#custom iron on letters

[netpropatches]

Motorcycle Club Patches

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[rainywithachanceofstars]

GUESS WHAT I JUST FOUND AT THE GROCERY STORE

EKK! HE SAYS "EKK"!!!

HE LIGHTS UP AND SAYS EKK!!!!!

i will be displaying this spoopy ghost until the END OF TIME please and thank you

[httpsserene]

groceries — 𝐥𝐧. 𝟒 & 𝐨𝐩. 𝟖𝟏 lando norris & oscar piastri & fem!black!reader drabble. fluff. attempt at banter. dialogue heavy. no physical description of reader. could be platonic or pre-relationship. covid lockdown mentioned. baking soda vs powder plagiarized from reddit; thank you redditor fowler311.

synopsis: you know a thing or two about baking, because you’ve baked a thing or two.

˖♡ - ̗̀ ⇢ qatar, you were magnificent until you weren't. this post alone is me putting good energy in the atmosphere for the boys in abu dhabi. is this platonic or not? idk, it's up to you—i just happened to write it. (college semester is over !!! i will be so active you'll wish i never came back xxx) no part two requests, pls 🥺 enjoy reading, loves < 3

⌕ join taglist | requests & feedback | upcoming chapters | table of contents ↻

you grocery shop on saturday night because no one else living in monaco would consider doing the same. usually.

as you’ve been grabbing items off the shelves, you occasionally stumble across two young men—they’re the only other customers in the store with you this evening. 

the first time you shared an aisle with them, you offered a polite smile before redirecting your gaze to the various shapes and brands of pasta. the second time, you shyly murmured an “excusez-moi” and they apologized immediately while stepping out of the way, allowing you to grab a pack of chocolate chips. the third time, your polite smile widened in amusement, as you watched the man drowning in an oversized hoodie shadow-box his friend, who remained unfazed at the whooshing fists as he inspected a carton for any cracked eggs.

the fourth time, you realize that the two men are lando norris and oscar piastri—the driver lineup of the mclaren formula one team. and, they’re arguing about the difference between baking powder and baking soda, very loudly. in aisle three of carrefour. at eight in the evening. on a saturday night.

surely, these two have more interesting plans for their weekend besides grocery shopping.

“they can’t be that different, can they?”

“hmm. once is soda, and the other is powder. that’s quite different, i reckon.”

“yeah, but, they both start with ‘baking,’ so, i figure they’re more similar.”

“if they’re similar, why would they make two different products?”

“greed? consumption—oh, no, wait—consummate? no.”

“consumerism?”

“consumerism! that’s it.”

“i would agree, but i don’t think that’s the case with these two.”

“well, think harder. it’s freezing in here, osc.”

“i think you’re iron deficient.”

“what?”

“never mind—look, mate, this is your fault, really.”

“woo-oooow, i can’t believe this! so, you’re blaming me now?”

“you wrote the list, lando! how is your handwriting so terrible that i can’t tell if you wrote ‘baking soda’ or ‘baking powder’?”

“first of all, you told me to write the list! nobody writes grocery lists anymore, grandpa! secondly, why would you make the dyslexic kid write the list? it’s cruel and unusual—you know i can’t spell for shit.”

“lando. the word ‘powder’ has two more letters than ‘soda.’ i know that you know that. how did you make—whatever the hell that says—look like it could be either one?”

“osc, you’re hurting my feelings. are—are you saying i’m stupid?”

“i literally never said that. the word ‘stupid’ didn’t even come out of my mouth, you muppet—“

you bang the front of your cart into the end-cap of the aisle, sending a few rolls of bagels to the floor. your cheeks warm as their banter halts and heads snap over to look at you awkwardly rushing around to pick up the floor bagels. the last package rolled unbelievably far to knock against lando norris’s shoe. aren’t you just lucky?

you see lando press his lips together to avoid laughing (you appreciate the effort), and he dismisses your apologies as he scoops the bagels off the floor and moves to help place them back on the shelf.

“uh, t-thank you,” you stutter, as oscar piastri walks over just in time to catch a roll that was eagerly looking to return to the supermarket floor. the two men offer smiles in return—lando’s wide and gap-toothed, oscar’s boxy and toothless.

“soda spreads and powder puffs,” you blurt out, because you left you brain-to-mouth filter at home. maybe they sell replacements here. in the aisle furthest away from the two formula one drivers, preferably.

“what?” lando questions, a matching look of confusion plastered on his teammates face.

“sorry, i overheard your conversation,” you shrug, trying for nonchalance, “baking soda influences spread and browning, whereas baking powder provides puffiness and lift. they’re both leavening agents but, baking soda is sodium bicarbonate and baking powder is a mixture of sodium bicarbonate and an acid. soda needs and an acid to activate but powder needs moisture and heat. so—i guess which one you need depends on what your trying to make.”

you think you failed to portray nonchalance, if the perplexed expressions the two stare at you with are any telling.

oscar blinks, “…we’re trying to make chocolate chip cookies. i tried to convince him to buy cookie dough but he wanted to make them from scratch, even though neither of us can bake.”

“it’s more fun if we do it from scratch,” lando crosses his arms huffily, “you didn’t have to tell her that we’re absolutely hopeless in the kitchen, though.”

“i reckon she already knew that from overhearing our lack of knowledge about baking ingredients, lando,” the australian chuckles quietly, shifting the shopping basket from one arm to the other.

“do you have the recipe on you?” you ask kindly.

oscar hands the scorned grocery list over without complaint, “it’s my mum’s recipe. sorry if it’s hard to read—you’ll have to blame him for that.”

lando scoffs in indignation, “you’re exaggerating, oscar. my handwriting isn’t that bad, is it?”

you feel them watching as you decipher the hieroglyphics that are lando’s letters. you bring a finger up to trace underneath the scrawl, eyes squinting to force the words into focus—oscar snorts and lando sighs in played-up dejection.

“i can understand what you’ve wrote just fine,” you smile at lando, “i’ve seen worse. you know, my younger cousin’s handwritting is miles more dreadful than this.”

the brit knocks his shoulder against oscar’s teasingly, “hah! maybe you just can’t read, osc. have you thought about that?”

you tap your finger against your chin in thought, “—but my cousin is like, five-years-old, with terrible fine motor skills. so, i wouldn’t say that’s a fair comparison.”

the two are caught by surprise, laughing delightedly at your ribbing. the sound of their amusement is contagious enough for you to crease with your own giggles.

“i didn’t expect to be bullied in a carrefour’s on a saturday night by a stranger,” lando says with a grin, after he’s calmed down.

“sorry,” you shake your head playfully, properly introducing yourself before continuing, “i forgot you usually spend your time here arguing about baking soda. which—by the way, your mum’s recipe calls for both baking powder and soda, oscar. which is very smart and unique! in most cookie recipes, most people usually opt for baking soda alone, for the spread of the batter. but, your mum must’ve liked her cookies puffier and fluffier as well! anyways, that explains why it looks like lando could’ve written either word here—because he meant to write both.”

they thank you profusely for helping them overcome the challenge of lando’s handwriting, oscar returning to the aisle to place each ingredient in his basket.

“sorry, could you grab me one of the baking soda, as well?” you ask, “that’s the last thing off of my list tonight.”

“we’re all done, too,” the australian walks over with your box, hesitating briefly before you gesture for him to drop it in your filled cart.

the duo walks towards the registers with you, lando asking, “are you a baker?”

“no,” you chuckle, “i had a phase during lockdown.”

“ah, i should’ve known,” he teases, “i mean, that’s how you know that baking powder is sodium carbon-fiber—“, oscar echoes his teammates ‘sodium carbon-fiber’ with a soft smile, “—just a baking phase, right. makes sense.”

“oh, come on, lando norris,” you scold him jokingly, “baking powder is sodium carbon-fiber and an acid. keep up—we’ve been over this already.”

you separate from the two as you near the registers, unloading your cart onto the conveyor belt and exchanging polite conversation with the cashier as you hand over your stack of reusable bags. you don’t realize that they’ve waited for you until you start to think about the logistic of carrying all of your groceries home.

“uh,” lando pushes oscar forward with a firm hand on his back, the tips of the australian’s ears are reddening, “would you like help with those? we don’t mind holding a few.”

“would you mind?” your shoulders sag in relief, “i do this in one trip routinely but i don’t think that’s happening tonight. i only live about four blocks over—my doorman will help me get them all up to my flat, so i won’t be keeping you longer than necessary.”

that’s how you find yourself walking home, on a saturday night, with two formula one drivers holding the bulk of your groceries in their arms. you’re going to the casino directly after you put the groceries away because your luck is too good to miss out on right now. your doorman heads inside to grab a cart as soon as he catches sight of you. your two helpers exchange a glance in your peripheral vision as you come to stop in front of your building.

“well, this is me,” you start, pausing to thank your doorman, gabriel, as the boys carefully unload the bags onto the cart, “thank you for the assistance, you are both too kind.”

“mr. norris and mr. piastri are always kind,” hums gabriel, winking at the two men, before rolling the cart inside.

“wait, what? you live in the same building as me?” you’re flummoxed. you knew the rent was too expensive, but you didn’t think it was formula-one-driver-expensive.

“i live here,” lando reveals, holding the door as he lets you and oscar walk inside, “osc doesn’t. i feel like i would remember your face if i’ve seen you here before. what floor are you on?”

“i don’t know if i should tell you that,” you side-eye them flippantly, “i fear for my safety.”

“well, i shouldn’t have told you that i live here,” lando sniffs.

“gabriel blew your cover, mate,” oscar rolls his eyes, “also, she would’ve found out anyways. we would’ve had to follow her in to make the cookies in your apartment.”

your doorman squeezes into the first elevator with your groceries, while you and the boys opt for the second. oscar’s hand hovers over the button while he waits for you to clue him in, pressing lando’s afterwards.

lando clears his throat as the elevator begins to rise. “seeing as your thrilling saturday night activity of grocery shopping is over, what are the rest of your plans for tonight?”

scratching at the nape of your neck, you say, “don’t judge me anymore than you have tonight…i was thinking about watching the entire how to train your dragon trilogy.”

oscar gasps quietly, his eyes bright, “i love those movies.”

“would you like to come up to my flat and make chocolate chip cookies from scratch with us? and watch the movies, too?” lando’s question is sweet, and his eyes are earnest.

“i feel like it would be very dumb of me to visit the apartment of a man i just met in the grocery—formula one driver or not.”

“sorry, i can see how it’s weird. better safe than sorry, i know. i promise we’re not like going to try anything, or we’re not, like, serial killers or anything. oscar’s too polite for that, and i’m too squeamish. seriously, it would be just for the cookies. we didn’t have a baking phase in lockdown like you did, so we’re lost on a lot more than the different between baking soda and powder. sodium carbon-fiber and acid, or not. if it’s uncomfortable for you, that’s fine. maybe we can plan for another day when you know us better.”

“yep,” oscar offers in support of lando’s statement.

you smile, “you remembered about the acid this time.”

the elevator dings before softly jerking to a stop on your floor. the doors begin to slide open, “honestly? i think i’m more afraid about you guys possibly burning our building down rather than killing me in cold blood.”

you step out of the elevator, seeing gabriel waiting by your door with the cart.

turning back to face the two men, you survey them with a serious gaze before breaking into a grin, “don’t turn on the oven without me. that part requires adult supervision. let me put my groceries away and then i’ll be right up.”

© httpsserene - do not reupload. photos in header image are from pinterest. divider by @cafekitsune.

[mischievousmoony]

𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎

⟢ frat boy!james potter x fem!reader ⟢ you work at the hot spot for all things caffeine on campus, and you weren't expecting your first customer of the day to be so charming ⊹ 2.0k ⟢ warnings/tags: talks of alcohol/being hungover, james and reader do not like coffee, reader's hair is described to be in a ponytail ⟢ part 1 ⟡ part 2 ⟡ part 3 ⟡ masterlist

note: this is gonna be a 3 part mini series! and james being in a frat isn't very impactful to the story i just love him so that's the version of james you get today!

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Most of your mornings start with an assault on your senses. The overwhelming fragrance of freshly brewed coffee, the relentless hum of generic pop songs that lodge themselves in your brain like immortal earworms, the beams of morning sunlight that slice through the cafe window perfectly shining right into your eyes—it all comes together to torment your mornings at Brewology.

Not to mention the morning rush that always comes like a slap in the face about thirty minutes into your shift.

Brewology is arguably the most popular cafe on campus. Your theory is that its popularity is riding on the fact that it resides right in the middle of the academic side of campus. Because, in your opinion, the drinks aren’t that good. But who are you to judge? You never really liked coffee anyway. A fact that, when shared, is usually met with the question, “Why would you work at a cafe if you don’t like coffee?”

The answer is simple. With your packed schedule, the only time you have to work is before your classes. And Brewology offers the earliest shifts on campus.

You’d work even earlier if you could; the cosmos knows you need the money. If it weren’t for your lack of a car, you probably would have found some bakery that opens at 5 a.m. to work at. But starting at 7 a.m. will have to do.

This morning is like any other. You come in, and your manager has already set up the cafe for opening, including flicking on the radio that’s always tuned in to the same station. It’s not that you dislike pop music, but the radio host seems to play the same ten songs over and over and over.

You take your place by the register and close your eyes for a moment. Both to block the intruding sunlight and to brace yourself for the impending day.

When the little bell above the door chimes, thirty minutes before it usually does for the first time, you bite back a groan and open your eyes. You have to squint to bear the light as your eyes land on your incoming customer.

He practically stumbles into the cafe. Sunglasses that he doesn’t take off inside and fraternity letters ironed onto his t-shirt tell you everything you need to know to predict his order. It’s a fun game you like to play, especially when business is slow. Sometimes you include your coworkers, but seeing as your shift partner is running late, you’ll have to play on your own.

So, fraternity guy. And, you have to hand it to him, he looks like he works out. A combination that suggests he’ll start his day with a protein breakfast wrap or two. He’s got messy hair that suggests he just rolled out of bed or he never slept. Someone needs a great deal of caffeine this morning.

And the way he’s stumbling through the cafe—is he hungover? It’s a safe bet: again, fraternity guy. Scratch the breakfast wrap. If he’s smart, he’ll eat something plain.

“Morning,” the boy greets you when he finally reaches the counter.

You’re pleasantly surprised he started with a greeting instead of just barking his order at you.

“Good morning, how can I help?” you reply, keeping your tone light. You’re still warming up to the day, so this customer will have to live without hearing your award-winning customer service voice.

“I need caffeine. A lot of it, preferably. Like, a bucket of it, maybe.”

Bingo. That’s half your guess.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. Though I’m afraid we just took ‘bucket of caffeine’ off the menu, so you’ll have to choose a drink.”

The boy's lips quirk into an amused smile. You can’t really tell because of his sunglasses, but you’re sure his eyes linger on you for a few moments before he diverts his attention to the chalkboard menu on the wall behind you.

“Small issue. Not a big coffee guy,” he says, staring at the menu with a furrowed brow. “I… don’t know what half these drinks are. What do you like?”

You hate that question. Telling the customer the truth, that you don’t like most of the drinks here, isn’t exactly good for business. And lying is never your first instinct, so there’s always an awkward moment of dead air as you try to figure out a suitable suggestion.

“Uh, well, you’re looking for something with lots of caffeine, right? But you don’t usually drink coffee? Do you like coffee?”

“It’s… fine,” he says as if it pains him. “I’m more of a Celsius kind of guy, but the vending machine was broken—anyway, I just need something with triple digits of caffeine that hopefully won’t make me feel like I’m drinking out of a black hole.”

His comment makes you laugh, mostly because you find it refreshingly relatable. You’ve been known to say that some stronger brews made you feel like all the happiness was sucked from your body when they hit your tastebuds. All your coworkers call you dramatic, but you bet this guy would resonate.

Of all the sips of coffee your coworkers have forced you to try, you attempt to think of one that was highly caffeinated and went down the easiest.

“If you want a lot of caffeine, your best bet is a blonde shaken espresso. Probably gonna want a flavored syrup. Vanilla? Or maybe brown sugar? And if you want to go full Starbucks, you can do it with oat milk.”

To him, you're speaking another language. Mostly because he got distracted wondering what makes an espresso “blonde.” And maybe the way you swept your ponytail over your shoulder as you spoke stole his attention, too. Is it weird to notice how soft a stranger's hair looks?

James shakes away his thoughts. “Sure. That. Whatever you recommend in a large, please.”

You start punching it in on the register, making any sweetener and milk decisions for him. “Well, for the caffeine content, it’ll certainly be tolerable.”

“That’s all I need it to be,” he says as he takes out his card to pay, a smirk playing at his lips. He leans over the counter slightly, deliberately inching closer to you, and his voice slips into something quieter. “You know, you don’t seem too fond of coffee yourself. Which I imagine is challenging for a barista.”

You bite your lip as you finish ringing him out. You know his eyes are boring into you from behind those dark lenses—you can feel his gaze piercing you. “You caught me. But don’t worry, I have tried this drink, and it’s, well, you’ll manage. I think.”

“I’m putting a lot of faith in this recommendation, you know? If I can’t stomach it, I’m gonna sleep through all my classes. My slipping grades will be on your hands.”

“Well, it can’t be as gross as whatever had you stumbling in here so hungover, can it?” You don’t know where you found the confidence to banter with this stranger so boldly. The wrong person would be asking for your manager.

Luckily, he seems amused. More than amused, judging by the way his lips curl into a wide grin around hearty laughter.

He knows you’ve read him to filth. He is hungover—miserably so. The only comeback is to play the customer card. “Is this how you talk to all your customers?”

He says it—customer—like he’s playing a part. As if that’s not exactly what he is. As if he could be, should be more.

Your fingers fumble with the plastic cup as you pull it out of the sleeve, as his words and his tone hit you.

“Only the ones that might still be drunk from the night before,” you muse as his ticket prints, and you plaster it to his cup, smoothing the shiny paper out longer than necessary.

“I’ll have you know I took my last shot over two hours ago,” he says, very matter-of-factly.

You shoot him an incredulous look. “So… around 5 a.m.? On a weeknight. You know, I’d probably feel bad about what I said if I had been wrong, buuut-”

“Okay!” He raises his arms in surrender. “If I fall asleep in class today, I will take full responsibility.”

“Well, it’s the least you could do,” you say sarcastically, evidence of your smile in your tone.

As you move down the counter to start making his drink, he slides down with you.

“You don’t need my name? For the order?” he asks.

“Oh, no. It’s based on order number, and yours…” You pick up his cup to examine the ticket. “…is lucky number two-hundred twenty-two.”

He hums in acknowledgment as you get back to making his coffee.

“Well, it’s James,” he says after a beat. “In case you wanted it anyway.”

You look up from what you’re doing and are surprised when you meet warm brown eyes. He took off his sunglasses.

“It’s nice meeting you, James,” you say softly.

“You too.” His eyes flicker to your name tag, and your name spills from his lips like warm honey.

You blame the warmth across your cheeks on the heat radiating from the espresso machine.

When you hand him his drink a few minutes later, you pretend not to notice his fingers brush against yours as he claims that he must try it in front of you.

“If you don’t like it, do me a favor and lie,” you tell him.

“You got it,” he winks as he punches a straw through the lid.

As he raises it to his lips, you find yourself wholeheartedly hoping that he likes the drink you made.

