught his eye. Once he was hooked, that was it, had to have her. So made the introductions, and guess what? He builds this place for her, like some kind of Cleopatra obsession. Wasn't always a deathtrap."

And:

Courier: "Why did you need [Vera]?"

Dean: "Because she could get closer to Sinclair than I ever could. Sinclair was already puppy-eyed, so all I had to do was the introductions. She smiled, fluttered her eyes, showed a little leg ...and he built this whole place for her. Made her the key to his vault, like a joke, cause of her name. Her fake Hollywood name. Except Sinclair didn't know I'd been there first. I could twist her whatever direction I wanted."

With that age gap in mind, coupled with his foreknowledge of Vault-Tec's plans, it also makes a lot of sense why Sinclair would build the Casino like a fortress, as he came to value Vera more than anything else in his life. He probably viewed her as the one thing he didn't want to lose when the Great War broke out. It's also understandable why he'd be so devastated to learn about Vera's betrayal and turn the vault into a death trap for her and Dean, though eventually came to regret this (and ultimately died trying to undo the trap).

Additional thoughts:

Regarding the discrepancy in Sinclair's involvement with Big Mountain, I think it's safe to say that he might've actually invested a lot of money into buying a controlling stake in Big MT in order to get them to install the Vending Machines, the holograms, the Auto Docs, and all the other technologies that went into the Sierra Madre. That's my explanation at least for why he'd be the person sent to represent Big MT when Vault-Tec reached out seeking to collaborate with them on the vault experiments.

My opinion as to why the murals depict Sinclair as a young man is because he's rather vain. He was pretty suave way back when, but whereas House has largely retained his good looks up until 2077, Sinclair is now old, balding and fat.

It's worth noting that Cooper Howard has an indirect connection to Sinclair and Dean Domino, as he once starred in a movie with Vera.

...and considering a number of Season 2 set leaks have established that we'll be seeing flashbacks of Las Vegas before the Great War, I think there's a strong chance we'll get to see Cooper interact with Vera and Dean. Dean was very much present in Las Vegas at the time, as evidenced by some of his dialogue and the pre-War posters of him that can be found on loading screens and at a few locations on the Strip in the main game. So maybe Cooper will get to interact with the two of them as they were before Vera died and Dean became a ghoul.

And if they canonize Dean surviving Dead Money (which happens if you didn't bruise his ego while recruiting him), maybe Lucy and Cooper will get to interact with him when they get to New Vegas as his ending slides suggest that that's where he goes after he leaves the Sierra Madre.

I think that Vault-Tec invited Big MT to the table because they also wanted access to the same technologies Sinclair was installing in the Sierra Madre. The Vending Machines and the Auto Docs are pieces of technology that would definitely be useful to have in a Vault, especially when the Vaults are supposed to be self-sustaining.

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dawnatdaybreak · 4 months ago

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EDEN 4164616D Lyric... process??

hello :) I wrote the lyrics for EDEN 4164616D on MACHINA MORI and a few other people are doing little lyric analysis/writing process things and I was like hey! I could do that! if you have your own analysis of these lyrics that might differ from how I wrote them initially: do not let my "official" interpretation make yours any less valid! feel free to share your analysis before you read this (or after!) if you want, I like to see what people think of my writing! but the main thing is that whatever EDEN made you feel, my intended meaning should not take that away from you

there are a few things I might keep a little secret for now because I might still be working on some lore that will be revealed later ;) but I'll talk about the main writing process and ideas I wanted to convey with this song in and of itself and you can dig into the lore later once it's done!

Giving content warnings for: Biblical imagery, talk of mortality and death. Analysis is all below the cut!

First of all, the little disjointed "a-a-a-a-ah" at the start was an intentional idea from me! I wanted it to sound kind of like a startup sound or like Rei was initializing her vocals for the first time. The background "ah"s later on were entirely Dav-P's doing though I cant take any credit for those! I can suggest you give them a careful listen though :)

The entire song is written to be directly from the perspective of EDEN's Rei, and I had something of a narrative in mind for it. It's a story as much as it's a song, and I put a lot of parallels in some of the verses between each other that I had a lot of fun with. I love writing I love words I love music I love this song!! I really am so glad I got to write it.

undefined Adam electric amalgam sparks intertwine in this vessel of steel sculpted in your image what am I?