The fact that he doesn’t make a sour expression is a good sign. He goes in for a second sip before giving his assessment.

“It’s actually pretty decent. It’s coffee, but it’s not so bad.”

You grin triumphantly. “Well, then I guess I saved your grade today.”

He glances at you skeptically. “So you get kudos if I like the coffee, but it’s not your fault if I don’t?”

“Exactly.”

James’ shoulders bob in silent laughter. “Alright, sure. Kudos to you.”

“Please.” You wave a hand in the air, laying the ‘humble’ act on thick. “It’s just another day on the job.”

James chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “Well, thank you for your service. This is truly my saving grace today.”

“It’s my pleasure, James.”

His lips stretch into a smile brighter than the morning light shining through the windows. It’s like hearing his name fall from your lips is the only pick-me-up he needs, screw the coffee.

And you may not know the reason he beams so brightly, but what you do see is a smile you could get lost in.

He’s about to bid you goodbye, but before he goes, he has a realization.

“Oh, almost forgot,” he mumbles, fishing for something in his pocket as he returns to the register. You follow with a knit brow as you watch him pull a $10 bill from his pocket and drop it into your tip jar.

You shake your head immediately. “That’s- your drink didn’t even cost that much.”

James shrugs, already backing away from the counter. “It’s the only bill I have.”

“Well, maybe I don’t want it.”

“Sorry,” James shrugs, not sounding very sorry at all. “What’s done is done. I can’t take back my tip, that would be despicable. I couldn’t live with myself.”

“You don’t need to tip at all, really.”

“Of course I need to tip. Especially here. Where would students be without their morning coffee? Where would I be?” he asks as his back hits the door.

It’s apparent this isn’t a battle you’re going to win, so you play along. “Probably not here. Suppose you would have flunked out after sleeping through too many classes.”

“Exactly,” he says through a triumphant smile. James slips his sunglasses back on his face as he backs through the door. “See you around.”

“Thank you!” you call after him about the tip, hoping you really do see him again.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

next part

[nesepte]

Hundred Steps | Jaehyun

Pairing: Jaehyun x fem! reader

Genre: soft jaehyun, fluff (he is cute in this), very mild angst, unsaid words, cozy, vinyl record store, music(al), rich jaehyun, but very humble jaehyun, acts of service love language jaehyun, small town, small shop owner, shop assistant jaehyun, first kiss, first crush, coming of age (?), senior jaehyun. Word Count: 6.5k words

A/n: Happy Jaehyun day, my loves! Here is the full fic. This is probably the sweetest fanfic I have ever written. Hope you find it so too! xD

Taglist: @yewshi @kanekisheart @cigsaftersuh

The air was warm against your cheek. The summer had ended but the heat lingered like a stubborn heart refusing to see reason. In front of you beyond the wrought iron gates, stretched the steps to your new life but you stood frozen in place.

Mind can be so fickle, and this restless heart even more so. You had waited your entire life to leave your hometown and move to the city. You had dreamed of this college every night and here it was, ready to welcome you.

But you turned your gaze behind— the city quiet from this height. Beyond the mountains in the distance, amidst the swirling roads that led to nowhere, your eyes searched for him.

Jaehyun…

It was two weeks after your high school graduation. You were working late in your father’s store for vinyl records. Just a few minutes before closing time you heard the ding of the tiny bell fixed atop the door. He stumbled in, trying to frantically shut his umbrella which was dripping onto the carpeted floor. His brown pants were soaked at the bottom and his white shirt was wrinkled at the joints.

‘That’s alright,’ you said and he looked up. Despite the umbrella, his hair was slightly damp and the tip of his nose was red. ‘We are closing soon,’ you told him. ‘If you want to browse, I suggest you come back tomorrow morning.’

His curious eyes darted from you to the aisle behind him. ‘Where is...?’

‘Are you looking for my dad?’ you asked, trying to keep your tone professional. ‘He fractured his leg. I’ll be taking care of the shop in his absence.’

He finally managed to close his umbrella and left it by the window.

‘Right,’ he said, walking into the glow of the dim lamp hanging from the ceiling above the counter. This close, you noticed that his cheeks were red too but it wasn’t particularly cold out that night.

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ he said, ‘but by any chance did he mention any Beatles record on hold?’

‘The Beatles…’ you mumbled to yourself and ducked behind the counter to check the cabinets. At the very top, wrapped neatly in a clear film was the record and stuck to it was a post-it that had the word paid written in block letters and a name beside it.

‘Jung…’ you whispered, rising back to your feet to find the light, ‘…Jaehyun.’

It took you a moment to place the name in your head, and when you did, you blurted out, ‘It’s you!’ You looked up at him. ‘You are Jung Jaehyun?!’

Your raised voice had startled him but he replied as even as before, pressing his lips together. ‘That’s correct,’ he said.

‘Get out,’ you gritted out.

‘W-What?’

His blank, ignorant eyes angered you even more.

‘Do you have any idea what you put my father through?’ you yelled, your voice echoing through the empty shop. ‘You have been making these insane demands for those godforsaken rare records ever since you stepped foot into our store!’

You could feel your face heating up, your heart pulsating inside your throat. It was a bad look— shouting at a customer, but you could not stop the words from flowing out.

‘Do you know how difficult it is for my father to find them?! It’s because of you that he had an accident and fractured his leg. He was out in the rain to get your stupid record!’

‘I…’ He stared at you, mouth agape and his face drained of colour. He had shrunk under your gaze somehow. ‘I… I had no idea.’

‘Of course, you didn’t!’ you spat back, the thin record shaking between your trembling fingers. ‘All you rich kids care about is your own convenience!’

‘That’s a harsh judgement to make,’ he returned, though not unkindly.

‘Harsh?’ You let out a mirthless laugh. You could not believe your own anger. The bulb over the counter flickered like a dull firework as the record player in the corner switched to the next song.

‘I’ll tell you what’s harsh. All his life, my father has worked tirelessly in this shop to raise me alone and I have done nothing but kept my nose buried in books so I could get into the best university in Seoul.’

You sighed, pressing your palm to your forehead to control the wretched tears that were pricking the corner of your eyes.

‘This was my last summer before college. My last chance to taste freedom and it’s ruined because of you! I am stuck in this shop, working all day. The boxes are heavy, the shelves are high. I don’t know any of the customers and all they really do is ask about my dad. I haven’t even eaten all day but I can’t complain to anyone without looking like an ungrateful brat!’

There was more you wanted to say but you had no breath left in you. Besides, you had embarrassed yourself enough and you couldn’t risk crying in front of him.

‘Just take this and leave.’ You held out the record to him.

His hand reached out immediately but stopped just centimetres from the edge.

‘Take it,’ you repeated, hiding the hitch in your voice. You did not rush his hesitation— there was no other customer in the shop waiting anyway. At last, when he closed his fingers over the record, you let the rest of your anger flow out of you with it.

‘What?’ you asked. He was still standing at the counter, staring at you. Maybe you had been too harsh but your anger didn’t allow any sympathy.

‘I can pay the hospital bill,’ he mumbled, clutching the record tightly in his hands.

‘There is no need,’ you replied. You could not let your pride take another hit after making a complete fool out of yourself in front of a complete stranger. ‘Just… don’t come back here again.’

You regretted saying it the moment the words left your lips.

When you had first learned of Jaehyun through your father, you had imagined a stoic, old man in his 50s, dressed in an unnecessarily expensive suit with a cigar in his hand and a flashy gold chain around his neck. He definitely seemed the kind with his incessant demands for particularly hard-to-find, expensive records. He liked nothing in the shop.

Pretentious bastard, you had called him.

But standing in front of you was a boy, who didn’t look much older than you. He was careful with the record while stowing it away in his bag, holding it delicately by the edges. Despite your outburst, there was a twinkle in his eyes, one that you recognized all too well— your father had it too whenever he got his hands on a new record.

In the wake of your receding anger, you saw clearly how frightened you had made him but he did not protest again. Without another word, he left, stopping only for a moment at the door but he did not speak whatever it was he wanted to say.

However, that was not the end. He came back— sooner than you had expected.

The next morning was busier than usual. You had to receive a new consignment and the truck that came with the boxes did as little as unload them right on the street in front of the store.

The sun was already up and you were sweating through your shirt by the time you had dragged the third carton inside amidst the sea of cursing passersby tripping over them.

Jaehyun found you sitting on the pavement, exhausted and on the verge of tears again. You had your head between your palms and was about to keel over from your own weight when he tapped you on your shoulder.

You looked up at him, squinting at his silhouette against the sun.

‘Didn’t I tell you not to come back here?’ you said, unable to keep the sharpness out of your tone.

He nodded, his expression unchanged. His eyes raked over the mess you had made on the street behind you.

‘What?’ This time you actually felt the tears fall out of your eyes but he didn’t startle. Instead, he sat down beside you.

‘What are you doing—’

He reached into his bag and produced a sandwich from it. It was homemade, you could tell. He peeled the wrapper back and offered it to you.

‘You haven’t eaten, have you?’ he said.

It was your turn to stare at him, wide-eyed. ‘I— don’t understand…’

‘I made you a sandwich.’

He had it so simply as if that was the most natural thing in the world. He had that air about him. You had mistaken it for confidence but Jaehyun was never too proud. He was just… him. You were dumbstruck and humbled at the same time. There were tears in your eyes again but you weren’t crying anymore.

You scoffed instead, amused. There were people still around you, cussing while stumbling through the maze of boxes; the sun was still shining— brighter and hotter; the drains smelled foul from last night’s rain and here was this boy, sitting on a hot pavement beside you with a godforsaken sandwich in his hand because you had told him last night that you hadn’t eaten anything all day. But the most absurd thing of all was when you actually took it from his hand and ate it, right there on the street.

He waited patiently beside you, not saying a word. He only had one sandwich too— you realized it after finishing it. He asked for the wrapper and shoved it in his bag, then got up and offered you his hand.

‘Let me help you,’ he said.

��With the boxes?’ you asked.

‘In the shop,’ he replied.

His unwavering gaze was steady on you and he inhaled before speaking. ‘I can be your shop assistant. You do not have to pay me,’ he added before you could protest.

‘You want to work here?’

He nodded his head, his eager eyes searching your face for an answer you weren’t quite sure of yourself yet. For a moment, you saw it— behind the façade of his coolness— his guilt. You did not want to be pitied but he seemed more earnest than arrogant.

‘Do you not have a job?’ you asked.

‘I am in college.’

‘No summer internship?’ You could not help the derision that seeped into your words. And he picked up on it too but he did not budge.

‘It’s only my second year.’

‘I can’t pay you,’ you said in a final attempt to dissuade him.

‘I didn’t ask for money,’ he replied in the same breath.

‘Right… the shop opens at 10 and closes at 9 but you have to report an hour early to help me clean it. Will that be alright?’

‘Yes,’ he replied.

You could not tell your father about him. Jaehyun was a stranger and the shop never had any assistants before. But you needed the help, and he was willing even if it was for his own atonement.

‘So, am I hired?’ he asked.

Sighing, you took his hand and he pulled you up to your feet.

‘Get those cartons inside,’ you ordered your new assistant walking inside the store.

His reply came after a pause. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

That is how Jaehyun came to work at your store.

Every morning, he was there waiting in front of the shop before you arrived. His satchel over his shoulder and a homemade sandwich in his hand that he gave to you. He listened to what you said without question. When you told him to vacuum the floor, he did. On the mornings you told him to wipe the windows clean, he did. He steered clear of the records. Perhaps he was afraid he would break them. But he did not help you with dusting nor with arranging the shelves.

He was rich, you had realized that much but, in the shop, he acted no more than an errand boy. From carrying the boxes to special deliveries— he did them all.

During lunchtime, you took turns to eat in the backroom while the other manned the counter. In the evenings, he got you coffee from across the street and offered to tally the register while you rested.

You did not speak much, nor did you learn anything about each other that was not necessary, not until that night—

It was past 9 pm. You had closed the shop. Jaehyun was folding the cartons in the backroom and you were shelving the scattered records back in their places. You were almost done too, save for one record that was supposed to go on the top shelf of the closet in the back. You jumped up from your toes to fling it into the thin gap but not even its edge made it on to the shelf.

It's useless, you sighed to yourself after another failed attempt But just as you turned around to reach for the ladder, you bumped into his chest.

‘I’m sorry,’ he quickly straightened but did not move away. His eyes landed on the record in your hand then up at the open shelf.

‘Let me,’ he said and waited.

When you nodded, his fingers closed over the edge. He pulled it from your grip but kept standing in place. You stood there with him, confused.

‘Uh…’ The tip of his nose turned red. Perhaps the A/C was too cold, you thought at first but it was when he leaned forward that you realized why he was waiting.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, you cursed inward, holding your breath as you shrunk under him against the shelves. The blush on his face creeped up your cheeks, your breath drained out of you as he pressed further.

But Jaehyun braced himself against the edge and swiftly placed the record back onto the shelf, not even letting the hem of his shirt touch you. You had never realized how much taller he was than you, but then again, you had never bothered to look before.

You were looking then, up at him and back at his face when he found his footing again. He had an earphone in his right ear. You could hear the faint music leaking out of it in the sudden silence that had enveloped you both.

‘What are you listening to?’ you asked, surprised at the strangeness of your own voice.

He took the earphone out and held it out in front of you. ‘Want to listen?’

You nodded but he walked down the aisle and out of sight. Several seconds later, you heard the soft crinkling of a plastic film and the distinct sound of a record being pulled out of its case. You waited as he dropped the pin over it and the song reached you.

The Night We Met by Lord Huron.

Unexpectedly, he found you on the floor again as the notes of the first chorus filled the empty shop. He sat beside you, just as naturally as he had done the first time.

When the record player cracked to a halt, he turned to you. He did not speak, not out loud at least, but you could make out his words. So, when the next night came, you put on a new record in the player— With You by Harrison Storm.

The night after that, he replied and the one after that, you replied to his reply. Every night, after you flipped the sign in the window to closed, you both found a song for each other. To his Dandelion you replied with Sofia. For his Laufey, you had Lana Del Rey. For your Hozier, he had Artic Monkeys.

You sat beside each other on the same spot tucked between the shelves, listening to your conversation echo against the walls. It was easy to slip through that crack in time that you had opened and enter that small pocket of dimensionless space, save for the music.

He tapped his foot against the floor when you replied to his Home with Nancy Mulligan and danced on the night you had played Something Just Like This to his question, Mystery of Love.

It was strange how you knew nothing about Jaehyun yet you had never known anybody that intimately before.

But the summer was ending. In a blink of an eye, three months had passed. You had started receiving emails and thick letters from your college about orientation, dorm rooms, classes and credits. And two days ago, you had taken your father to the hospital to get his cast removed. He was going to come back to the store; you were going to leave for college and Jaehyun… you didn’t even know where he was going to go or whether you would see him again.

You fell asleep on the counter that night after closing the shop. It was humid outside and the A/C was on full blast. It was a restless sleep and you must have been shivering because you felt him drape his outer shirt over you. It smelled of him— warm and sweet, and you groaned, suddenly wanting more. You opened your eyes slowly. He was right there, his face in front of you but your gaze did not surprise him.

He reached out and brushed a strand of your hair away from your face. His touch was so light that you thought you were still dreaming, but his warm breath over your lips was evidence enough. His dazed eyes pulled you in and for a brief moment you thought he was going to lean in but when you blinked up from his lips again, he gulped and shook his head.

‘Uh…’ You straightened up too, his shirt falling to the floor behind you. You were sweating beneath your collar, a familiar flush on your face.

‘It’s your turn to pick a song,’ he mumbled. Perhaps he did not know what to say either.

‘R-Right…’

You leafed through the records to find your words. A conversation had ended last night so it was your turn to begin anew. But all you could really think of was Jaehyun… and you, and what if you hadn’t met him like you had. What if you had met him in college. He would have been a senior and you, like every other girl in his class, would have had a crush on him. Then, one day, after gathering all your courage, you would have asked him out. Perhaps he would have said yes, and instead of helping you around the shop, he would have done all those small things for you as your boyfriend.

You found him at your spot on the floor after putting the song on the record player— Those Eyes by New West.

Three minutes and forty seconds. It’s not long, not by any measure, but it was enough for you to tell him what you could not speak that night. You couldn’t recall how long you sat beside him, silently, after the song was over. You didn’t want to leave, not yet.

Then it struck you.

‘Do you want to go on a trip with me?’ you asked, keeping your eagerness at bay.

‘A trip?’

‘It’s just to get a record from the next town. Don’t say it,’ you warned, expecting a taunt about it but it never came. Instead, he smiled his dimpled smile and nodded his head.

‘We’ll have to take the bus,’ you told him, testing his resolve.

‘Alright.’ He nodded his head.

‘We will have to leave at 5 am.’

‘Okay.’

‘You might get bored,’ you told him.

He paused— the dimples on his cheeks deepened. ‘Then let’s get bored together.’

The morning was silent and still blue. You reached the bus stop before Jaehyun, who came a minute after. There was no sleep in his eyes, nor any hint of exhaustion. If anything, he looked as lively as the birds singing in the trees behind you.

‘Did you walk here?’ you asked.

‘It wasn’t that far,’ he replied and you realised you didn’t even know where he lived.

‘What’s that for?’ You pointed at the film camera that was hung around his neck.

‘Oh, this is…’ He looked down at the camera, running a hand through his hair. ‘In case I find something beautiful today.’

You and Jaehyun sat near the end of the bus— him by the aisle and you at the window seat. The ride was short, or so it felt (you fell asleep quickly into it and woke up when the sun was up and your destination was two stops away). If he was bored, he didn’t complain, nor did you feel him stir beside you.

‘Here,’ he said, taking out a wrapped sandwich and a small box of chocolate milk from his bag. ‘Why are you smiling?’

You took the sandwich from his hand and unwrapped it. ‘Why do you bring me a sandwich every day?’ You knew the answer already but you wanted him to say it.

There was a shy smile on his face and he fumbled before speaking. ‘That night…’ he started, ‘you said you hadn’t eaten all day.’

You were grateful that he turned his pointed gaze away from you because you could feel your face heating up. Pressing his lips together, he offered you the carton of milk with both hands.

‘I don’t like chocolate milk,’ you lied and pushed the box towards him. ‘Why don’t you finish this?’

He sighed, looking disappointed but took the box nonetheless.

In the soft light of the morning sun, even the town’s chaos seemed peaceful. Amidst the sudden swarm of running children, Jaehyun pulled you close by the elbow— you were about to bump into a child, who was scampering to find his way around your legs.

‘Do you know where to go?’ he asked.

‘Hm?’ It was hard to focus when he was that close to you.

‘The way to the shop…’ he repeated.

‘Right,’ you said, pulling away to conceal the beat of your thumping heart. ‘Straight down this road and right at the intersection.’

‘Alright then,’ he said, cheerily, ‘lead the way.’

The shops were only just waking up, delivery trucks lining the streets. In the distance, you could hear the ocean, calm that morning except for the occasional thrash of the waves which marked its presence.

‘Where do you live?’ you blurted out without thinking. The question must have caught him off-guard too. He jerked his head in your direction, pausing for a bit before answering.

‘My parents’ home is in our town,’ he said. ‘But I go to college in Seoul.’

‘Oh, which one?’ you asked. ‘My university is also in Seoul.’

‘I know,’ he replied but did not answer your question.

You could see the ocean in the distance now, merging into the sky beyond the intersection. The cars looked as if floating on water as they sped off in either direction.

‘I am sorry,’ you said.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘What for?’

‘For shouting at you that night.’

‘It’s alright.’ He shrugged. ‘If someone was making my father work that much, I would have been angry too.’

That was Jaehyun— easy and uncomplicated. He had managed to put your mind at ease so simply that he made you question your own apology. You nodded, not sure whether grateful or humbled but whatever it was, you knew it was real, the feeling anchoring itself inside your heart.

When you reached the store, he stayed outside. The store owner had already laid the record out for you. It was a rare 12-inch record wrapped in a gatefold sleeve. You replayed your father’s instructions in your head as you picked it up for inspection. You held it up to the sun for signs of scratches or scruffs along the fine grooves. There were none. The label was authentic and so were the markings at the back.

You lowered the record and your gaze fell on Jaehyun, standing outside the store window. He had his hand on his camera and his eyes on you. The sun must have been burning his back— he was standing so still but he did not move.

You jerked your chin up in question but he shook his head and turned away. You had seen that look before on him before, several times in the last three months. It was either in those early hours of morning when he would report to work or later during the slow evenings just before closing time. You had never questioned it. It wasn’t your place. But you had realized as much that it was always when he was staring at you.

‘Did you get it?’ Jaehyun asked once you were outside.

‘Hm,’ you replied, tapping your bag and sighed, ‘We still have the afternoon to kill before the evening bus.’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘There is a lighthouse here,’ you said. ‘Do you want to go see it?’

‘Yes,’ he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up.

You retraced your steps back to the intersection and turned left this time, towards the sea and to the lighthouse that stood down the stony promenade. It was painted in striking red with a set of staircases leading up to the cabin at the top. The sea behind it was a stark blue in contrast, endlessly spilling over the horizon.

You sat on the edge of the walkway, your feet dangling over the breakwater rocks below you. You leaned back on your palms and breathed a sigh. The clouds overhead had overshadowed the sun and the salty wind had turned cold.

‘What are you doing?’ you asked.

Jaehyun had torn a page from a notebook in his backpack and was folding it up into a shape.

‘Making a boat,’ he replied with a child-like giggle.

‘A boat?’ You laughed. ‘For the ocean?’

‘Mhm.’ He had his eyes set on the paper he had laid out beside him. ‘See?’ he chimed up, holding the paper boat up to your face. ‘But the question is whether it will reach the ocean or not.’

The rocks were blocking the water and the aim had to be perfect. You got up with him, taking a step back to witness what you could already tell would be a failed venture. He angled the front of the boat towards the water like a plane and shot it like a dart towards it only for it to land right in front of your feet.

‘Here, let me try,’ you said and picked it up. You held it from the bottom and aimed it further away. It flew a few inches but landed in a small crevice between the boulders below.

‘Jaehyun!’ You shrieked.

Jaehyun had practically flung himself down the pavement to the slippery rocks, his hands still holding onto the edge.

‘Careful…’

‘I am fine,’ he shouted back above the sound of the waves just a few metres away from him.

‘Just throw the boat from there,’ you shouted back as you saw him scrambling back up to you with the boat still in his hand.

‘What’s the fun in that?’

‘You are insane, you know that?’

He smiled and shrugged.

The boat was crumpled beyond hope. With a quiet sigh, Jaehyun tore another page and made a longer, sleeker shape this time only to fail again. You tried different angles, shapes, even places. At one point, Jaehyun even took a running start and hurled the boat forward, but it always fell short of the shoreline, sometimes by mere inches.

By afternoon, a few children returning from school had joined your futile pursuit. While you kept folding new boats, you could hear Jaehyun behind you— scolding them in an attempt to keep them away from the edge.

At last, exhausted, you both plopped down.

‘Should we just give up?’ you asked. The wind wasn’t in your favour and the clouds were shifting again. You saw his shoulders slump further with a sigh as his gaze fell over the pile of the failed paper boats.

‘You look disappointed,’ you remarked.

You wanted to laugh and perhaps you did too because his dejected frown quickly twisted into an offended scowl. Why was he so disappointed over a silly boat. That boy really was mad. And, maybe you were too, because before you even realized it, you were grabbing his hand and pulling him along.

‘Come on, get up,’ you said, picking out the very first boat he had made from the pile. ‘We are going to get your damn boat into the water.’

The paper had dried hard but it was not torn. If it landed correctly, it could still float. You straightened out its crumpled edges, making the perfect cone at the top to balance its weight and took the position at the edge.

‘Careful.’ He tightened his grip on your hand.

‘I’m fine,’ you told him. ‘Just hold on tightly me.’

He braced his foot against yours as you leaned forward with his support. His fingers stiffened and his other hand grasped your elbow tightly but he gave you enough room to safely incline yourself over the rocks.

‘A little more.’

It took him a second to loosen his hold to let you lean further over the edge. You were focused on the angle, your eyes fixed on the pattern of the crashing waves. You counted the seconds in between. One more. You had to wait for just one more.

‘Now,’ you said. Jaehyun let go of your hand. You shot the boat towards the receding tide in the fraction of a second before he yanked you back into his arms.

This time the ocean accepted it, pulling the little devil inwards with its current.

‘It’s in the water,’ he said.

You had expected more of a celebration after the hours you both had spent on it. But perhaps the feel of his pounding heart beneath your palm was evidence enough of his triumph and the smile on his face was your reward.

‘It’s in the water,’ you echoed, amused at your own joy.

The evening bus was right on schedule and you barely made it back to the stop in time. The sun was setting in the distance. It was time to go back. You glanced back, as if hoping you could catch a final glimpse of the boat that you’d set afloat in the ocean together but it was gone.

The bus was packed yet quieter somehow. Jaehyun pulled a juice box from his bag for you and as you sipped on the bitter taste of farewell, your eyes swelled with tears. This really was the end— the last night of the dream that the summer had pulled you into.

Tomorrow, Jaehyun would be gone.

And so, you held on, as tightly as you could. You closed your eyes and let the setting sun lull you into one final sleep. He was still there, and you weren’t going to let tomorrow ruin that.

‘It is your turn to pick the song tonight,’ you turned to him.

His dazed eyes focused on yours then took out the earphones from his bag and gave one of them to you. It took him a while to find the song on his phone.

The Night We Met by Lord Huron.

Why did he choose that song? It was the very first you had both listened to together. Perhaps that was his closure.

It was still early when you reached your town but the bus stop was empty save for the passengers who got down with you. Jaehyun had offered to walk you back to your house but you had refused.

You pointed to the camera around his neck. ‘You didn’t take any pictures today.’

He remained silent, but you could see his mind working behind his eyes. He was perfectly still but he seemed restless somehow and you couldn’t tell why the same impatience was seeping into you as well.

‘Didn’t find anything beautiful to click?’ You tried to break the tension his silence had caused. The street lamp above you flickered for a brief moment before settling down.

‘I did,’ he said at last, his voice not above a whisper but his smile had returned— the shy one. In the same breath, he raised the camera to his eyes and snapped a picture of you.

You are not sure how long you stood there, arrested in place by the flash but you were sure of one thing then— you had to ask him the question that had been poking at you since last night.

‘Will I see you again?’

His relaxed smile irked you. Why was he so calm?

Silently, he unhooked the chain that he wore around his neck. You had seen it before but as he pulled it away, you saw a pendant hanging at the end. It was a small silver record complete with its grooves.

He took your hand and placed it in your palm, closing your fingers over it. He leaned in close, as if whispering a secret to you.

‘On the day you climb a hundred steps, close your eyes, hold out this pendant in front of you and say my name. That’s when you’ll see me again.’

You looked up at him, confused, but he had already let go of your hand.

‘Promise me, you will remember this,’ he said. He was pulling away but his eager eyes were waiting for your answer. ‘Promise me.’

‘I will,’ you managed before he left.

That was two weeks ago and the last time you saw Jaehyun.

Nothing had moved around you— the wrought iron gates still stood; the people still walked by. The air was still warm and the college was still waiting.

Pulling the strap of your bag up your shoulder, you dragged your gaze back to your new life. One step after the other, you walked till you reached the base of a steep climb.

This entrance was reserved for freshmen. For a moment you wondered whether it was some sort of a prank set up by the seniors because in front of you was a seemingly endless set of steps stretching to a top you couldn’t even see from where you stood.

Just then, a boy next to you groaned. ‘Why are there a hundred steps here?’

You heard a breathy laugh next. ‘Funny you say this. It’s exactly a hundred steps here.’

A hundred steps…

You had started climbing the steps alongside them, your ears perked up at their conversation.

‘What do you mean?’ the first one asked.

‘It’s tradition,’ the other one replied, catching up to him. ‘Freshmen are supposed to climb a hundred steps on their first day of college for good luck.’

‘What did you just say?’ You suddenly turned to them, making them jump up.

The two boys exchanged a confused glance before looking back at you.

‘I am sorry,’ you quickly added, seeing their startled expression. ‘The steps…’

The shorter one nodded his head. ‘Yes, it’s a freshmen tradition—’

‘No,’ you cut him off. ‘Are there exactly hundred steps on this staircase?’

‘Y-Yes,’ he stammered.

Jaehyun’s words rushed to the front of your mind— on the day you climb a hundred steps…

It was the strangest thing that he had said that night. You had turned his words over in your head a thousand times, wondering if you had misheard him or missed something between the lines.

But here they were, quite literally, a hundred steps in front of you.

Heart hammering inside your chest, you quickly counted the steps you had already climbed— 24— before turning around and breaking into a run. You could feel the pendant burn inside your pocket as you rushed up the stairs, two at a time.

Your legs burned with the strain it took to push yourself up the incline, each step more demanding than the last.

This is ridiculous, you thought. This isn’t a fairytale. How would he even know about this.

But the rising questions melted away in the face of what was pulling you up.

Your breaths turned into short gasps, making your pounding heart thud against your ears, drowning out everything else. Your lungs ached for air, but you did not stop. If he was really waiting at the top, you didn’t want him to wait for too long.

One after the other, you kept going, slower when you couldn’t anymore, but not stopping until the top finally came into view.

Still panting, you reached for the pendant in your pocket, your other hand pressing against the stitch in your stomach. The silver record dangled from the chain as you held it out in front of you, the tiny grooves reflecting the sunlight.

You closed your eyes, and whispered his name like a prayer— it felt like magic anyway.

‘Jaehyun.’

The leaves above you rustled in the soft wind that had caught you. The birds were chirping too. There was a dull chatter somewhere in the distance and the soft curses of the students asking you to move. But you could not bring yourself to open your eyes yet.

God, this is so stupid. You were sure you looked deranged to others. The possibility crossed your mind too. What if he had meant his words to be something else. What if you had not paid close attention to what he had said. Ugh. Why couldn’t he have just said what he wanted to?!

But then you heard it— him.

‘What took you so long?’

You smiled first, then opened your eyes. He was standing right before you, his dimples etched on his cheeks. His hand closed over yours, pulling the pendant to himself, and you with it.

‘I am sorry, I am late,’ you said.

There he was, your senior in college, the dream within your grasp. Just like every other girl in his class must have, you had a crush on him too.

‘Do you…’ The words caught in your throat. The fantasy was easier than reality. But you had not just climbed a hundred steps to shy away.

‘What is it?’

Gathering all the courage in your heart, you asked, ‘Do you want to get a cup of coffee?’

He chuckled, his eyes twinkling like they did the first time you had seen him. His smile grew wider barely leaving space for the dimples on his cheeks. He wrapped his arm around your waist, hesitantly at first then bolder when you followed his lead. The tip of his nose had turned red but his bashful gaze remained fixed on you. He held your face in his hands and pressed his lips over yours ever so sweetly like he had been waiting to do so for an eternity.

‘I would love to,’ he whispered and kissed you again.

The End.

[ad-hawkeye]

most iconic artem-isms (yes, these are all canon)

sipping his coffee to hide his blush, not realizing the cup was already empty

counting the number of wrinkles in his shirt when ironing it

having an empty photo frame on his desk. like, seriously. it was just straight up empty.

drawing the same cartoon pumpkin over and over for weeks to prep drawing one for rosa.

in high school, he buried the love letters he received in the school's garden because he felt bad about rejecting them, but also didn't want to accept them either. this obviously did not end well.

his high school teacher thought he was being bullied because he was so bad at making friends at his new school

becoming tormented by a record player for hours on end because a random customer claimed it was out of tune.

renting a whole ass rv to ensure he didn't overstep his boundaries by sharing a room with rosa

unwinding and destroying his own sweater so he could use its thread to comfort rosa at night during a power outage

going off on a random tangent about gender roles and how one shouldn't be defined by their gender

a mocktail enthusiast. a single drop of actual alcohol is enough to land him passed out on the floor and near tears

him practicing posing against a wall because of. uh. reasons?

carrying around multiple water bottles "just in case" ... also for reasons.

has spent several minutes staring at and editing his messages to rosa before deciding not to send anything

bought and wore a cowboy outfit when traveling to a western themed town when he didn't have to do that, like, at all.

a wardrobe full of turtlenecks and suits. he only gets some variety once he starts dating rosa.

searching up "funny humor jokes" online and scaring the everliving shit out of everyone at work the next morning

also the blatantly obvious: needing a romance advice book and needing his boss to wingman for him. his solo attempts ended in incoherent mumbling. the advice book also ended in disaster. so honestly the only reason why he managed to get with rosa in the first place is because of celestine. everyone say thank you celestine.

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

The Marvel Comics Characters babysit your dog, Mr. Pickles

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Mr. Pickles: 100 | Marvel’s Most Dangerous Characters: 0

Peter Parker & Mr. Pickles

- Peter Parker thought he had seen chaos. He had battled the Sinister Six, fought off symbiotes, and saved the city more times than he could count. But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for babysitting your tiny, fluffy, utterly reckless dog, Mr. Pickles.

- The first incident happened within minutes. Peter had barely set his backpack down when he turned around to find Mr. Pickles teetering on the edge of the kitchen counter, somehow having climbed up without opposable thumbs or logic. A split second later, Peter was diving forward, catching the little menace midair like he was saving a falling civilian from a burning building.

- Webbing became his only salvation. After Mr. Pickles managed to squeeze himself into the vents (how?!), Peter had no choice but to create an elaborate web barricade in the apartment. The place looked less like your home and more like a Spider-Man containment field.

- When he tried to work on some web fluid at your kitchen table, Mr. Pickles took it upon himself to bat at the vials like he was a cat, sending one flying straight into Peter’s hair. “Oh, come on, dude—do you have a vendetta against physics?!” he groaned, now stuck to the chair.

- By the time you returned, Peter was sitting on the couch, hair a mess, web fluid staining his fingers, Mr. Pickles curled up in his lap like an innocent angel. “Your dog is not real,” Peter muttered, voice hollow from exhaustion. “He is an agent of chaos.” But then you laughed, kissed his cheek, and suddenly, he decided maybe babysitting Mr. Pickles was worth it.

Tony Stark & Mr. Pickles

- Tony Stark was a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist—and now, apparently, an unwilling dog sitter. He had babysat robots more predictable than your tiny, fluffy terror, Mr. Pickles, who seemed to have a personal grudge against his entire penthouse.

- Five minutes in, the dog had already hacked into JARVIS. “Sir,” JARVIS reported, “Mr. Pickles has managed to override security protocols and is currently sending an email to Pepper Potts.” Tony whipped around. “He what?” The email in question was just a string of random letters and a single attachment: a blurry photo of Mr. Pickles’ own tail.

- The next three hours were spent chasing the demon-dog through the penthouse. Mr. Pickles had chewed through a custom Italian leather shoe, knocked over an entire tray of expensive whiskey glasses, and somehow ended up inside the Iron Man gauntlet display.

- Thinking himself the superior intellect, Tony built a small tracking device for Mr. Pickles. That lasted exactly fifteen minutes before the dog removed it and buried it inside one of Tony’s prized sports cars.

- By the time you came home, Tony was slumped in his chair, his expensive suit now covered in dog fur, while Mr. Pickles pranced happily across the table like he had won the war. “Your dog needs an exorcist,” Tony grumbled. You just kissed his forehead and said, “But you love him, right?” Tony sighed. “Unfortunately… yeah.”

Steve Rogers & Mr. Pickles

- Steve Rogers had fought in wars, led the Avengers, and stared down threats that could destroy the world. But nothing prepared him for babysitting Mr. Pickles, a dog whose only purpose in life seemed to be challenging the laws of nature.

- It started with the shield. Steve had set it down for one minute—one single minute—and somehow, Mr. Pickles had lodged himself inside the strap loops, running across the apartment with it stuck to his back like a medieval knight.

- The escape attempts were relentless. Every time Steve turned away, Mr. Pickles was finding new ways to jailbreak from the apartment. He squeezed under doors, climbed onto furniture he had no business reaching, and at one point, managed to activate Steve’s emergency communicator by jumping onto the counter. Sam Wilson showed up at the door minutes later, breathless. “Did you just summon the Avengers?” Steve sighed. “No. The dog did.”

- Steve had fought entire battles with less stress. When he tried to cook dinner, Mr. Pickles stole an entire steak off the counter and stared Steve dead in the eye as he ate it. When he tried to read a book, the dog somehow ended up inside the couch cushions.

- When you walked in, Steve was on the floor, holding Mr. Pickles upside down like he had accepted defeat. “Your dog has the soul of a war general,” Steve muttered. You just smiled, kissing his cheek. “That’s why I trusted Captain America to babysit him.” Steve sighed, looking at the fluffy criminal in his arms. “Yeah. I guess I kind of like him.”

Thor & Mr. Pickles

- Thor, the God of Thunder, had faced frost giants, dark elves, and cosmic horrors. But none of them were as terrifyingly determined as your tiny, fluffy white dog, Mr. Pickles.

- The moment Thor sat down, Mr. Pickles leapt onto his lap, staring into his soul with his beady eyes. Thor grinned. “Ah! A warrior spirit!” He scratched behind Mr. Pickles’ ears, convinced that this small creature was surely an Asgardian beast in disguise.

- Things took a turn when Thor left Mjolnir on the ground. Mr. Pickles, in his infinite foolishness, tried to pick it up. When the hammer didn’t budge, he began barking at it, circling it like it was an enemy. Thor, amused beyond belief, sat back and watched the battle unfold.

- Mr. Pickles did not win. But he did not give up, either. Thor, impressed by his persistence, lifted Mjolnir just enough for Mr. Pickles to wiggle underneath and emerge victorious. “You are brave,” Thor declared. “And terribly, terribly dumb.”

- When you returned, Mr. Pickles was sitting atop Thor’s shoulder like he was king of Asgard. Thor beamed at you. “Your small beast is worthy! I shall take him to battle!” You simply sighed. “Thor, please don’t take my dog to battle.”

Loki & Mr. Pickles

- Loki, Prince of Asgard and God of Mischief, should have known better. He was the master of deception, the embodiment of chaos—but even he was not prepared for your small, dumb, fluffy menace, Mr. Pickles.

- The trouble started the moment you left. Loki, confident in his abilities, had settled in with a book. Within ten minutes, Mr. Pickles had stolen one of his enchanted daggers and was running laps around the room with it.

- Loki was not amused. He summoned illusions of himself to try and corner the beast, but Mr. Pickles—defying all reason— managed to sniff out the real Loki every time.