This first section doesn't have a whole lot to dig into, it's mostly setting up for something later on and giving the impression of EDEN's Rei at initialization and how she feels (or rather, doesn't.) The use of the phrases "this vessel" and "sculpted" in place of the more human terms she will use for herself later in the song is very intentional! "Undefined Adam" is a very early lead in to the biblical imagery I used occasionally throughout the song, and also sets up the very basic premise of how Rei views herself and the world she is being born into: she is to humanity as Adam is to God, a new being made in the image of man as man was made in the image of God.

I cannot be one of a kind show me everything I want to feel the wind on my face the sea against my skin if you'd call it that

This section is largely also here to establish Rei's feelings, but she has a few more of them to dig into now! She is capable of want and what she wants is to feel, even if her wanting that shows she already has the capacity for it. She has this desire to experience the things that humans wax poetic about, the sea breeze and the waves on your skin. "If you'd call it that" refers directly to the mention of skin- Rei is a machine made of metal, so it's hard to really say if skin is what the surface of her body should be called. She's humanizing herself to an extent here, but she's also backtracking, putting that distinct separation between her body and a human body even though her initial instinct is to call them the same.

hello world teach me how to fly make me feel alive I don't know what am I? trapped in endless time

Hello, world! I was honestly worried that line would be a bit of a low hanging fruit and everyone was going to use it, but I couldn't resist it. And I'm glad I did put it in after! I'm pretty pleased with the second use of it but that's getting a bit ahead of myself.

This section is largely about Rei "waking up" more, coming to terms a bit more with her feelings and circumstances. She wants to learn what it means to be a person, but not necessarily "human"- there's still a big divide between her and humanity that should become clearer as the song progresses. "Teach me how to fly" is largely metaphorical here, but there might be something fun that comes of that in the lore later if you want to stay tuned for it ;) "Trapped in endless time" refers to the immortality of machines. Rei does not think her time on Earth will ever end, and while she knows that separates her from humanity she isn't really sure what that makes her.

hollow and heartless emptiness I can't fix somehow I find you reflect in me oh make me in your image divine light

"Hollow and heartless, emptiness I can't fix" is meant to show how Rei views herself here as empty and lacking in a heart in both a literal and figurative sense. She views herself as incapable of doing anything about this because she lacks the power over herself that her creators have over her. "Somehow I find, you reflect in me" is in reference to a common trope I may have borrowed for this, in which an android/machine's creators won't treat them with any sort of kindness or love no matter how human their creation is meant to be. EDEN Rei's creators view her as a means to an end and nothing more- her heartlessness is reflected in them. "Make me in your image" and its variations will be a recurring phrase, once again intending to draw on the biblical imagery of humans being made in the image of God. "Divine light" further refers to this- Rei views humanity and all of its facets as divine and unreachable to her without outside intervention.

the way I see you I want to be seen too strip away my inhumanity oh make me in your image heart and mind

This entire section is meant to establish how Rei wants to be seen as a person and granted the respect humans have for each other. She is made so similar to a human, but she is still not owed the respect being human commands, so she wants to be more similar to her creators. There is still a separation between her and them, hence, "make me in your image, heart and mind".

I cannot forget how she cried the stars in her eyes I want to know how did she catch the divine? is her dream lost to time? should I make it mine?

This is yuri by the way. The "she" referred to here is largely a secret for now, but she is someone Rei fell in love with, and she is also a machine. "How did she catch the divine?" may imply that this other machine actually grasped the human emotions Rei has been chasing... but "is her dream lost to time?" implies there wasn't a happy ending to this story. The main takeaway from this for tying into the rest of the song is this: Rei has loved someone, and that someone is now out of her reach.

hello world or is this goodbye? did I do this right? I don’t know why am I running out of time?