- Realizing he had met his match, Loki decided to strike a deal. “You may keep the dagger,” he told Mr. Pickles, “if you agree to cease your foolishness.” Mr. Pickles promptly ignored him and chewed on the dagger handle.

- By the time you returned, Loki was sitting on the couch, holding Mr. Pickles like a defeated king cradling his downfall. “Your dog,” Loki said, “is the single most infuriating creature I have ever encountered.” You just smiled. “But you like him, right?” Loki sighed, reluctantly scratching behind Mr. Pickles’ ears. “Against my better judgment… yes.”

Clint Barton & Mr. Pickles

- Clint Barton thought he had dealt with enough chaos in his life. He had fought aliens, battled crime syndicates, and survived on a diet of pizza and sarcasm. But babysitting your tiny, fluffy, perpetually confused dog, Mr. Pickles? That was an entirely new level of disaster.

- The first mistake Clint made was underestimating Mr. Pickles. “Yeah, yeah, I got this,” he had said as you left. Five minutes later, the dog had vanished. One second he was on the couch, the next, he was gone—like a ghost with bad decision-making skills.

- The next three hours turned into a full-blown tactical operation. Clint used every trick in the book—tracking skills, stealth maneuvers, even an actual infrared scope—only to find Mr. Pickles sitting inside Clint’s quiver, chewing happily on an arrowhead. “Dude, I need those,” Clint groaned, prying the slobbery mess from tiny jaws.

- He tried distracting Mr. Pickles with treats. That worked for exactly two minutes before the dog somehow managed to jump onto the kitchen counter, knock over a coffee mug, and hit the emergency call button on Clint’s burner phone. When Kate Bishop picked up, laughing, Clint groaned, “Shut up. I don’t want to talk about it.”

- By the time you came home, Clint was laying on the floor, defeated, as Mr. Pickles slept soundly on his chest. “Your dog is part ninja, part escape artist, and entirely evil,” Clint muttered. You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “But you love him, right?” Clint sighed, reluctantly scratching behind Mr. Pickles’ ears. “…Yeah, yeah. I love the dumb little menace.”

Natasha Romanoff & Mr. Pickles

- Natasha Romanoff was an elite assassin, a master of espionage, and completely unbothered by most things. Until, of course, she had to babysit Mr. Pickles.

- At first, she thought it would be easy. “He’s small,” she had told herself. “He’s fluffy. How much trouble can he be?” Two hours later, Natasha was standing on the coffee table, arms crossed, watching as Mr. Pickles circled her boots like a tiny, unhinged shark.

- She quickly realized Mr. Pickles had a taste for destruction. He tore apart a throw pillow, attempted to climb inside the dishwasher, and somehow chewed through her phone charger within ten minutes. “You’re worse than Clint,” she muttered, watching as he tried (and failed) to jump onto the windowsill.

- Despite the chaos, she found herself impressed by his persistence. When he got stuck in a blanket, he wiggled until he was free. When he knocked over his water bowl, he marched right through it like an unstoppable force. He reminded her, in some strange way, of herself—small but relentless, completely unaware of limits.

- When you returned, Mr. Pickles was curled up in Natasha’s lap, snoring softly. She glanced at you and smirked. “Your dog is dangerous,” she said. You laughed, leaning down to kiss her. “But you like him, right?” Natasha rolled her eyes but continued petting him. “…I tolerate him.” That was Natasha-speak for yes.

Bucky Barnes & Mr. Pickles

- Bucky Barnes had fought in wars, survived decades of brainwashing, and carried the weight of his past like an iron chain. Babysitting your tiny, fluffy disaster of a dog, Mr. Pickles, should have been easy. It was not.

- The first problem was the metal arm. Mr. Pickles was obsessed with it. He barked at it, licked it, and then tried to bite it—only to look extremely offended when his tiny teeth did nothing. “Buddy, I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish here,” Bucky muttered, watching as the dog attempted (and failed) to wrestle his vibranium fingers.

- Mr. Pickles had no fear. He ran headfirst into furniture, nearly launched himself off the couch three separate times, and somehow got his head stuck inside a cereal box. Bucky spent a full five minutes just sighing and shaking his head before helping him out.

- By the end of the night, Bucky had fully accepted his fate. He sat on the couch, watching as Mr. Pickles zoomed around like a tiny white blur of chaos. “You’re exhausting,” Bucky told him. Mr. Pickles just wagged his tail, happy as ever.

- When you returned, Bucky was sitting on the floor, Mr. Pickles curled up in his lap, peacefully snoring. He glanced up at you, face unreadable. “We had a long discussion,” he said. “He’s still an idiot. But he’s our idiot.”

Matthew Murdock & Mr. Pickles

- Matt Murdock had dealt with enough surprises in life. He had lost his sight as a child, trained as a fighter, and spent his nights protecting Hell’s Kitchen. But nothing prepared him for the absolute chaos of babysitting Mr. Pickles.

- The first issue was his heightened senses. Mr. Pickles was small but somehow louder than an explosion. Every tiny footstep, every excited bark, every disastrous moment of chaos was amplified to near unbearable levels.

- Then came the smell. Matt had barely turned his back before he caught the unmistakable scent of a chewed-up shoe. He turned, unamused. “You did not just eat my dress shoes.” Mr. Pickles wagged his tail, entirely unremorseful.

- When the dog managed to escape into the hallway, Matt had no choice but to rely on his enhanced hearing to track him down. He followed the tiny, frantic paws to the stairwell—where Mr. Pickles had somehow managed to get stuck between two steps. “You are so lucky I like you,” Matt muttered, scooping him up.

- When you returned, Matt was sitting on the couch, Mr. Pickles resting on his lap. He turned his head toward you and smiled. “You didn’t tell me your dog was a criminal mastermind,” he teased. You laughed, wrapping your arms around him. “But you like him, right?” Matt sighed, stroking Mr. Pickles’ tiny head. “…Yeah. I do.”

Frank Castle & Mr. Pickles

- Frank Castle had seen hell. He had been to war, lost everything, and waged a bloody battle against crime. Babysitting your tiny, fluffy, completely clueless dog should not have been the hardest mission of his life.

- It started with the growling. Mr. Pickles hated Frank’s boots. Every time Frank took a step, the dog charged at them like a feral beast, tiny tail wagging in pure, misplaced aggression. “You got a death wish, pal?” Frank muttered. Mr. Pickles barked once.

- Frank was not a dog person. But somehow, Mr. Pickles was determined to change that. He followed Frank around like a tiny, white shadow, completely ignoring the fact that Frank was actively trying to ignore him.

- At some point, Frank gave up. He sat down, glancing at the tiny beast sitting next to him. “Alright, you win,” he muttered. Mr. Pickles immediately rolled onto his back, demanding belly rubs. Frank sighed, rubbing his face. “Unbelievable.”

- By the time you came home, Frank was sitting on the couch, a tiny, snoring Mr. Pickles curled up beside him. He looked at you, completely serious. “Your dog is a menace,” he said. Then, after a long pause, he sighed. “…But he’s a good kid.”

Marc Spector & Mr. Pickles

- Marc Spector has fought gods, mercenaries, and monsters lurking in the shadows. He has survived betrayals, bloodshed, and nights spent drowning in his own mind. But he was not prepared for Mr. Pickles.

- The dog hated structure, which was a problem, because Marc thrived on it. He tried to set a routine—food at seven, walk at eight, no chewing on anything remotely important. Within minutes, Mr. Pickles had knocked over a lamp, chewed on Marc’s combat boots, and somehow disappeared inside a kitchen cabinet.

- Jake Lockley found him first. When Marc blinked, his reflection smirked and said, “El perrito es un desastre.” (The little dog is a disaster.) When he switched to Steven, he just heard a horrified, “Marc, he’s got your cape!”

- By the end of the night, Mr. Pickles was asleep on Marc’s chest, his tiny form rising and falling with each breath. Marc sighed, staring at the ceiling. “I’ve fought Anubis. I’ve walked the path of the dead. And I was defeated… by you.”

- When you returned, you found Marc asleep on the couch, Mr. Pickles curled up against his ribs. You kissed his temple, whispering, “So, how’d it go?” Marc cracked one eye open. “I think we made a blood pact,” he muttered. “Your dog owns me now.”

Johnny Storm & Mr. Pickles

- Johnny Storm thought babysitting Mr. Pickles would be easy. He was a superhero, a celebrity, a professional fun-haver. Dogs loved him. He loved dogs. It should have been a perfect match.

- He was wrong.

- The first issue arose within ten minutes. Johnny had turned his back for two seconds when he heard a crash. He spun around to find Mr. Pickles standing victoriously on top of a knocked-over shelf, a chewed-up sock in his mouth. Johnny pointed at him. “Okay, that’s strike one.”

- Strike two came when the dog managed to climb onto Johnny’s bed, get tangled in the sheets, and somehow turn on the ceiling fan. Johnny barely caught him before he became airborne. “Buddy, you cannot just try to take flight,” he scolded, untangling him.

- By strike three, Johnny had accepted defeat. He laid on the floor, staring at the ceiling, as Mr. Pickles happily licked his face. “You win, little dude. I can’t keep up.”

- When you got home, Johnny was half-asleep, Mr. Pickles curled up in his hoodie. He groaned dramatically. “You didn’t tell me you had a tiny, fluffy supervillain.” You smirked, ruffling his hair. “But you love him, right?” Johnny sighed. “…Yeah, okay. He’s cool.”

Reed Richards & Mr. Pickles

- Reed Richards has solved equations that baffle the greatest minds of the century. He has rewritten physics, built machines that defy reality, and held the fabric of the multiverse in his hands. But nothing could have prepared him for Mr. Pickles.

- It started as an experiment. Reed, ever the scientist, wanted to study the peculiar behavior of your fluffy, oblivious dog. “It’s fascinating,” he mused, adjusting his glasses as Mr. Pickles attempted to bite his own tail and immediately fell over.

- That fascination quickly turned into mild horror when Mr. Pickles found his way into the lab. Within seconds, he had knocked over a beaker, chewed on some incredibly important notes, and—somehow—turned on the molecular destabilizer.

- Reed had to stretch halfway across the room to shut it off before anything catastrophic happened. He picked up Mr. Pickles, holding him at arm’s length. “You, sir, are an anomaly.” Mr. Pickles wagged his tail, completely unbothered.

- By the time you came home, Reed was sitting on the couch, reading quantum mechanics to Mr. Pickles, who was dozing on his lap. He adjusted his glasses. “He’s… quite the experiment.” You laughed, kissing his cheek. “But you love him, right?” Reed hesitated, then sighed. “…I suppose I do.”

Ben Grimm & Mr. Pickles

- Ben Grimm, the ever-lovin’ blue-eyed Thing, had faced cosmic horrors, supervillains, and existential crises. Babysitting your tiny, fluffy, dumb dog should’ve been easy. It was not.

- Within the first five minutes, Mr. Pickles had somehow gotten himself stuck under the couch. Ben sighed, reaching under with his massive hand and plucking the tiny dog up like a stubborn sock. “Kid, I’m tellin’ ya, you got no survival instincts.”

- Mr. Pickles, undeterred, immediately tried to chew on Ben’s massive rocky fingers. Ben raised a brow. “Oh, so you wanna scrap, huh?” The dog growled playfully, yapping at him with all the confidence of a creature who had never faced consequences.

- Eventually, Ben sat on the couch, Mr. Pickles curled up on his lap, snoring. He huffed, crossing his arms. “Ain’t no one better tell Reed about this. I got a reputation.”

- When you came back, you grinned at the sight of them together. “So, did you two bond?” Ben scoffed. “Bond? Nah. But… maybe he ain’t so bad. For a troublemaker.” Mr. Pickles snored louder. “…Yeah, yeah, I get it. You win, furball.”

Susan Storm & Mr. Pickles

- Susan Storm had dealt with far worse than a tiny, fluffy dog. Or so she thought.

- At first, everything was fine. Mr. Pickles wagged his tail, looking deceptively innocent. Susan smiled. “Oh, you’re adorable. This will be easy.” She would regret saying that.

- The second she turned around, Mr. Pickles vanished. Not literally, but it sure felt like it. Susan searched the Baxter Building, using her invisibility to sneak up on him. She found him in Reed’s lab, chewing on a very expensive-looking piece of tech.

- “Oh no, no, no—bad dog!” She swooped in, scooping him up before he could cause an explosion. Mr. Pickles licked her nose. She sighed. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

- By the time you got back, Susan was sitting on the couch, petting Mr. Pickles with one hand while rubbing her temple with the other. You grinned. “So, how did it go?” She gave you a tired smile. “…I love you, but next time, Johnny is babysitting.”

Felicia Hardy & Mr. Pickles

- Felicia Hardy had done a lot of reckless things in her life. She had stolen diamonds from locked vaults, toyed with superheroes, danced along the razor’s edge of disaster. But Mr. Pickles? He was a different kind of challenge.

- At first, she wasn’t impressed. “This is the little menace?” she had said, eyeing him. Then, five minutes later, she was chasing him around the apartment, cursing under her breath as he dodged every attempt to catch him.

- She realized, with a sort of begrudging admiration, that Mr. Pickles was fast. He slipped through her fingers, ducked under tables, and even managed to knock over a priceless antique vase she had definitely stolen.

- By the end of the night, Felicia had completely given in. She sat on the floor, watching as Mr. Pickles happily gnawed on a stolen hair tie. “You’re a little criminal,” she murmured, “and I kinda respect it.”

- When you came home, you found Felicia curled up on the couch, Mr. Pickles sleeping on her stomach. She cracked an eye open and smirked. “He’s growing on me.” You grinned. “So you love him?” Felicia stretched, running her fingers through his fur. “…Yeah. But don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”

Stephen Strange & Mr. Pickles

- Stephen Strange was one of the most powerful sorcerers in existence. He had traveled across dimensions, held the fate of the universe in his hands, bargained with cosmic entities. Babysitting Mr. Pickles should have been beneath him.

- And yet, here he was, standing in his Sanctum Sanctorum, staring at the tiny, fluffy creature wreaking absolute havoc. “No,” he said flatly as Mr. Pickles climbed onto the Cloak of Levitation, chewed on the enchanted embroidery, and then tried to ride it like a tiny, ill-advised chariot.

- Wong walked in, took one look at the chaos, and turned right back around. “Not my problem.”

- Stephen sighed, rubbing his temples. “Alright, you little menace. You’ve bested gods and mystics alike. What do you want?” Mr. Pickles barked once, wagging his tail. “Of course. Attention.”

- When you returned, Stephen was sitting in his armchair, the Cloak of Levitation draped around both him and Mr. Pickles. He didn’t even look up as you entered. “Your dog has no respect for the eldritch arts.” You bit back a laugh. “But you love him, right?” Stephen sighed dramatically. “…Against my better judgment, yes.”

Namor & Mr. Pickles

- Namor, King of Atlantis, First Mutant, Imperius Rex—babysitting a tiny, fluffy, absurdly dumb land creature was beneath him. He had ruled for centuries, waged wars, and stood against titans. And yet, you had looked at him with those eyes, and suddenly, here he was.

- Within minutes, Mr. Pickles had launched himself into a decorative Atlantean fountain, paddling with all the grace of a drowning pearl diver. Namor, unimpressed, crossed his arms. “You are not suited for the ocean, tiny beast.” Mr. Pickles barked, thrilled.

- The palace was not meant for creatures like him. In the span of an hour, he had chewed on an ancient scroll, attempted to befriend a very unamused sea serpent, and somehow found his way into the throne room, where he proudly sat upon Namor’s throne. The royal guards had never been more confused.

- By the time you returned, Namor stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable as Mr. Pickles wagged his tail at his feet. “Your creature is reckless, absurdly ill-equipped for survival, and entirely too confident for his own good.” You bit back a smile. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

- He sighed, running a hand down his face. “Against my better judgment, I will tolerate him.” You knelt, scooping Mr. Pickles into your arms. “Oh, so you love him?” Namor scoffed, turning on his heel. “Do not push your luck.” But the way Mr. Pickles trotted after him suggested otherwise.

Johnny Blaze & Mr. Pickles

- Johnny Blaze, the Ghost Rider, had made a deal with the Devil himself—but even Mephisto hadn’t prepared him for Mr. Pickles. He was expecting something manageable, maybe even chill. Instead, he got a tiny, fluffy tornado of chaos.

- Mr. Pickles immediately attempted to fight his motorcycle. Not sniff it. Not inspect it. Fight it. The little thing barked furiously at the flaming wheels, jumping up in a wild, futile attempt to bite them. Johnny had seen demons with more self-preservation.

- When Johnny tried to take a nap, Mr. Pickles climbed onto his chest, stared directly into his soul, and promptly sneezed on his face. Johnny wiped his face with a groan. “You’re lucky you’re cute, man.”

- At some point, the dog managed to run off with Johnny’s favorite leather jacket. By the time he caught him, Mr. Pickles was rolling around in it like it was his new personal throne. Johnny narrowed his eyes. “…Alright. You win. It’s yours now.”

- When you got home, you found Johnny on the couch, absently scratching Mr. Pickles’ ears. You grinned. “So, how’d it go?” Johnny sighed. “I think I just sold my soul again. To your dog.”

Eddie Brock / Venom & Mr. Pickles

- Eddie Brock had Venom. You had Mr. Pickles. The problem was that Venom did not understand why Mr. Pickles existed.

- “Is it prey?” Venom asked within the first five minutes. Eddie sighed, rubbing his temples. “No, buddy. It’s a pet.” Venom tilted its head. “We do not eat it?” Mr. Pickles wagged his tail obliviously. “No. We do not eat it.”

- Venom, unfortunately, did not like competition. Mr. Pickles demanded attention. Venom demanded you. The standoff began immediately. Eddie woke up to find Mr. Pickles asleep on his chest, while Venom loomed above him like a shadow, glowering.

- It only got worse when Mr. Pickles stole Eddie’s sandwich. Venom raged. “The creature has taken OUR food! We must retaliate!” Eddie sighed, watching as Mr. Pickles happily chewed on his stolen prize. “Yeah, buddy. I don’t think we’re winning this war.”

- When you returned, Eddie sat on the couch, Venom’s tendrils twitching in irritation, Mr. Pickles napping peacefully on his lap. You grinned. “Venom, did you make a friend?” Venom hissed. “He is an adversary.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “…Yeah. That means yes.”

T’Challa & Mr. Pickles

- T’Challa had fought in battles that shaped history, had led a nation, had outmaneuvered gods and kings. He had not, however, anticipated Mr. Pickles.

- Shuri was absolutely delighted. She took one look at the tiny, ridiculous dog and immediately declared, “He is my favorite guest.” T’Challa, arms crossed, simply said, “He is… something.”

- Mr. Pickles was determined to challenge every Wakandan security measure. Within an hour, he had gotten past two Dora Milaje, slipped into the royal chambers, and was found happily wagging his tail atop the Vibranium throne.

- Okoye was not amused. Shuri was entertained. T’Challa sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “This dog fears nothing.” Shuri smirked. “Much like someone else I know.”

- By the time you returned, Mr. Pickles was curled up beside T’Challa, who was absentmindedly scratching behind his ears. You crossed your arms. “So, do you love him?” T’Challa did not look up. “…I tolerate him.” Mr. Pickles licked his hand. “…Perhaps a little more than that.”

Elektra Natchios & Mr. Pickles

- Elektra had survived assassins, taken down empires, and danced in the dark with death itself. She was elegant, precise, a living weapon. Mr. Pickles, on the other hand, was a small, fluffy ball of pure idiocy.

- He immediately tried to steal one of her sais. She watched, unimpressed, as he grabbed the handle in his tiny jaws and attempted to run away. He tripped, rolled over, and barked at the ceiling in defiance. She had seen warriors with less determination.

- Despite her initial reluctance, she found herself watching him, observing. There was something admirable about his foolish bravery. His absolute lack of fear. The way he took up space despite his size.

- Eventually, he curled up next to her, snuggling against her side. Elektra, without thinking, ran her fingers through his soft fur. She had never had a pet before. She had never let herself want one. But this? This, she could allow.

- When you returned, Elektra simply looked at you, one hand still on Mr. Pickles’ back. You smirked. “So… you love him?” She arched a brow. “Love is a strong word.” Mr. Pickles snored softly against her. “…But perhaps, just this once, I can allow it.”

Victor von Doom & Mr. Pickles

- Doom did not babysit. Doom did not serve. Doom did not tolerate fools. And yet, here he was.

- He stared at Mr. Pickles. Mr. Pickles stared back, tail wagging. Doom narrowed his eyes. “You are beneath me.” Mr. Pickles barked happily. Doom scowled. “Cease.” Mr. Pickles barked again.

- The dog, completely oblivious to the concept of fear, followed Doom around Latveria. At some point, he clambered onto Doom’s throne, tail thumping against the armrest. The royal guards exchanged nervous glances. Doom exhaled slowly. “I despise this.”

- However, when a diplomat dared to insult Doom, Mr. Pickles yapped aggressively, standing protectively in front of him. Doom observed this. “Hmph. At least you recognize greatness.”

- When you returned, Doom crossed his arms. “Your creature is an idiot.” You smiled. “But did you like him?” Doom huffed. “Doom tolerates him. Nothing more.” Mr. Pickles jumped into his lap. Doom sighed. “…Fine. Perhaps a little more.”

Peter Quill & Mr. Pickles

- Peter Quill thought babysitting a tiny dog would be easier than babysitting Rocket. He was wrong.

- “Okay, little dude, let’s make this easy.” Mr. Pickles promptly stole one of his mixtapes. “HEY! That’s vintage!” A chase ensued across the Milano, Star-Lord versus a fluffy menace.

- Eventually, Peter gave up. Mr. Pickles sat triumphantly atop his pillow, the mixtape still in his mouth. Peter sighed. “You’re lucky I got a soft spot for troublemakers.”

- The dog, realizing he had won, curled up beside him. Peter smirked. “Alright, fine. You can stay.” Mr. Pickles snuggled closer. Peter grumbled. “…Don’t tell Rocket about this.”

- When you got back, you found them both asleep on the couch. You whispered, “So, how did it go?” Without opening his eyes, Peter muttered, “I think I just lost my ship to your dog.”

Nova & Mr. Pickles

- Richard Rider had fought space tyrants, cosmic gods, and existential threats. Mr. Pickles, somehow, was worse.

- Mr. Pickles had no concept of galactic law. Within minutes, he had tried to steal a Nova Corps helmet, chewed on an important report, and attempted to fight a very confused alien.

- Richard sighed, picking up the tiny menace. “Okay, dude. I don’t have time for intergalactic incidents. Work with me here.” Mr. Pickles licked his face. Richard groaned. “…I give up.”

- By the end of the day, the entire Nova Corps had begrudgingly accepted Mr. Pickles. Someone even made him a tiny Nova helmet. Richard just sighed. “I am never living this down.”

- When you returned, Richard handed Mr. Pickles to you. “Your dog is now an honorary Nova Corps member.” You laughed. “So, did you love him?” Richard huffed. “…He’s alright.” Mr. Pickles barked happily. “…Fine. Maybe a little more than alright.”

[corvidcrossbow]

~•♡•~ Double The Fangs, Double The Fun

➳ Summary: Daryl and Scud are regulars at the bar you work at, but they're only really there for you. One night while chatting, you injure yourself, so they help you home to heal up (Vamp!Daryl & Vamp!Scud x Fem!Reader)

➳ Setting: idfk sometime, somewhere, no apocalypse (this is a crossover fic for smut lets be real)

➳ Word count: 5.5k (3k of it is smut)

➳ C/W: VAMPIRES ‼️‼️, minor wound, blood (duh), biting/vampire feeding, double penetration, hints of Scud's mommy kink

➳ A/N: I wrote doc title for this as “DTFx2” cuz of the lettering, not even realizing the “down-to-fuck” till later, plus it being 2 partners – I cooked on this title. BUT ANYWAY I AM FUELING THE VAMP!DARYL FIRE AND VAMP!SCUD TOO BECAUSE THIS IS A PLAGUE AND I AM ILL AND I WILL SPREAD IT

You stretched your arms up over your head, leaning forward against the counter in front of you. It was another slow weeknight, no customers present, hindered by the fact the bar was tucked away in some deader part of the city. It was pretty boring, but you got paid for kinda just diddleling around a lot of the time. You rhythmically tapped your fingertips against the surface, but straightened up when the door jingled open.

“Fuck, I was about to start praying you two would show up. ‘Ts borin' as shit in here,” You laughed as two familiar faces walked in from the night; Daryl and Scud. They were your regulars, stopping by most any time you were on shift. And you heard from coworkers sometimes they'd show up, see that you weren't there, and just leave.

You never found it creepy though, it wasn't like that. They were always very respectful towards you, kind of chivalrous, but not obnoxiously. They'd always buy a drink and tip heavy, or just straight up give you money – and would scare off the actually creepy drinkers: the one's that'd prey on a woman as if she was frail. You didn't require them, having pepper spray and a gun beneath the counter, but they gave you extra security. And we're good company.

Scud, who you knews real name was Josh – the more ‘loverboy’ one of the two – popped by most nights after work. He was really sweet, having grown a soft spot for him and letting him bend the rules; like allowing him to smoke a joint, or three, inside, so long as he shared them with you. He claimed he was a sort of engineer, which you found a little surprising given you'd never seen him without the skunky smell of weed wafting around his figure, but it's not like it mattered to you.

Daryl, on the other hand, was much more reserved, and you'd be lying if you said that didn't intrigue you. He appeared older, and more of a rarity, seeming to drift in and out of town: which made sense given that scratchy, deep southern accent he carried.

“Ain't gon’ pass up seein’ ya, moonshine,” Daryl grinned as he sauntered up to take a seat, Scud following right behind and taking the one opposite him. ‘Moonshine’ is what he always called you, given you were a bartender, and it was ironic because you never saw either of them till after sundown. “Shift slow?”

“Painfully,” You groaned and rolled your eyes. “Ion even know how we get enough profit to keep this place open. Not sure anyone in our staff remembers the last time we saw the owner in person. I swear this is some money laundering scheme.”

“‘Least your gettin’ paid, yeah? My boss don't even got me onna regular schedule,” Scud tisked, reaching into the pocket of his large, layered jacket and pulling out the container he kept his joints in. “Ya wanna J?”: To which you nodded and he passed you one. Daryl's observant gaze watched your every movement, as he typically did.

“Ya get yer nails done, darlin’?” He asked, squinting his pale blue eyes and setting his hand out as you lit the joint.

“Hm?” Your eyes flicked to him, understanding, and you set your palm in his hand so he could see. Pressed to your nail beds were coffin acrylics, painted a rich red, the gloss making them almost bloody. “Jus’ got ‘em done this morning. Figured if ‘m gonna be sittin’ here twiddling my thumbs half the time they might as well look good.”

“Looks perfect on ya.” Your gazes locked together for a moment, hypnotic in a way as his irises seemed to pulse, then suddenly shift down. He loomed closer and ran his thumb over your fingers, appreciating the gleaming texture that reflected in the dim light.

“Real pretty momma's,” Scud added as he took a long drag of his smoke, holding it for a moment before skillfully exhaling in a long plume that dissipated and began to fill the small space with a haze.

“Mm, thank you boys,” You turned a little, offering a bashful smile at their endless complimenting – they showered you with affectionate comments every time they came in. “Either of you want somethin’? It can be on the house, think the workers drink more than customers.”

“‘Ll take'ah whiskey – ‘nd m’payin’ ya anyway, angel,” Daryl replied, fishing for his wallet and passing you bills that more than doubled the price of a shot. Frankly you felt bad sometimes, like you were taking his money, but gave up a long time ago with trying to decline. He insisted.

As you went to grab the iconic bottle of Jack Daniel's off the shelf behind you, your elbow stuck out a bit too far and knocked over a large glass you'd been using for water, sending it to the floor where it shattered. “Ugh, never complain that you're bored at work. Fate'll always make ya clean.”

You quickly poured the auburn grog into a shot and slid it across the wood countertop to Daryl, dropping to your knees to pick up the larger shards.

“Fuck!” You seethed, accidentally slicing open the palm of your hand by sweeping it over the edge of a fragment in the other, your joint nearly falling from where you'd pinched it between your lips. Both men bounded from their stools to look over, simultaneously uttering ‘Ya alrigh's?''s. You half-clutched your fist and rose to be level again, hitching your breath with a small whine as striking pain electrified your nerves.

Blood quickly began to spill from the gash, running down your wrist and upper forearm before dripping to the floor a couple times as Daryl snapped to grab a clean rag from behind the bar so you could hold pressure, moving so fast he registered as just a whoosh. As your eyes were shut in pain, theirs were blown open, locked onto the crimson that tinted your skin. They could see the microscopic way it gushed a bit more from every beat of your heart.

Tendrils of that sweet, mind warping scent curled through the air and around the pair's bodies. God it smelled so damn good – you smelled so good. They didn't wish you harm, but they'd just been agonizingly waiting to someday, by some chance, get to smell the life-giving fluid that pumped through your veins without the blockage your skin created, keeping the complete experience inside of you. And they could only dream of getting to taste it…

You spun back to face them, and swore for a second, the color of both their blue eyes had altered to match the plasma soaking into the grey washcloth in your grip – their faces flat like they hadn't eaten in years and you just baited the idea of a gourmet feast. But once you blinked, they were back to azure, concern etched across eyebrows and frowns. Maybe it was just the shitty brilliance of the bar.

“‘M fine, jus’ being mindless I guess. Scud, how the hell are ya smokin’ and working with wires ‘n soldering shit,” You shook your head, blaming your incident on the brain fog from weed, although it was a poor excuse given it should not have taken effect that fast. Perhaps you were just embarrassingly locked on auto-pilot.

“Ya look like yer bleedin’ bad, princess. Lemme see.” Daryl beckoned you over and took your hand. His body tensed, that dangerous feeling of his canines extending creeping up. It took all he had to not press his mouth to you. He knew better, he had control. You let him remove the rag, examining the cut and finding it to be quite deep, him stating it might have to be closed

“We don't got any medical stuff here ‘sides maybe a few bandaids. I'd be surprised if anybody else came in ‘ere tonight so I'll just close up ‘n deal with it home. Sorry to cut our chat time short guys…” You gave a half frown, taking an unsteady inhale and trying to mask the aching in your extremity. You smothered the joint, enjoyment ruined.

“Don't gotta apologize mama's. Wantcha to be okay,” Scud commented, mirroring your expression. Looking between him and Daryl, you felt there was some synergy connecting them, like they were communicating despite both staring at you.

“Why don't we take ya home, mebbe have me patch tha fer ya, hm?” Daryl suggested, readjusting his leather jacket as he tilted his head slightly.

“Oh, no. I don't wanna bother either of ya with that…”

“‘Ts no bother, sugar. We wanna make sure you're safe. ‘Ts late, dark, ‘nd you're bleedin’. Don't want anythin’ bad happening to ya,” Scud explained, his every word ending on a sort of mewl as he plucked his joint from his mouth to speak clearly.

“Alright – just cause I know you two will follow me to check anyway.” You grabbed your things, Daryl and Scud helping to close up the bar so you didn't further injure yourself, then leaving with you. It was reasonable for them to come with, and this wouldn't be the first time. And this wasn't the safest part of town, so it wouldn't hurt to have them.

❥-》》—————➣

When you returned to your apartment, both of them praised your designing of the interior, having not been inside before. To you it wasn't much of anything special, but again, it was just in their nature to say kind things to you.

You nodded Daryl in the direction of your bathroom so he could grab some ointment and gauze, going to sit on the couch as Scud plopped beside you. You easily could've nursed it yourself, but if there was anything you really knew about Daryl, it was his tendency to always be doing favors – and not letting you decline.

“Y'know… I know a way tah make that heal faster than any dressings could,” Scud broke the silence, dragging his gaze over your frame, and landing on your hand where you still held the soiled rag. He couldn't fucking take it anymore. He didn't have the control that Daryl did.

“What do you mean?” You now faced him, confused at the way his breathing seemed to grow a bit heavier, chest puffing further out despite his lazy posture. But he straightened some, scooting closer to you and reaching for your hand.

“Just trust me on this…” He was salivating, bottom lip practically trembling with anticipation. He was so close, access to your fresh blood right there. God how he ached for it every time he saw your beautiful face, just so damn entranced by you. He tried not to completely lose his mind as he neared your palm.

“Um… yer gonna get it infected doin’ that.”

“Won't.” And his mouth hovered right above it.

“Seriously, Scud, what are you doing?” Now you were concerned, tempted to call Daryl back. Was this some weird sex thing? His way of trying to seduce you? Taking ‘kiss my boo-boo to make it feel better’ a bit too far. But you sensed this… energy, radiating off of him, drawing out your naïve trait of curiosity. Something felt different about him, although you guess it always did – but only now could you really perceive it, having him so close. “What are you? ”

Scud's eyes flicked up to yours, blue flipped across the scale of hues to match the color you'd caught a glimpse of at the bar – the color of your blood, and those flawless new nails. “Whadda ya think I am, sweetheart?”

As his lips peeled back with a grin, you could see the lengthy, pin-sharp fangs that descended from the roof of his mouth, glistening with his famine. Your mouth fell open, pupils dilating as realization worked through your brain. Oh shit. Oh, shit..? You didn't speak, but didn't know what to say anyway.

He chuckled at your reaction. “Jus’ relax, mama's.” Finally. His tongue darted out, dragging a long lick over the front of your wound, causing you to wince and jerk a little. It didn't particularly hurt, but was so odd at the start. Scud held back a moan, but couldn't help his remarks: “Mmm, you taste so good… bettah than I ever imagined…”

You swallowed thickly, watching him work saliva over your tender flesh, and lapping away any remnants of the blood that ran down your arm. He stared intensely into your eyes as he drew a long, excessively slow lick up your limb and back to the wound. You felt it begin to radiate, an unfamiliar warmth centralizing over the cut but spreading out into your entire palm.

He brushed his lips against your fingers with a featherlite kiss, and reluctantly pulled away, letting you watch branches of skin connect together from both sides, color quickly shifting back to your normal tone, and your hand completely unscathed. You flexed your tendons, feeling it for yourself. It was completely healed, a two-week time lapsing into under a minute.

“Why'd ya show ‘er.” Daryl's voice was stern, silently standing behind the couch and startling you as you whipped around. You should've figured – it wouldn't take that long to find simple first aid in your bathroom.

“Known ‘er for long enough, D. Why let'er suffer with some gash if we can just heal it for her?” Scud replied and shrugged innocently. But his wording was key; ‘we’.

“You're both vampires,” You nodded dryly as Daryl grumbled something under his breath and came around the couch to sit on the other side of you. Now the ‘moonshine’ was really ironic. “Okay… I assume if you were gonna drain me ya woulda done it by now.”

“Don't tempt me, baby,” Scud smirked, and Daryl shot him a harsh glare. “What? Sure she appreciates the healin’ at least!”

“Yeah, I do… but it's weirdly intimate, no? Just, wetly runnin’ yer tongue all over someone, gathering saliva on their skin, tastin’ the irony remnants of their blood-”

“Quit talkin’ like that,” Daryl hissed, your sight passing back to him, watching his adam's-apple bob and his jaw tense. His eyes reddened as well, and it dawned on you how teasing your choice of dialogue must've been for them.

“Or keep goin’. Like hearin’ your gorgeous voice say such pretty words,” Scud wet his lips, volume just above a whisper. You felt trapped between two sides of a spectrum, both equally covet… and you were way more into it than you would ever want to admit. Your jaw laxed with a weary breath, mind wandering further ahead than you liked it to. “But you're right, can be real intimate.” His voice dropped lower as he neared you, keeping sights intertwined.

“You're torturing me momma's… pleas’... would give anythin’ to feel ya,” He almost whimpered, puppy dog eyes peering up at you. “He would too, he's jus’ a lil’ more shy.”

It'd be the fattest lie of your life to say you didn't find him attractive, both of them. Closing the door behind you some nights after they'd walked you home, tempted to just bring them inside. How many times you muttered dirty words as your legs tangled in your bedsheets and you touched yourself, imagining how they'd sound in Scud's whiny hitches, or Daryl's gravelly grunts…

You reached up, taking Scud's chin in the light hold of your acrylics and bringing his mouth to yours. He directly melted, turning to puddy from that alone and cravingly dabbing your lips with his tongue. When you pulled back, he tried to follow, pining for more. But you wanted to be fair, and switched to the other man.

Daryl looked like he didn't know what to do, that effort of displaying confidence broken the second the gate he'd been waiting outside of for so long actually opened. But a quick ‘C'mere’, and the curling of your pointer finger brought him to you expeditiously, rough lips chafing over your moisted ones. He shoved away his groan, not quite ready for that yet.

“This ain't gonna stop at kissin’, right?” You checked on an exhale, both their eyes boring into you from either plane, the patterns of their breathing reworking themselves. Dropping it here would be teasing you now.

“S’ain't gon’ stop less ya want it to, moonshine,” He rasped, irises captivating and luring you back to him, clawed hand coming to his cheek – that made the groan slip. He inhaled sharply, ardently guiding his tongue into your mouth, which definitely made Scud jealous.

The engineer brought his hands to your waist, toying with the seams of your shirt as Daryl harshly tugged you closer to him, gaining momentum, growing hungrier. He explored the entire cavity of your mouth, feeling the heat of your gums, the smoothness of your teeth in comparison to his canines, and drew a moan from your throat, hints of a smile crinkling.

“Yer not good at hidin’ whatcha want, honeysuckle,” The southerner purred, trailing down to your jawline as Scud's lips pressed to the nape of your neck. You weren’t sure if he could tell by your body language, or was able to read your mind or something; all the near whorish thoughts running through your psyche.

“Then you should know how long I've thought about this.”

Daryl immediately hooked his strong arms under your thighs, shoving Scud back to stand up off the couch, your legs instinctively latching around his torso as he started to leave a hickey on your neck and find his way to your bedroom.

Scud awkwardly stood behind for a second, shyly glancing to the floor, feeling literally and figuratively pushed aside by the other's dominance. “C'mon Scuddy,” You mouthed, and he looked like he came in pants right there – hurdling to track after you.

Daryl roughly threw you onto the edge of your bed, simultaneously ripping your shirt up over your head. He reached down for the button of your jeans, quickly popping it out and tearing them off, leaving you in just your lacey, red bra and panties.