Hello, world! I actually wrote this section before the other hello world section, and "hello world, or is this goodbye?" is probably one of my favourite sets of lines I wrote for this song. This is meant to be a somewhat direct parallel to the earlier section- where before Rei was "trapped in endless time", she is running out now. She isn't sure how much time she has left or if she has any at all, and she doesn't know whether she's used any of her time existing effectively. There's meant to be just a bit of fear or grief in the lyrics here: where before Rei's "I don't know" was in the context of not understanding the world around her and being inquisitive about it and her place in it, it's now in a context of not being sure she lived up to whatever expectations she found for herself, and not being sure she has enough time to change any of it.

burn with a new flame agonizing outbreak I don't want this but I'll never escape unmake me in your image I won't fight

"Burn with a new flame, agonizing outbreak" refers to the sudden and painful experience Rei is having with her own mortality, and is meant to imply anger or hatred towards the creators who made her feel this way. "I don't want this, but I'll never escape" as well as the "I won't fight" is here largely because despite everything she is feeling right now and her newly realized anger, Rei is not going to fight the fate she sees laid out in front of her. "Unmake me in your image" is to indicate that Rei knows she is about to be destroyed, and she's accepted this.

poetic irony everything denied me finally felt just a moment too late unmake me in your image why do I cry?

"Everything denied me, finally felt, just a moment too late" is another of my favourite lines I wrote for this, possibly one of my favourite lines I've written in general. "Everything denied me" is emotion, "just a moment too late" is indicating that it doesn't matter anymore. Despite her acceptance of her fate, Rei is hurting. She asks "why do I cry?" which is as much a question of why she is literally crying as it is a question of why it hurts so much to feel the things she has viewed this far as divine.

tell me how I'm meant to feel tell me if my heart is real make me what I wasn't meant to be tell me why, god, why? tell me why, god, who then am I? tell me why

This section includes the vocals that continue into the last two sections and is meant to kind of be the last few questions Rei has about her creation and destruction. She was built with the capacity to feel, but what was she supposed to do with that? If she is able to feel, does that mean she truly does have a heart? "Make me what I wasn't meant to be" is her final way of rebelling against her creators: she still wants to be human, to be divine, even after everything. The final questions are to do with her death. "Tell me why" is a demand for answers to everything. Why was she made? Why does she have to be unmade? "Who then am I?" is the question of who she is now, but also who she was supposed to be from the start.

pre-defined Adam electric amalgam fingers entwine in my body of steel you unmake me in your image scrap and wire

We get to revisit the first section now! This is a direct parallel to how Rei felt at the start of the song, while also showing that she is being disassembled in this moment. "Pre-defined Adam" in comparison to the earlier "undefined Adam" is to show that Rei knows now that who she was supposed to be was decided for her. "Fingers entwine in my body of steel" is meant to evoke the idea that someone is actively taking her apart in these last moments, and also parallel the earlier mentions of her body as "this vessel". Rei has come to view her body as hers, as opposed to just a vessel as she did at the start. "Scrap and wire" is simply what Rei knows she will become after she is taken apart.

mourning my own fate artificial heartbreak why do I love if I'm made just to hate? you unmake me in your image I don't want to die

This is probably my favourite section from the whole song I'm very proud of it. "Mourning my own fate" is fairly straightforward: Rei is about to die and she has to mourn herself. "Artificial heartbreak" mostly just sounds cool but also has to do with that grief, and in part to do with how Rei still doesn't view herself as human but instead as something else. "Why do I love if I'm made just to hate?" seems to be a line people really liked but unfortunately I can't say much about what it means here... it might have something to do with the circumstances around EDEN Rei's creation though! The rest is mostly more of the same and also self explanatory. Despite everything she has been through to reach this point, in her final moments Rei views herself as alive, and she doesn't want her life to end.

The scream at the end was also my plan and is meant in part to parallel the "startup sound" at the beginning! It's also where Rei dies, being fully disassembled by her creators. Although, maybe her consciousness could have escaped somewhere...? Been uploaded, maybe...? ;)

so yeah that was long and some of it was probably a lot more in depth than it needed to be but that's my writing process and main ideas for EDEN 4164616D! I really am proud of how this came out as a song and as a narrative, and I hope if you were interested enough in it to read this far you'll also be interested enough to keep an eye out for something that may or may not be related to it that might crop up either shortly before or after the MV releases!

if you're at all curious about anything else I didn't talk about here feel free to send me an ask about it!! I love talking about my writing process and seeing what people liked and disliked about what I made (and talking about anything else too!) so I'd be happy to see what people are curious about :)

#machina mori #adachi rei #lyrics #lyric analysis #writing process #EDEN 4164616D

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fairytales-and-folklore · 4 months ago

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Invisible String

Teen Wolf » Sterek

Title: Invisible String

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandom: Teen Wolf (Masterlist)

Relationship: Derek Hale x Stiles Stilinski

AO3 Rating: Teen & Up (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: In the aftermath of the nogitsune, Stiles takes up knitting at the suggestion of his therapist, and is surprised to find how much it helps him — and Derek — heal.

"Here's your hat," Stiles says with a half-hearted attempt at nonchalance, opting for playful banter in the hope that it'll ease some of the tension. "I would've finished it sooner, but some asshole snuck in through my window and scared me so bad I dropped half the stitches." He expects a smirk, a sarcastic quip, a long-suffering sigh followed by a theatrical eye-roll in response. What he doesn't expect is the vulnerable quiver in Derek's lower lip as he fixes Stiles with a stunned expression, eyebrows pulled together in a way that makes Stiles's heart physically clench inside his chest, and says, in the softest voice Stiles has ever heard, "You made this for me?" The following evening, Derek shows up wearing the hat Stiles made him, a tightly-wound ball of yarn and a set of knitting needles clutched in his hands as he tentatively holds them out to Stiles like a peace offering, and says, "Teach me?"

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In the aftermath of the whole possession by an ancient trickster demon thing, the one thing Stiles doesn't expect to hear from his in-the-know therapist is that he should consider taking up a hobby — something crafty and creative — to occupy his time. He does his best to suppress a snort of laughter but it's a near miss, insisting that he just doesn't have the patience for it.

Just give it a try, she says, and that's how Stiles begrudgingly finds himself in front of his laptop, scrolling down a Buzzfeed list of the top ten crafts guaranteed to reduce stress and anxiety.

It goes about as well as he'd expected.

His first (and last) attempt at baking nearly burns down the kitchen.

Every surface of his bedroom turns into some kind of viral rainbow (no matter where he sits or what he touches, his hands, his hair, and the back of his jeans are always covered) as he proceeds to drip paint everywhere but the canvas.

Origami ends in a mountain of the saddest looking swans the world has ever seen, crumpled up with varying octaves of frustrated sighs and volleyed into the trash bin with a fist pump and a victorious shout of score one, Stilinski!

He can't draw for shit, even his stick figures have Scott and Lydia squinting like the worst game of Pictionary.

He hasn't got a steady enough hand for calligraphy, and more often than not, the pen just ends up stuck between his teeth as he loses himself down a Sporcle rabbit hole.

All of his short stories end up reading like police reports.

He nearly impales his thumb on a needle when he tries out his mom's old sewing machine.

His dad comes home one night with a barrage of complaints from the neighbors claiming there's a cult of angry cats terrorizing the neighborhood when Stiles attempts to learn how to play the cello.

He's about ready to give up when he turns the corner at the local craft store and ends up in an aisle filled with rows upon rows of brightly colored, plushy bundles of yarn. He glances at the display sample of a cozy looking hat, eyes darting to the bright blue wool-acrylic blend of thick, soft yarn right in front of him, and then back up toward the hat, wondering just how difficult it would be to make one of his own. Might be nice with the winter months coming up.

He dithers for a moment before heaving a resigned sigh and grabbing a skein of the blue yarn, because blue is just pretty, and a set of knitting needles in the recommended size, and brings them up to the register, rationalizing that at least if this endeavor doesn't go well, all he'll be left with is tangled string, novelty chopsticks, and a wallet that's $11 lighter.

• • •

He picks it up surprisingly quickly. One week, a couple of YouTube tutorials, and a series of bookmarked Pinterest tabs detailing beginner projects, and he's already mastered garter, stockinette, and single rib stitch, and has about a dozen swatches scattered across his room.

Even more surprising is how much he finds he genuinely enjoys it. Likes the fact that it keeps him calm, keeps him grounded. Gives his restless hands something to do, his racing mind something to focus on. Likes the fact that, once he gets the basic beginner stitches down, he can just zone out and get lost in the gentle clicking of the knitting needles, the rhythmic repetition of his hands working to create a new series of interlocking loops, a creative distraction to dive into whenever the guilt and panic of everything that's happened over the last couple of months threatens to overwhelm him.