“Jeez, you ‘nd fuckin’ red, woman.” He bordered on a growl, sliding off his jacket and tossing it to the floor. You sat upright on the rim the mattress, aiding Scud in dropping his many layers, but he teetered like he just wanted to fuck himself senseless with all it still on.

Both them now shirtless, you raked your nails down their chest, taking extra notice to follow the lightning-like scars carved into Scud's abdomen to your left. You let out a breathy curse at their defined v-lines and mouthwateringly sexy happy trails, discarding Daryl's belt, and gently cupping his pulsing erection through his jeans – the same through Scud's cargos.

One twitched, then the other, and you chuckled. “You two really want me that bad, huh?” You questioned, beaming up through your lashes with a flirty smirk: but that mischievous temping simmered seeing the pure lust on their features. They looked like they were gonna eat you alive, and honestly… you wouldn't mind it.

You undid their pants to drop them down, and with some sort of unspoken permission translating between the three of you, they pounced forward, resistance snapping like twigs. Scud hauled your body up the bed and instantaneously found your lips, already gasping into your mouth. His hands each found one of your breasts, fondling and pawing impatiently through your bra.

Daryl grabbed your hips, tugging you back down a little and drawing a wet lick from the hem of your panties up your navel, holding you to him as your spine arched. He kissed and sucked at the delicate skin on your pelvis and inner thighs, leaving behind litters of those gentle bruises on the surface, spotting across the curves of your body. His fangs grazed you as he worked, a persistent reminder of what a feral vampire could just take from you – but he was a humble man, and prefered to give.

You directed Scud to strip your bra, given he'd basically lost all ability to function the second your clothes were off, and even worse once he was on you. Now with your chest fully out, he was gone. He greedily sucked one nipple into his mouth, kneading the other like a cat, while Daryl curled a finger around the hem of your panties, deliberately running from side to side before he suddenly ripped them away – literally ripped. “Promise ‘ll buy ya new ones, babydoll.”

Whatever deeply guttural noise that erupted from you when Daryl's tongue made contact with your cunt was everything but holy. Your hips bucked up into his face so rapidly it almost caught him off guard, his palms splayed out on your thighs and his mouth latched onto your clit. He sucked in rapid pumps, before trawling down then back up and spreading your folds. He lapped up every bit of your pooled wetness, taking a deep inhale and the hidden claws in his fingertips nearing shooting out as his toes curled.

“Fuck! Yer pussy smell's'so fuckin’ good.” His words came out as near snarls, reverberating against your core. Should the view of him not have been obscured by Scud, you're sure you would've came at the sight of him so deeply intoxicated by just the scent of you. “‘Nd tastes so goddamn lovely.”

“‘Ts not fair, man, ah wanna taste ‘er-”

“Nah. Ya got ‘er hand, pussy's mine.” Now he was snarling, possessive crimson eyes stabbing into the other man as he'd turned to look back at him, burying himself deeper into your cunt and earning another wild moan. Scud frowned a little, but you brought your hands to his hips and readjusted him to be sitting on your chest, legs on either side of your body.

“Don't worry, baby.” And you rolled down his boxers so his dick was free: fully hard, tip swollen up and flushed with color, absolutely weeping for you, and it bobbed with a twitch. You wrapped your hand around the base, giving a few pressurized strokes as he bowed forward over your head and straight up whimpered in your ear, aching and pulsing and starved of touch and attention.

“Oh-.. God, momma's… t’so good…” He wove his fingers through your hair to tug lightly at the roots and anchor himself. But the second you put your tongue on him, he jerked forward and shoved into your mouth, cumming abruptly. He couldn't help it, you were; “Jus’ so warm…”

Still you swallowed it down, swiveling the tip of your tongue along the underside of his head, prolonging his high. You weren't surprised; with how frenzied he was, acting like he'd been edged for far too long – which you supposed he had, based on how he talked earlier – you pegged him for the kind to cum fast. He probably wanted you to actually peg him too.

Daryl tipped a domino by chuckling at the early orgasm, the sound waves making you moan around Scud's cock, which in return made him slide a bit deeper again. Daryl started to hum, and removed one hand from your thigh to slip two girthy fingers into you, curling them up and pressing into that sensitive spot in your walls. He focused his mouth on your clit, drawing it in with suction while he rapidly wagged his tongue, soon pumping his fingers in and out of you, and your moans picked up.

The shallow edge of Scud's claws inched further out and held your skull, careful to not scrape into your skin, but exigent nonetheless. His breathing descended into ragged heaving against the side of your head as you worked his cock like you knew every little thing that got him going.

“Getch'yer dick outta her mouth so Ah can hear ‘er cum,” Daryl barked, breaking contact from you for just a moment. Scud groaned, wanting so badly for you to deepthroat him, but he shifted over to the side, knowing Daryl would forcibly do it anyway. Now he moved impossibly faster, fingers stretching you open and filling the bedroom with wet noises from how he had you dripping.

Getting to hear you clearly now sent him into overdrive, grunting against your clit while Scud just laboriously returned to toying with your boobs. “C'mon girl, jus’ cum. Cum fer me. Wanna see yer gorgeous face.”

“Jesus, Daryl-” Your sentence split, and you cried out, trembling legs coming together and forcing him flush against you. You rode his face, a hand flying down to tug at his shaggy locks and assisting you in rolling your hips. He clutched you bruisingly hard, nearing ripping into you.

When your limbs relaxed again, he lavished long licks over your cunt, swirling the tangy, sticky nectar of your release over his entire mouth. “Mos’ perfect fuckin’ thing.”

“Pleas’ mommas, can I fuck ya?” Scud pleaded, cupping your face to catch his distress. Sharing was hard when one party was so much more controlling. Poor thing needed you.

But seeing Daryl yank down and discard his boxers, hard cock visibly throbbing and tip shaded red, he needed you too. And you could tell a blowjob just wouldn't settle it for either of them. “Fuck, just-.. both of you fuck me.”

“Can ya handle two, sweetheart?” Daryl exhorted, swiping a strayed bit of hair from your forehead and deftly tucking it back, slightly softened eyes checking for sincerity in your expression. With your nod, they acclimated to desire once again.

He flipped onto his back, and manhandled your body overtop of him, your back flattened on his chest, and Scud hurriedly positioning above. Daryl kept your legs spread apart with his, reaching around and palming at your breast while going down to slick himself between your soaked folds, slapping himself against you a couple times. “Ya tell us if s'too much, alrigh’?”

“Yea, yeah- please, just fuck me already,” You wailed as he angled you down and slipped deep into you, Scud giving you a second to adjust before coating spit over his shaft, and gently guiding into you as well.

Your back arched as Daryl held you firm, whining in delectable pain as they strained you further open than you ever had been, your acrylics digging into his waist beneath you. Scud layered himself onto you, sucking another hickey into your chest then rocking his hips a couple of times.

When you handled it well, Daryl took it as a cue to join him, plodding more in his thrusts to still give you the opportunity to bail if this wasn't to your liking. Your eyelids fluttered closed, head lulling back to rest on Daryl's shoulder as your heavy breaths fell in line with the pace. When Scud pushed in, Daryl would pull out, and vice versa: always keeping you full while maintaining the motion that granted so much ecstasy to you three. Every one of their filthy noises sounded incomprehensibly better than you'd ever pictured.

Scud mewled against you, head buried into your breasts and giving quick pecks or licks any time he wasn't being uncontrollably vocal. Daryl did the same, groaning into your shoulder and hair.

“Takin’ us so good, arentcha darlin’? So wet, pussy so tight,” Daryl hushed into your ear, hooking up faster and faster following each of his thrusts like the speed was on a multiplier.

You twisted fingers in the back of Scud's head, triggering a loud whine when you tugged on the roots of this hair and that metal choker he always wore. He started to waver, weakly humping you like his brain was fried and just focusing on staying as deep inside you as he could. “Mmm… mommy, I… ‘m so hungry. Please…” The hinges of his jaw started extending on their own, humid exhales dampening an area by your neck. Tasting hints of your blood earlier spawned a black hole that decimated the sinkhole he'd previously had caving in over time. In the near year he'd known you, that urge to just feed from your tender flesh was all he ever thought about. And now, warm walls of your cunt wrapped around him, urging him to another orgasm… He couldn't wait much longer, he was starving.

Daryl planted his feet to make up for Scud's faltering rhythm, the strengthful build of his hips and thighs making it easy to lift you. He was trying so hard to focus on just fucking you, but as the other vampire's imploring got the best of him, he started to follow suit. “Ya know yer'a damn tease, righ’ moonshine? Lookin’ so sexy all tha time, tha seductive scent ah yers… Fuck, I kno’ ya taste like heaven…” He craned his neck up, applying pressure to your carotid artery with his tongue, feeling everything he wanted pump through you at a rapid rate.

You took in a shaky breath, vivacity emanating from the both of them and encircling you. Their dicks throbbed inside of you, the drifter pistoning while the engineer hunched, but that just wasn't enough, and it made the craving so much more pressing. Their pairs of fangs rested on the edges of your skin, tracing over it, each on one side.

“Shit… just do it-.. Jus’ fuckin’ do,” You panted, and it happened so fast you barely even realized it. Scud's bite was eager, being more frantic and on your left: Daryl's more longing, savoring the feeling of piercing into your silky flesh on the right. They drew long siphons into their throats, sultry crimson flooding their systems as their eyes blazed a mutual color.

A strangled moan ripped from your being, your consciousness floating in a haze. Daryl fucked you faster, empowered by your smooth blood, grunting savagely as his razor-edged talons dug into your breasts, Scud's on your waist: but they were so careful to not rip you up.

“Mmmnngh… oh, gods momma, m’gonna cum…” Scud lost any last sense of his composure, curving his spine and slicking out of you to cum over your pelvis. He whimpered like an injured dog, anchoring himself with the teeth lodged in you, grinding against you a few times to ride out the bliss as he messied your body with lengthy ropes of white. Waves of body-wracking pleasure made him writhe around on your chest, lost in some other realm.

“Fuck… cum fer me again, dollface. Know yer good fer me,” Daryl mumbled against you, driving into your cunt with every newfound bit of liveliness he garnered from feeding on you. Your brain stopped working at this point – those red acrylic nails scratching at Daryl's thigh with your left, and Scud's back with your right.

You felt lightheaded, loss of ichor incapacitating you even as they'd ceased thirsting, just keeping fangs planted in your muscles. The crest of euphoria floated your soul to nirvana, Daryl's tip brushing past one specific golden point in your walls and shoving you off the cliff of your climax, tightening his hold on you as you bowed and bucked, vision stripped from your senses.

Your pussy spasmed and massaged around the southerner's cock, and with a final few abusing thrusts, he withdrew and spilled his own load over your folds, resistant moans rumbling from his vocal cords. All three of your chests heaved intensely, fighting to steal any oxygen from the lust-filled atmosphere of your bedroom.

Daryl's hands drifted to your midsection to push up and roll Scud off of you to the left, knowing he was too much of a fucked out mess to do it himself. He gently laid you between the two of them, smoothing a caring hand over your chest and pressing a kiss to your upper arm. “Ya feelin’ okay, moonshine? Didn't take too much, righ’?”

“Yea, ‘m good.., jus’ need a minute,” You wheezed, eyes shut and soma trying to recuperate. Daryl peeled himself from the bed, going to wet a rag, and fetch some water and food. Returning, he compassionately cleaned away the cum smeared across your curves, supporting you as he helped you drink and all – then gathered extra layers of healing saliva over your puncture wounds just to make sure they'd seal over.

He soothed you by tracing patterns with his calloused palm, the three of you resting for a long while and wrapping thoughts around what just happened.

Scud snaked his arm around yours and cuddled right up against your side, keeping lips pressed against you with his whiny hums. “Wanna feel more'ah ya mommas…” To only say he was needy was an understatement, he was full on reliant – vampiric endurance adapting the role of an exponent for such.

“Let ‘er rest.”

You brought your nails to Scud's scalp, gently scratching his head and he practically began to purr. Even if Daryl shoved him off, you appreciated how benevolent he was to you, and could tell he felt less-than right now, lacking your focus. “That spit of yours work on swellin’ too?”

He nodded with a mumbly ‘Mhm…’

“Then how bout'cha lick my pussy till it feels better, ‘nd we'll keep goin’ till botha ya are ran dry, hm?” You suggested, planting a kiss on the top of his head and sensing the energy shift.

And they were both on you all over again in an instant.

©corvidcrossbow 2024. I do not give permission for my works to be copied, modified or adapted to other platforms. My work may be translated only if asked and with proof of given consent.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unraveled 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A curious man wanders into your dress shop with a lot of questions.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (Cavill)

Note: I hope you all enjoy this random idea.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

One hand guides the fabric as the other turns the wheel. Your work is slow but steady, every stitch perfect, every seam precise. Your fare may be modest and your product simple, but its quality cannot be contested. Your labour as yourself is honest and plain.

The noise of the machine is your only company. The one-room shop nestled behind the butcher’s rarely sees a customer through its door. Instead, the orders are sent from the factories, returned with the printed adverts you disperse outside their doors. The writs are sent along with an envelope of pence and shilling and you complete each with equal diligence before sending them back bundled in paper and twine.

The operation isn’t especially fruitful but the profit is enough to subsist. Enough to guarantee your independence; a small apartment just above and a pot of stew to last you through each week. This humble existence is preferable to any marriage you’ve witnessed. 

The letters from your sisters reaffirm your spinster’s fate. You’d rather a hand wheel and a needle than a brood and broken back. A husband seems to provide several jobs at once, you’ll happily settle for one.

As your hands work from memory and your head wanders from tedium, the bell above the door gives a single sharp toll. You ease the wheel to a halt and leave the seam unfinished. You peer up above the black iron machine, reminding yourself to fix your hunch as a client enters. You can’t but wonder if he may have come to the wrong shop.

By his attire, he is a class above the factory women who require gray skirts and simple stays. His waistcoat is embroidered and his jacket is pressed and clean. He is tall, locks part tidily so his curls lay gracefully. His face is fresh-shaven, square jaw with a cleft, and shoulders broad and strong. He does not share the same sinewy gauntness as the labourers with the coal-dusted noses.

He carries a fine leather bag. Another clue to his status. His shoes, another. Polished and without creases.

You stand to greet him, “good afternoon, sir. Might I help you with something?”

His answer is not prompt. He takes in the finished dresses hung by the east wall and turns to examine the rolls of wool and cotton. At last, he returns his attention to you.

“Afternoon,” his deep timbre fills the small space, “you are the dressmaker.”

It isn’t a question, but you answer, “I am.”

He narrows his eyes as he approaches your desk, the sole fixture in the space. From without, the shop is just as bare. The blackened windows offer not insight into the business, its only suggestion the sign hung above the door, though the paint requires a fresh coat.

“And the shop owner?”

“That is me as well, sir,” you assert. The presumption is not uncommon.

“Ah,” he accepts your explanation without comment, “so, you will have sewn this.”

He puts his bag on the desk, nearly knocking your shears from the corner. You try not to flinch as they teeter near the edge and he pulls open the top of the leather bag. He pulls out a swath of grey. You recognise it and he rolls the cuff to show your initials sewn within.

“Sir,” you say precariously, “is there some issue with it? Is it your wife’s dress?”

“Wife? No, no,” he dismisses, feeling the fabric between his fingers, “rather I am in search of the dress’s owner. The initial must belong to them, yes? So you would have a name for the buyer.”

“Mm, no, those are mine,” you point at the letters, “as it is my handiwork.”

“That makes sense,” he frowns in disappointment. “So you wouldn’t know who would wear it?”

You rub your chapped lips together. You find your tongue sliding over them often when you work, turning them raw with the habit. The man’s lips are rosy and smooth, as well-kempt as the rest of him. He is no factory worker’s husband.

“I might… would you take it out?” You ask.

He obliges as you pluck up the metal cylinder from your desk and unfurl the tape measure from within. He shakes out the dress, holding it by the shoulders to reveal salt stains along the skirts and unleashing a dingy smell in the shop. You wiggle your nose at the stench but worse roils in from the butcher’s on hot days.

You take the measure of the sleeves and the waist, then to the hem. You scribble the numbers on a scrap and take that to compare with your ledger. The measurements are in now way defining but might narrow it down. He keeps the dress aloft and you return to him to check the thread along the seams. A few months ago, you changed the thickness as the factory workers complained of splits under the arms.

“Hm, it is a recent purchase,” you assure him and return to the ledge. 

He lowers the dress and approaches. You snap the book closed and turn your face up to consider him once more, “why do you need to know, if it is not your wife?”

“You are very discerning,” he remarks as he folds the dress and drapes it over his bag, “I’m certain then you can surmise the woman who wore this dress did not meet a kind fate.” He tugs up the hem and shows a tear trimmed in scarlet, the colour not obvious from a distance. “Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. I’m a detective and I’m trying to identify a poor woman found not far from here. I believe it is in your own interest that I discover her assailant.”

“I cannot say for certain which she is,” you turn over the scrap and re-open the ledger. You write down three names which match the measurements and hold the paper out to him. He takes it, his thick fingertips brushing yours. “Those are the ones which align with the dress.”

“Mm,” he hums as he tucks the paper into his chest pocket, “and your name? I couldn’t make it out on the sign.”

You recite your name flatly, “it isn’t on the sign.”

“It requires new paint,” he admonishes, “I could hardly find you.”

“I am aware,” you reply. “Thank you for noting.”

He’s quiet, “being a detective, however, I did indeed put together the clues.”

Is he making a joke? You cannot tell. He folds up the dress completely and puts it back in the leather bag. The smell persists.

“What are you prices?” He asks abruptly.

“Sir, I sew dresses for factory women, sometimes a few communion pieces, but I’m afraid I don’t do much suit work.”

“My sister requires a dress,” he sniffs, “as simple as it is, I can see your work is fine.”

“I have only wools and cottons,” you counter.

“Do you always turn away business?” He challenges.

“I wasn’t, sir, I’m only clarifying what I currently do. My prices are set for those fabrics,” you explain.

“I will pay for the muslin and velvet,” he waves his hand staunchly, “you will be paid for your labour. Can you sew with more than wool and cotton?”

“I can, sir, but you could find a ready-made dress in a market boutique if the dress is required promptly.”

“I can afford the time and coin,” he insists. “You are not a talented advertiser, are you?”

You’re taken aback by his bluntness. Often, his ilk have that demeanour. It’s why you’d rather the factory workers and the fish sellers’ wives.

“I suppose not,” you agree, “I would need measurements before I begin. You may send the numbers along with the fabric, then. And I would require a style. Perhaps your sister is a purveyor of fashion magazines?”

“I will send a messenger,” he shrugs. “Thank you for your time. I shan't get in your way any longer.”

“Good day, sir.”

“Good day to you,” he takes the bag from your desk and the shears fall to the floor with a clatter.

You skirt around to grab them as he bends and swipes them up first. You recoil as he closes the blades with a snap. He examines them before placing them back on the desk.

“Apologies,” he says, “and miss,” he looks at you, “take to heart what I’ve told you today. Keep away from the allies and perhaps you may consider locking your door.”

“Thank you, sir, your concern is appreciated.”

“Rather you might just keep those close, eh,” he points to the shears and his cheek dimples.

Again, you can’t be certain of his humour. You keep a placid expression, neither smiling nor scowling. He clears his throat and runs his hand down his jacket, gripping the lapel.

“Very well then, I’ll be off.”