His first official project is a bunny knit from a single stockinette square, seamed and stuffed with poly-fil, gifted to his therapist as a sort of thank you for pushing him to try something new.

• • •

He finds his gaze drifting toward Derek late one night at a pack meeting, mapping out and lingering over all the worrying little details of his body language — the tense line of his shoulders, eyebrows set in a semi-permanent crease, lips pulled into a pensive frown, fingertips digging into the underside of the worn wooden table hard enough to leave indents — and finds himself wondering if Derek has got any secret stress-reducing hobbies, if maybe he could benefit from having a creative outlet the same way Stiles has been.

He tries to imagine Derek taking up knitting, and has to fight to suppress the fond little flutter that stirs inside his chest at the image of Derek with a half-finished scarf splayed across his lap, yarn wrapped around his stupidly big, strong hands as he works them in an intricate pattern, the two of them sitting side by side on the couch, watching movies and working on projects together; has to bite back a bout of giddy laughter at the idea of Derek talking shop about his favorite stitch patterns, wandering down craft store aisles with a mountain of brightly colored, kitten soft skeins clutched in his arms, arguing the merits of aluminum vs. bamboo, cotton vs. wool, with those big surly eyebrows of his, as Stiles strolls along beside him. It's so absurdly soft and domestic that Stiles can't contain the longing sigh that spills out of his mouth at the thought of it.

Derek's eyes snap up in his direction, narrowing in equal parts curiosity and concern, and Stiles is so fucked because there's no way Derek hadn't heard the little stutter in his heartbeat just now, hadn't caught him staring, open-mouthed and shameless, with this stupid overly fond lovesick expression on his face, when he was supposed to be paying attention to Scott's detailed report of his recent perimeter patrols, and taking notes on the newest potential monster of the week he's apparently responsible for researching.

And because his body is an absolute traitor, he can feel the telltale prickle of white hot heat creeping up the back of his neck and sprawling across his entire face like a goddamn sunburn, and oh god, there's no way Derek isn't piecing it all together, no way he isn't going to figure it out, no way Stiles will be able to keep his stupid little crush of his a secret if he keeps this up.

He attempts to salvage the moment with what he hopes is a friendly smile and a nonchalant nod, but judging by the way Derek's eyebrows hike high enough to get altitude sickness, it probably comes across as more of a flail and a manic grimace.

Which is just so great.

Yup. Fucking nailed it.

• • •

And yeah, it probably wouldn't help the whole pretending he's not secretly in love with a sourwolf thing if he were to randomly surprise Derek with a handmade knitted hat out of absolutely nowhere, but like — look — the color combination of that super soft merino wool featured every single fleck of Derek's eyes down to the exact shade, which is just…yeah. Super pretty. So like, he couldn't just not get it.

As is Stiles's luck, he can't even keep the hat itself a secret, because a few days after the pack meeting, Derek comes swooping in through his bedroom window while he's right in the middle of a round of decreases, causing him to shriek bloody murder and drop half a row of stitches in the process.

He makes a floundering attempt to shove the half-finished hat underneath his pillow, but of course, Derek's reflexes are faster (motherfucking werewolves) and he snags it out of Stiles's hands before he's even made it halfway across the room, staring down at it intently, running his fingers across the delicate little interlocking arrows, a flicker of a smile threatening to break across his face as he looks up and fixes Stiles with a curious expression.

"New hobby?" he asks, his tone uncharacteristically light, and Stiles prepares himself for the inevitable onslaught of derisive comments and mockery, because apparently he can't just have this one nice thing.

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles sighs with a weary roll of his eyes. "Make fun of me all you want, but we'll see who's laughing when I single-handedly defeat the next big bad with my killer dexterity and refined upper-body strength."

Derek's lips twist into a frown, brows creasing in frustration.

"I'm not making fun of you," he says solemnly, all traces of lighthearted banter vanishing as he takes a tentative step forward and places the set of circular needles into Stiles's hands with a measurable gentleness.

"Oh," Stiles says softly, all defensiveness rushing out of him on the next breath, awed by the fact that Derek looks genuinely offended by the assumption that he would tease Stiles over something like this. "Okay, well…good. Because I'm actually really liking learning how to knit so far."

He holds Derek's gaze long enough to catch a thoughtful hum in response, and then he's stumbling backward into his rolly chair with all the grace of a mountain troll, breathing out a nerve-addled huff as he refocuses his attention on the project clutched in his hands.

There's a soft creak of leather and bedsprings as Derek perches on the edge of Stiles's bed, watching with rapt interest as Stiles sets to work fixing the dropped stitches, mesmerized by the subtle flex of his forearms, the delicate twist of his long, nimble fingers as Stiles slips the little stitch marker from one needle to the other to start a new row.

They sink into a companionable silence, the only sound the gentle click of the knitting needles, the steady rise and fall of his focused, meditative breathing, peppered with the occasional murmured mantra of knit one, purl one as Stiles sticks his tongue between his teeth, brow furrowed in concentration as he deciphers what type of stitch he's supposed to make next.

"So, what made you decide to take up knitting?" Derek's voice rings out across the room, head tilted to the side as Stiles produces a thick blunt-tipped needle and begins threading the working yarn through the last few live stitches of the crown.

"Well," Stiles sighs, tension coiling in his shoulders as he struggles to split his concentration. Because this is the most crucial part. Mess this part up and the whole thing unravels. "It started out as a suggestion from my therapist, actually. She figured I needed something— some nice, simple, normal thing — to occupy my time, help take my mind off things…something that isn't just endless research and round-the-clock panic attacks over the supernatural nightmare my life has become ever since—"

There's a sharp intake of breath and a soft, barely audible noise like a wounded animal, and Stiles glances up to find Derek staring a hard line into the floor, looking crestfallen.

"Hey," Stiles says consolingly, offering Derek an apologetic smile, and quickly amending. "Present company excluded, of course."

Derek huffs out a laugh and rolls his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eases considerably.

"So I tried out a bunch of stuff, which I totally sucked at, by the way," Stiles continues, pulling the working yarn taut to close the opening at the top of the hat. "Everything from baking, to painting, to sewing, to trying to learn how to play an instrument — Dad practically had to beg me to return the cello I rented out from the school — before I just kind of accidentally stumbled across knitting…which, it turns out, I'm actually pretty good at."

"I like it," Stiles adds after a moment's pause. "I like that it's both relaxing and productive. I like working with my hands, being able to make things."

"I like…" he trails off, throat suddenly tight as he fights off the familiar sting in the corners of his eyes. "I like the fact that, after everything that's happened, I still have the ability to create beautiful things."

His fingers tremble as he works to weave the yarn tail through the last column of stitches, and he has to pause to catch his breath. He chances a glance over at Derek, and is struck with a low swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach at the sight of him staring down at his open palms with an intense expression on his face, so achingly familiar that Stiles knows, without a shadow of a doubt, what he must be thinking in that moment — that the two of them share something no one else in the pack will ever truly be able to understand— that every time they look down at their own hands, they're seeing the same thing: the sharp skewer of a set of claws; the slow twist of a sword; phantom blood clinging to such delicate things made into weapons against their will.

The finished hat lands in Derek's hands a minute later, effectively snapping him out of his downward spiral. He blinks down at it a few times, looking utterly bewildered, before his gaze flickers back up toward Stiles, eyebrows arched in question.

He expects a smirk, a sarcastic quip, a long-suffering sigh followed by a theatrical eye-roll in response. What he doesn't expect is the vulnerable quiver in Derek's lower lip as he fixes Stiles with a stunned expression, eyebrows pulled together in a way that makes Stiles's heart physically clench inside his chest, and says, in the softest voice Stiles has ever heard, "You made this for me?"

"Well, yeah," Stiles says as he ducks his head to attack a phantom itch on the back of his neck, heat rising in the hollows of his cheekbones. "It — you know — it matches your eyes, or whatever."

Derek stares at him for a moment longer before his gaze drifts back down to the little hat woven with all the colors of the forest, cradling it in his hands like it's the most precious thing in the world.

• • •

The following evening, Derek shows up wearing the hat Stiles made him, a tightly-wound ball of yarn and a set of knitting needles clutched in his hands as he tentatively holds them out to Stiles like a peace offering, and says, "Teach me?"

And yeah, maybe Stiles's heart does that same little flutter on a much grander scale when, several months down the line, the two of them exchange Christmas gifts, only to realize they've knitted each other matching scarves.

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