He turns on his heel and marches to the door. You stay by the desk as the bell rings with his departure. Once the door closes, you cross the shop. You turn the lock into place, his foreboding lingering with the stale scent of dirty water.

🪡

Despite the unusual visit, your days roll on like a hand on a clock. The thought of the woman’s tragic fate looms like a shadow but fades. You have too much stitching to do to fret over that man and his ominous words. You assume his interest in your work thereafter was wholly feigned as he does not return.

That day, you pass off six parcels to Eustace, the driver who takes them down to the stacks to hand off to the floor bosses who will parse them out to the women they’ve been cut for. You pay him his toll before he climbs back into the seat of his cart, his horse kicking impatiently.

“Excuse me, sir,” another driver clops up along the other side of the street, a narrow squeeze between the slanting buildings. “I’m in search of a dressmaker. I believe the store is tucked behind the butcher’s and…” the man’s voice drifts off as his eyes flit to the meat sellers marquee.

“Right here, good sir,” Eustace responds, “wouldn’t ya know, she’s right here.”

You lift your chin to see past the cart and spy the driver. He removes his cap as his gaze meets yours. Eustache dips his chin as he adjusts his own hat and snaps his old mare into a canter. As you're left alone with the carriage driver, a vehicle rather lofty for a block like this, you fold your hands behind you.

“Sir, you hardly look in need of a work woman’s dress,” you say.

“Miss,” he ties the reins off and jumps down from his seat, “I am sent for you, not a dress.”

“For me?” You echo.

“Mr. Holmes has sent,” he crosses the muck and nearly slips. “He said he made an appointment for a seamstress.”

“An appointment? I wasn’t informed of the time,” you rebuff. “I’ve a shop to run, orders paid for. I can’t simply leave.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes made mention of a fee,” the man feels around his striped coat, “he said a deposit would be needed.”

He takes out a brown envelope and hands it over. You take it, a small weight within. You look at the driver before you pull back the flap and peek inside. A large gold sovereign sits in the corner of the paper; a whole pound. That’s at least three days work.

You hold your breath, trying to maintain some composure. If that’s the deposit, what is he offering for the rest? You slip out the folded paper within, a page torn from a fashion journal. The dress is elegant if not extravagant. You don’t often do off-the-shoulder or ruffles like that but it isn’t beyond your skill.

You fold the flap closed again and lift your chin to face the driver, “I must lock up, you see?”

“Take your time, miss,” he says kindly. “Mr. Holmes isn’t expecting you to hurry.”

“Thank you, sir,” you bow your head and turn away.

You measure your steps along the facade of the butcher’s shop and curl around to the alleyway. You let yourself into your shop and tuck the envelope into your apron pocket. You take your sewing bag from under the desk and shake off the dust. You don’t often have reason to use it.

You open it up and pack away your shears, a measuring tape, pins with a cushion, your notebook, and a few other bits and bobs. Just in case. You grab a role of linen from against the wall. It’s heavy but you can manage.

You take the key from your desk drawer and switch off the overhead light. You lock the door and continue back out to the street. The driver puffs smoke from a pipe as he waits.

“Miss, allow me,” he snuffs out the pipe and puts it in his pocket. He nears and reaches for the roll of linen.

“It’s quite alright, sir,” you say.

“I insist, miss, can’t have a lady doing all that,” he takes it, not forcefully, and you let him.

As he goes to the carriage and opens the door, you give pause. You don’t know if you should be so easily swayed on a gold coin. Mr. Holmes hadn’t been entirely pleasant and you do prefer your simple work. Still, you can hardly turn your nose up at a pound. Not with the summer fizzling to a finale.

You lift your skirts and cross the street to the open carriage, “sir, might I have a name?”

“Gavin,” he answers, “and I have yours. Mr. Holmes made sure of it.”

“Yes, very good,” you say as you approach, another sliver of doubt trickling through. Mr. Holmes claimed to be a detective but is that really the reason he was strolling around with a dead woman’s dress? You gulp and look at Gavin then the carriage, “might I keep the window open?”

“Surely you can,” he agrees amiably. “Mr. Holmes lives quite a ways, shouldn’t mind the air. I’ll be certain to stay away from the stacks.”

“Thank you, sir,” you accept his proffered hand and he helps you up into the carriage. 

You settle on the bench as the door shuts and you open the window from within. You lean back, your hand grasping the top of your bag. You unclasp it as you feel Gavin climb up on the driver’s seat. You dip your hand inside and clutch your long shears.

You don’t forget all of what Mr. Holmes said.

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[doomtrooper77]

Penthouse Visit

They were waiting for me when I stepped out of the building. No mistaking them for anything other than dangerous. Two towering monsters of men, both wrapped in pitch-black tailored suits, jet-black shirts, and matching ties. They looked less like bodyguards and more like professional executioners—silent, heavy, immovable. A uniform straight out of a nightmare or a mob movie.

They didn’t need to walk up to me. They just stood there like monoliths, watching. But they knew I saw them, and I knew pretending I didn’t would end with my teeth on the pavement. So I walked toward them. One of them, the one with eyes so unnaturally blue they looked metallic in the sunlight, tilted his square jaw down just enough to make it clear he was talking to me.

“Mr. Ambrizio would like to see you.”

Shit. My gut twisted.

I asked, “About what?”

The other one, the thicker, broader of the two, leaned in until I could smell stale cigar smoke and leather off his breath.

“Does it matter?” he growled.

The only answer that wouldn’t get me bounced off the concrete was a quiet, “No.”

He stared at me, jaw clenched, eyes like slabs of stone, like he was measuring whether I deserved a beating just for speaking. After a long, brutal moment, he gave a tight nod, turned, opened the door of the idling black Escalade, and jerked his thumb. I got in. What else could I do?

The bigger one slid in behind me, boxing me in with nothing but meat and muscle. The man with the icy eyes climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled off without a word. Even though it was one of those cavernous, state-of-the-art Escalades, the guy sitting behind me sucked up all the air in the cabin. Every movement he made creaked the leather and made the SUV feel like a goddamn coffin.

We drove in silence, just the quiet hum of the tires and the occasional click of a blinker. I counted time by the burning in my throat and the weight pressing on my chest. Twenty-five minutes later, we rolled into the rear entrance of a high-rise that had only recently been finished. I’d read about it in one of those financial magazines—88 floors of luxury, exclusivity, and billionaire isolation. The kind of place you only entered if you were rich or disposable.

We glided into the underground garage, headlights slicing through the sterile, concrete shadows. Another man was waiting for us—no jacket, but the same all-black uniform. He looked younger, but he still had the dimensions of an industrial refrigerator. He didn’t smile. He didn’t nod. He just watched, eyes dead, jaw tight.

The guy in back opened the door and grabbed my shoulder in a thick, calloused hand, yanking me out like luggage. My feet barely hit the floor before I started to speak.

“Easy! This is a three-thousand-dollar suit—”

Before the sentence even ended, pain exploded through my side. A rib-crushing rabbit punch hit like a steel piston. I grunted and doubled over, but he didn’t let me drop. His iron grip held me upright like a limp puppet.

“I don’t think you realize how deep in the shit you are right now,” he hissed. “You should be thinking about why you’re here and why we were sent to collect you. Mr. Ambrizio said bring you breathing—he didn’t say anything about intact.”

While I struggled to catch my breath, the man with the blue-grey eyes circled the vehicle and got in close on the other side. I was sandwiched between two slabs of violence.

“Let him keep this attitude, Nicky,” Blue Eyes said, his voice ice-cold, eyes flickering with something feral. “Maybe the boss will let us have him for some fun.”

A cold sweat broke out across my neck.

“Stand up and walk like a fucking man,” Nicky barked.

They shoved me forward toward a set of black security doors. More guards were posted there—same black pants, shirts, ties—but with custom black leather jackets embroidered with the building’s logo and SECURITY across the chest in bold lettering. These weren’t mall cops. These were soldiers.

The place was crawling with them.

We were funneled toward a freight elevator the size of a two-car garage—polished steel, the kind used to move high-end sports cars or corpses. The doors slid shut with a mechanical sigh, and we rode up in silence, my ears popping with altitude.

When the doors opened at the 88th floor, two more behemoths were standing guard. One stepped forward and held the elevator door. His suit coat pulled back just enough to reveal the matte black steel of an SMG resting in a shoulder rig.

Jesus. Were they all armed like this? It was like Ambrizio ran a private militia out of a goddamn condo tower.

We moved through the back halls of the penthouse. I caught glimpses through open doors—tastefully decorated spaces with cold masculinity. Leather, dark wood, modern steel. No fluff, no frills. Everything expensive.

Then we hit the final door. It opened onto the rooftop.

The pool stretched out before us, infinity-edged and reflecting the golden hues of a dying sun. And in it—cutting through the water with sleek, deadly power—was Mr. Ambrizio.

He didn’t swim like a man. He swam like something built for it—fast, clean, silent. A shark in human form. Or something worse.

We waited.

He kept doing laps. I lost count at ten. When he finally emerged from the water, I swallowed hard.

He was a monster.

6’4”, maybe 6’5”, and easily 400 pounds of hulking, chiseled muscle. His entire upper body was covered in black and grey ink—mythical beasts, symbols, and lines that crawled across his skin like armor. Water cascaded down his massive frame in glistening rivers, catching the golden light of sunset. Even soaking wet, the presence he carried was overwhelming.

He walked over like a panther—slow, deliberate, powerful. His thighs were so thick they forced that powerlifter waddle, but he moved with a predator’s grace. A tiger in a three-piece world.

I tried to step forward. I tried to say something. But one of the goons jerked me back hard and growled, “Shut up.”

I shut up.

Ambrizio dropped into a poolside lounger, soaking wet from the pool. Water glistened on his skin, pooling on the concrete. The massive gold chain around his neck shimmered in the light. Diamonds winked from his fingers and his watch. He sat like a king—silent, dripping, dangerous.

Seconds later, another large man came out through a set of folding patio doors that peeled back the wall like a stage curtain, carrying a short tumbler filled with something amber and expensive. He handed it to Ambrizio.

“Thanks, Teddy,” the boss said without even looking at him.

Teddy nodded and asked if he needed anything else. He waved him off.

Then he looked at me.

And for the first time, he spoke to me.

“What am I supposed to do with you?”

His voice was low but commanding. I opened my mouth to speak.

“That wasn’t for you to answer.”

His eyes—like chips of glass—flicked toward the men beside me. One grabbed my arm and shoved me into the seat across from the massive mob boss. They turned and walked back inside without a word.

Then the real conversation began.

For fifteen minutes, he didn’t yell. He didn’t threaten. He just reminded me, with precise, almost surgical calm, how much money he had “invested” in my operation. He quoted exact figures, percentages, and timelines.

I tried to dazzle him. I trotted out graphs and buzzwords and the kind of bullshit that worked on VC firms and hedge fund scumbags. But Ambrizio wasn’t buying.

He waited. Sipped. Watched.

Then he tore it apart. Everything I said, every misdirection, every justification—he countered with facts I didn’t even know were on paper. My own spreadsheets turned against me. My own lies collapsed under his calm, confident demolition.

“You always have some excuses for your other investors and board members,” he said, eyes narrowing. “It’s really disrespectful that you think that bullshit is gonna work on me.”

His smile was wide and sharp. His eyes, like diamonds, cut straight through me.

“I don’t like it when people disrespect me or my organization.”

I didn’t dare move.

“What most people don’t know about me,” he said, swirling the glass in his hand, “is that I’m a reasonable man. If we do business, I expect you to keep your word. Everybody eats. Everybody wins. But the problem is, people get greedy. They think they’re smarter than me. They think they can lie to me. And then they get fucking greedy.”

He paused. Let that silence stretch.

“What they forget,” he said slowly, “is that we can be greedy too.”

He leaned forward, ice clinking in his glass.

“Like now—you’ve got a 10 percent penalty tacked onto our agreement just for trying to bullshit me. That means you’re 30 percent in the hole. With me.”

I wanted to protest, to explain, but the look on his face stopped me cold. I nodded once. It was all I could do.

“You’ve got two months to fix it. I don’t care what you have to do, you hit the fucking numbers, and you get me my money. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Then everything shifted.

His expression changed. That simmering anger cooled into something else. Something worse.

He set the glass down on the side table, wiped water off his face, and ran his massive hand through his soaked hair, then down across his chest, his abs.

“I think you need to understand who you are in this relationship,and who the fuck I am.”

Then his hand slid lower, over the bulge in his still-wet trunks. He pushed back from the coffee table, leaned into the lounger, and opened his thighs wide.

“Now get over here and start working off that interest you owe me,” he said, voice deadly calm.

The look in his eyes told me there wasn’t a choice.

Not really.

And the other option?

That would hurt a hell of a lot more.

I was on my knees before I even realized it. Up close, he seemed impossibly large, like his muscles were carved from tattooed marble and layered with power. I looked up, and he stared down at me with the expression of a man who knew exactly how to get what he wanted, because no one had ever told him no.

Because no one lived long enough to try.

“Tale your time boy.” He said.

[Like and Shares are appreciated. It lets me know if you want more]

[sincerelyyoursbee]

Betrothed to the Dragon

King

Dragon King AU | Arranged Marriage |

Slow Burn | Enemies to Lovers

Part I The Dragon Throne

Synopsis:

You were promised to him before you could even walk—engaged to the Dragon King himself since you were three. Years passed, letters unread, portraits hung on palace walls… but now, for the first time, you’re standing face to face.

The air reeked of fire.

Not the pleasant kind, the hearth-warmed smoke curling from a winter chimney, but ancient fire—raw, scorched earth and sulfur, molten rock and ash. It clung to your throat as your carriage trundled along the black stone road that led to the heart of the mountain: Draconfell, the capital of the Eastern Dragonlands.

You lifted your veil to peer outside, swallowing against the weight of the heat. The world beyond the window was carved in obsidian and steam. The sun, so bright when you left your homeland, was nothing more than a red smear behind plumes of smoke that rose from unseen vents. Lava flowed like rivers through the canyons below—tamed only by ancient magic and even older power.

Your hand clenched in your lap.

Today, you would meet your betrothed. For the first time in your life.

You had been promised to Katsuki Bakugou, Dragon King of the East, since the age of three. A bond struck between bloodlines to end the Crimson War. You had grown up with his name on your tongue, the way other children learned nursery rhymes.

You were schooled in dragon customs, in old draconian etiquette, in the handling of flame-touched politics. And, of course, in portraits.

Paintings of him—dozens, perhaps hundreds over the years—had been sent to your estate. Most featured him standing in armor atop a battlefield of bones, eyes glowing, smoke rising from his clenched fists. His expression had never changed: stone-carved, proud, utterly impassive.

He was the monster you were meant to marry.

He was also the king who had not written a single letter in twenty years.

The carriage slowed, and your heart quickened. Draconfell Palace loomed above you—an impossibly tall fortress, carved from the mountainside itself, its spires like jagged fangs piercing the clouded sky. Black stone. Red glass. Iron gates with sigils of fire and winged beasts.

The driver came to a halt and dismounted. You heard his boots crunch against the obsidian gravel. He opened the door with a bow.

You stepped out into a kingdom that did not want you.

The heat hit you like a blow to the chest. You straightened your spine regardless. A dozen guards waited in formation, dressed in scaled armor, spears like claws at their sides. None greeted you. None bowed.

“Lady Y/N of House L/N,” announced your steward behind you, his voice carrying. “Betrothed of His Majesty, King Katsuki of the Draconian Crown.”

Silence.

And then the great doors creaked open.

You stepped into shadow and flame.

⸻

The palace was alive.

That was your first thought. The black stone walls breathed heat. Torchlight flickered with unnatural steadiness—too still to be wind, too synchronized to be coincidence. Magic. The floors pulsed faintly beneath your heeled boots, as though the mountain’s heart beat far below.

Your footsteps echoed in the grand hall. Your retinue followed in silence. They would not stay long. Draconfell allowed no foreign servants to remain.

At the end of the hall, a figure awaited you.

He did not sit upon the throne.

He stood before it—one hand resting on the pommel of a curved blade at his side, his head slightly bowed, eyes unreadable beneath the gleam of a fiery red. He was taller than the portraits, broader of shoulder, and much, much more terrifying in the flesh.

Bakugou Katsuki.

He wore no crown.

He did not need one.

His hair was tousled in a wild, flame-touched mess, gold as firelight. His eyes—dear gods, his eyes—were not the golden-brown you’d expected, but blazing red-ringed amber, like magma frozen mid-boil. His skin bore faint scars, faded burn marks crisscrossing his arms. A long cloak swept behind him, black with a lining the color of blood.

He stared at you.

You stared back.

The room was silent but for the hiss of flame in the sconces.

And then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped free, soft but clear: “Your portraits did not do you justice.”The silence deepened.

Something flickered behind his gaze—not surprise, not quite. Something sharper. He raised an eyebrow.

His voice, when it came, was low and rough. “That’s the first thing you choose to say?”

You inclined your head, refusing to look away. “You expected fawning?”

“I expected silence.” He looked you up and down. “Or tears.”

You smiled thinly. “Disappointment, then.”

He stepped down from the dais. Slowly. Like a beast circling prey.

“Do you speak so boldly to all your kings, Lady L/N?” he asked, voice edged with amusement—and something else.

“Only the ones I’m to marry.”

His lips twitched.

You couldn’t tell if it was irritation or intrigue.

“I suppose the years have done little to temper your kind,” he muttered.

You stiffened. “My kind?”

“Humans.” He said it like an insult. “Soft little things. Fragile. Foolish.”

“I am right here, you know.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of your miserable existence.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Speaking about someone like they’re not present is terribly rude.”

“You offend me by suggesting I might care.”

Gods. This man. Arrogance incarnate. But behind that venom-tipped tongue was a mind that gleamed like a blade in the dark—and it made your blood hum.

He circled you once before speaking again.

“You’re smaller than I thought,” he said, as though weighing a horse at market. “But there’s fire. I see it.”

You held his gaze. “Did you expect me to arrive trembling?”

He paused, then: “I expected you to arrive broken.”

The words hit harder than you expected.

You drew in a breath. “I am not broken.”

“Yet.”

You swallowed. “Tell me, is this your idea of a welcome?”

“I don’t recall asking for a bride,” he said simply. “But here you are. A peace offering from cowards who fear the fire.”

“I did not ask for this union either,” you replied, voice hardening. “But I will honor it.”

Something changed in his posture. His head tilted, expression unreadable.

“Will you?” he murmured.

You lifted your chin. “If it brings peace between our peoples, yes. If it eases the suffering of innocents, yes.”

A beat.

Then he laughed. Low and sharp. “That is—without question—the worst marriage proposal I have ever heard.”

You flushed. “What would you have me say?”

His eyes glittered.

“That you long for me,” he said quietly, mockingly. “That my face haunts your dreams. That you cannot live another breath without my flame keeping you warm at night.”

You froze.

The audacity. The sheer, maddening confidence—

But still, you forced your voice to remain calm. “Would that change anything?”

He blinked.

“What?”

“If I said it,” you continued, stepping closer, “If I told you I’d dreamed of this moment, of your eyes, your voice, your hands—if I said the silence of your letters haunted me more than your portraits ever did—would it change your heart?”

A pause.

Then, lower, rougher:

“…What would you have me say?” His voice was a rasp now. “That I love you? That I cannot live without you? That I have dreamed of this union since I was but a child, and have been too much of a coward to admit I wanted you?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

You had meant to provoke. You had not expected honesty. Not even a shred of it.

But something flickered in his gaze again—regret? Pain?

It vanished as quickly as it came.

He stepped back, expression stone once more.

“This union will go forward,” he said coldly. “You’ll be presented to the court at moonrise. Until then, you will be shown to your quarters. Do not wander. This palace is not kind to outsiders.”

You bowed, slow and deliberate. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

He turned his back to you.

But as you walked away, you could feel his eyes burning into you still.

Author’s note!

Helloo! This is my first official fanfic, so I’m both excited and kind of nervous to share it. I’ve had this story in my head for a while and finally decided to put it into words. Hopefully, it’s not as bad as I think it is.

Thanks so much for taking the time to read—whether you’re here out of curiosity, boredom, or genuine interest, I really appreciate it. Feedback is totally welcome (but please be kind—I’m in college for creative writing!).

[nesepte]

Hundred Steps | Jaehyun — Preview | Read full fic here

Pairing: Jaehyun x fem! reader

Genre: soft jaehyun, mild angst, fluff (sort of – he is cute in this), cozy, unsaid words, music(al), enemies (one-sided) to lovers, rich jaehyun, but very humble jaehyun, acts of service love language jaehyun, small town, summer, small shop owner reader - vinyl record store, coming of age (?) Word Count (Preview): 1.1k words

A/n: It’s Jaehyun's birthday month so I thought of posting this on tumblr! The whole fic will be published on his birthday. Consider it my gift to you all here xD

If anyone wants to be added to the taglist for this – leave a comment, or a message, or anything you want.

The air was warm against your cheek. The summer had ended but the heat lingered like a stubborn heart refusing to see reason. In front of you beyond the wrought iron gates, stretched the steps to your new life but you stood frozen in place.

Mind can be so fickle, and this restless heart even more so. You had waited your entire life to leave your hometown and move to the city. You had dreamed of this college every night and here it was, ready to welcome you.

But you turned your gaze behind— the city quiet from this height. Beyond the mountains in the distance, amidst the swirling roads that led to nowhere, your eyes searched for him.

Jaehyun…

It was two weeks after your high school graduation. You were working late in your father’s store for vinyl records. Just a few minutes before closing time you heard the ding of the tiny bell fixed atop the door. He stumbled in, trying to frantically shut his umbrella which was dripping onto the carpeted floor. His brown pants were soaked at the bottom and his white shirt was wrinkled at the joints.

‘That’s alright,’ you said and he looked up. Despite the umbrella, his hair was slightly damp and the tip of his nose was red. ‘We are closing soon,’ you told him. ‘If you want to browse, I suggest you come back tomorrow morning.’

His curious eyes darted from you to the aisle behind him. ‘Where is...?’

‘Are you looking for my dad?’ you asked, trying to keep your tone professional. ‘He fractured his leg. I’ll be taking care of the shop in his absence.’

He finally managed to close his umbrella and left it by the window.

‘Right,’ he said, walking into the glow of the dim lamp hanging from the ceiling above the counter. This close, you noticed that his cheeks were red too but it wasn’t particularly cold out that night.

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ he said, ‘but by any chance did he mention any Beatles record on hold?’

‘The Beatles…’ you mumbled to yourself and ducked behind the counter to check the cabinets. At the very top, wrapped neatly in a clear film was the record and stuck to it was a post-it that had the word paid written in block letters and a name beside it.

‘Jung…’ you whispered, rising back to your feet to find the light, ‘…Jaehyun.’

It took you a moment to place the name in your head, and when you did, you blurted out, ‘It’s you!’ You looked up at him. ‘You are Jung Jaehyun?!’

Your raised voice had startled him but he replied as even as before, pressing his lips together. ‘That’s correct,’ he said.

‘Get out,’ you gritted out.

‘W-What?’

His blank, ignorant eyes angered you even more.

‘Do you have any idea what you put my father through?’ you yelled, your voice echoing through the empty shop. ‘You have been making these insane demands for those godforsaken rare records ever since you stepped foot into our store!’

You could feel your face heating up, your heart pulsating inside your throat. It was a bad look— shouting at a customer, but you could not stop the words from flowing out.

‘Do you know how difficult it is for my father to find them?! It’s because of you that he had an accident and fractured his leg. He was out in the rain to get your stupid record!’

‘I…’ He stared at you, mouth agape and his face drained of colour. He had shrunk under your gaze somehow. ‘I… I had no idea.’

‘Of course, you didn’t!’ you spat back, the thin record shaking between your trembling fingers. ‘All you rich kids care about is your own convenience!’

‘That’s a harsh judgement to make,’ he returned, though not unkindly.

‘Harsh?’ You let out a mirthless laugh. You could not believe your own anger. The bulb over the counter flickered like a dull firework as the record player in the corner switched to the next song.

‘I’ll tell you what’s harsh. All his life, my father has worked tirelessly in this shop to raise me alone and I have done nothing but kept my nose buried in books so I could get into the best university in Seoul.’

You sighed, pressing your palm to your forehead to control the wretched tears that were pricking the corner of your eyes.

‘This was my last summer before college. My last chance to taste freedom and it’s ruined because of you! I am stuck in this shop, working all day. The boxes are heavy, the shelves are high. I don’t know any of the customers and all they really do is ask about my dad. I haven’t even eaten all day but I can’t complain to anyone without looking like an ungrateful brat!’

There was more you wanted to say but you had no breath left in you. Besides, you had embarrassed yourself enough and you couldn’t risk crying in front of him.

‘Just take this and leave.’ You held out the record to him.

His hand reached out immediately but stopped just centimetres from the edge.

‘Take it,’ you repeated, hiding the hitch in your voice. You did not rush his hesitation— there was no other customer in the shop waiting anyway. At last, when he closed his fingers over the record, you let the rest of your anger flow out of you with it.

‘What?’ you asked. He was still standing at the counter, staring at you. Maybe you had been too harsh but your anger didn’t allow any sympathy.

‘I can pay the hospital bill,’ he mumbled, clutching the record tightly in his hands.

‘There is no need,’ you replied. You could not let your pride take another hit after making a complete fool out of yourself in front of a complete stranger. ‘Just… don’t come back here again.’

You regretted saying it the moment the words left your lips.

When you had first learned of Jaehyun through your father, you had imagined a stoic, old man in his 50s, dressed in an unnecessarily expensive suit with a cigar in his hand and a flashy gold chain around his neck. He definitely seemed the kind with his incessant demands for particularly hard-to-find, expensive records. He liked nothing in the shop.

Pretentious bastard, you had called him.

But standing in front of you was a boy, who didn’t look much older than you. He was careful with the record while stowing it away in his bag, holding it delicately by the edges. Despite your outburst, there was a twinkle in his eyes, one that you recognized all too well— your father had it too whenever he got his hands on a new record.

In the wake of your receding anger, you saw clearly how frightened you had made him but he did not protest again. Without another word, he left, stopping only for a moment at the door but he did not speak whatever it was he wanted to say.

However, that was not the end. He came back— sooner than you had expected.

[ad-hawkeye]

i've gotten several people thinking my list of artem-isms was just a list of head canons which is hilarious because, no! no, it is all unironically canon! artem is just that insane. and i'm also insane for remembering it all.

i intend to bring out the receipts. due to tumblr's 30 image limit, i will be reblogging this post with an addition to finish the whole list, so keep an eye out!

sipping his coffee to hide his blush, not realizing the cup was already empty

counting the number of wrinkles in his shirt when ironing it

having an empty photo frame on his desk. like, seriously. it was just straight up empty.

drawing the same cartoon pumpkin over and over for weeks to prep drawing one for rosa

and there's also this screenshot from the electric night event i completely forgot about until now

in high school, he buried the love letters he received in the school’s garden because he felt bad about rejecting them, but also didn’t want to accept them either. this obviously did not end well.

his high school teacher thought he was being bullied because he was so bad at making friends at his new school

becoming tormented by a record player for hours on end because a random customer claimed it was out of tune.

renting a whole ass rv to ensure he didn’t overstep his boundaries by sharing a room with rosa

he then just. leaves.

unwinding and destroying his own sweater so he could use its thread to comfort rosa at night during a power outage

a side note - this ssr (artem's railroad ssr) is one of my absolute FAVORITES. their banter is so fun.

going off on a random tangent about gender roles and how one shouldn’t be defined by their gender

a mocktail enthusiast. a single drop of actual alcohol is enough to land him passed out on the floor and near tears

there are cards and events that point out artem will specifically seek out mocktails. i know it's mentioned in his billiards ssr, amongst a few others.

PART TWO CAN BE FOUND IN THIS REBLOG

[wlw-imagines]

Come Home - Eloise Bridgerton/Reader (Bridgerton)

a part two of ‘Go Home’ - part one to be found here. and 'Making a Home': part three here.

Took an age to write but also i'm not entirely sure it makes sense? it is just a half-baked idea in my tired, sleep-deprived brain that i have now released into the wild... part three is coming up pretty snappish!

summary: y/n gets her act together and returns to Eloise - apologising profusely and praying the girl forgives her but it's been over 2 years. Can it be fixed?

xxxxxxxxxxxx

In many ways, the continent had not provided the peace you had thought it may, or had hoped it would.

You had travelled with your brother to Frankfurt, staying first in the home of an old family acquaintance, then further on to a quiet estate in the Rhineland. There were attempts to distract yourself: new books in unfamiliar languages, glittering balls with foreign customs, endless walks among pine trees that didn’t rustle quite like those in Mayfair. But it all served only to remind you that you were running. And no matter how far you ran, no matter what you did, her absence stayed with you.

Eloise’s name remained inked in your mind, incapable of being released by the endless amount of letters you wrote, desperate to get her off your mind and onto paper. Not that you ever sent them, you didn’t even consider it.

And despite all of the letters you did not send, Anthony resolutely sent many.

They arrived in intervals. The first was short, awkward, apologetic. The second was longer, containing his various musings on the nature of duty and love. By the third, he began to speak plainly of Eloise.

She walks with no aim, I fear she may walk in such a way that she creates a pit in the lawn. Your absence is noticed. Keenly.

You cried after that one.

But it wasn’t until the fourth letter that the world tilted.

Miss Featherington has revealed herself as the infamous Lady Whistledown.

You’d dropped the letter at the time, your hands trembling. Of all the names that might have made sense… Penelope? That hurt anew, in an entirely different way. It was both shocking and unsurprising. Of course it was someone so close. Someone who’d known the two of you. Perhaps even someone who had seen too much.

You had thought of Eloise. Of how she must ache. Or perhaps she had forgotten you a long time ago, forgotten the pain Whistledown had caused. Maybe she had carved you out of her being, as you had seemingly done to her.

You wondered what she - both Whistledown and Eloise - would have to say about your current situation as you looked down at your black mourning outfit.

Another letter from Anthony (you’d lost count after the fourteenth or so) flickered through your mind:

I do not know what to write… and yet I do my best to put pen to paper. I suppose that it is with the most profound astonishment (and only a touch of amusement) that I extend to you my congratulations on your recent nuptials. Imagine my surprise, nay, my utter disbelief, to hear that you, who once declared with such passion and certainty that no man would ever suffice, have found yourself a husband.

You recalled the letter well, the jolting ache that remained in your chest as you had read on:

Should you ever return to London, you will find the Bridgerton household as chaotic as ever. Eloise, in particular, has taken to reading even more fervently than before, which is either a sign of deep intellectual pursuit or deep avoidance and I shall leave you to guess which.

Yours, with all the grudging respect a brother might offer,

Anthony Bridgerton

Yet now, pulling yourself into the present, you let out a long sigh and peered out the window.

The rain came down in sheets as your carriage rolled past the familiar wrought iron gates of Grosvenor Square. Even after two or so years away, the city had not changed.

You had not meant to return.

The widow’s veil over your hair felt more like armour than a mourning cloth. It had been your shield for the last six months. Your husband - kind, distant, and wholly uninterested in you romantically - had died in his sleep. A heart attack, the doctor said. A relief, you admitted to yourself in the quiet hours of grief you couldn’t quite explain. He had done what you asked of him: given you a new name, a safer title, and an ocean between you and heartbreak.

You sighed as your carriage pulled to a stop. “Welcome home, Miss- Madam,” Toby corrected himself, waiting at the door to your London townhouse with a flicker of uncertainty on his brow.

You managed a weary smile. “Miss will do fine, Toby.”

He bowed, eyes sympathetic. “We’ve kept everything as you left it.”

“Everything.” you repeated, stepping into the foyer and drawing in the stale, familiar scent of a home once abandoned in fear. Though there was still the faint hint of lemons. You sighed, the memories already clamoring their way back to you. Memories you would much rather wipe away completely.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The news reached her bit by bit, uttered by many people and only one willing to confirm it: She’s back.

Eloise stood in the corner of the ballroom, vaguely watching Hyacinth nervously taking her first dance with a new suitor. 

Penelope had been the one to say it to her, tentatively, unsure of how it would be received. Eloise had laughed in disbelief. “She’s what?”

“Returned. Widow, now,” Penelope added, as if it made a difference.

Eloise scoffed, but her fingers tightened into fists. “How unfortunate for him.”

Penelope flinched at the bitterness, but said nothing more. Eloise didn’t mean it. Not really. Not toward him, anyway. Only toward fate. And toward the woman who had left her.

“She’s staying in her family’s home, I believe,” Penelope continued cautiously. “Lady Danbury mentioned it at tea.”

“Of course she did,” Eloise muttered, moving from one foot to the other impatiently. “Well, I have no intention of calling.”

“I didn’t say you should,” Penelope replied, gently.

“I am merely clarifying,” Eloise insisted.

“Although, it may be that you must face her without choosing to make a call at all.” Penelope mumbled, moving slowly to block Eloise’s view of the door. Eloise frowned and moved accordingly, feeling childishly annoyed at being protected. She had been protected enough, one woman wasn’t going to undo two years of work.

Or perhaps she needed a little more time. Because now, suddenly, Eloise found she couldn’t breathe.

She was staring at the one person who meant the world to her. The one woman who could undo her completely. The one who had undone her completely.

The music was too loud. The ballroom was too bright. She really couldn’t breathe.

You looked the same. And also not at all the same. Older, perhaps, in the way that sorrow ages people. But still you. And that was somehow worse. Because how dare you still be you?

“Do you need air?” Benedict appeared at her side, concern in his voice.

“I- yes,” she said. “Please.” He offered his arm. She took it.

The garden was dim and hushed compared to the frenzy inside. She gripped the stone railing, breathing deeply.

“She’s here,” Eloise said without looking at her brother.

“Yes,” Benedict said gently. “I saw her too.”

“I don’t know what to say to her.”

“Then don’t say anything yet. Or say everything. But don’t lie.” He hesitated. “We’re not afforded many truths in this world, Eloise. Change that… if you want.”

She swallowed hard. “She left me.”

“I know.”

“And I still,” Her voice broke. She bit her lip. “I still feel like I’m waiting for her to explain why.” She frowned, “I still want her to- I just want her-”

“Eloise,” you breathed, voice catching. You knew this had to be done. And how could you stop yourself when you had caught a glimpse of her across the ballroom. Benedict gave you a wary glance before slipping silently towards the doors.

Eloise was quiet for a long time. “I thought I never wanted to see you again.”

You gave a sad smile. “I’d imagined your first words being more… violent so, I’ll take it.”

“I did think I could hit you,” She admitted, still not looking at you. “I thought I would cry,” she added, a bitter edge curling into her words. “Or scream. Or ask you why you left me to face the wolves on my own.”

You stepped closer. “Would you believe me if I said I did it for you?”

“No,” she said, too quickly. Then, softer, “But I would want to.”

“I’ve never stopped loving you.”

“So were you lying all along or is that just something you picked up on the continent?” She turned and you took a shaky breath. You saw the pain in her, deep to the core. It wasn’t just lacing her eyes, it was in everything. 

You hesitated a moment before ploughing on, “I married a man who loved books more than women. He needed an heir for appearance’s sake. I needed protection. We made a deal. No romance. No questions. He was kind to me. But it was a lie. All of it.”

“What of yours isn’t tainted by falsehoods then?”

“It was survival.” You tried to defend yourself, you sounded weak even to yourself. “All of it.”

“Except us,” she whispered.

“Yes. Except us.” You agreed, “We were a pure thing. I loved you. I did.” You tore your eyes away from hers, not able to absorb any more pain, “I do.”

Silence fell again.

“Why didn’t you write?” Eloise asked, voice breaking.

“Because I knew if I did, I wouldn’t be able to stay away.”

Her jaw clenched. “And now?”

“I’m here. And I don’t know what you want from me. I only know I’m still yours, if you’ll have me.”

The pain in her eyes twisted into something deeper. Hope, maybe. Grief. Longing.

“You broke me,” she said.

“I know.”

“I don’t forgive you.”

You nodded. “I understand that. I’ll wait, Eloise. I’ll do anything.”

Eloise stepped forward then, until the air between you was one singular shared breath. “No more lies,” she said, before walking past you and back inside. And you let her go - for now.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

You received the invitation in the morning post.

The envelope was thick and cream-colored, sealed with the unmistakable ‘B’ of the Bridgerton family crest. Inside, a single card, written in the graceful hand of Violet Bridgerton.

Miss Y/L/N, I would be most pleased if you would join me for tea this afternoon. Four o’clock. Sincerely, Lady Bridgerton

You read it twice, heart stammering in your chest. There were no threats. No accusations. Just the soft civility of a woman who never wasted ink unless she intended to make something plain.

You dressed carefully. Nothing too grand, nothing too humble. Just… steady. Honest.

You would face her, as you should have years ago.

The Bridgerton townhouse had not changed. The butler recognized you but said nothing, only offered a slight bow and led you to the drawing room. Lady Bridgerton was already there, seated with a cup of tea, poised.

“Miss Y/L/N,” she said warmly, gesturing to the seat opposite. “Do sit. Would you like a lemon tea?”

You nodded, throat dry. “Yes, please.”

She poured the tea herself, perfectly composed. You watched her hands, graceful and unshaking. “I imagine you’ve been expecting this,” she said.

You folded your hands in your lap. “Yes, my lady.”

“Then you will not be surprised that I have… concerns.” Violet added a single sugar cube to her own cup, then stirred slowly. “I know what it is to love with one’s whole heart. I also know what it is to lose someone and be expected to smile through the ache.” You said nothing. There was no defense for the choice you had made. “I will not pretend I understand all the things that drove you away,” she continued gently, “but I do understand that you did not return as the same woman.”

Your eyes lifted to hers. “I never meant to hurt her.”

“And yet you did,” Violet said plainly and you flinched. “The truth, my dear, is rarely gentle. But I find it preferable to pretty lies.”

You swallowed hard. “I thought staying away would keep her safe. I thought I was being noble.”

“And now?”

“I think I was a coward,” you admitted.

Violet studied you, something softening around her eyes.

“She still dreams of you, you know,” she said. “Even though she tries to hate you.”

“I do not deserve her forgiveness.”

“That may be so,” Violet replied. “But you must still earn it.” She reached for the tea tray, her movements calm, deliberate. “You will stay for dinner.”

You blinked, your brow furrowing in confusion. “I- what?”

“You will stay,” she repeated, “and you will sit beside her. And whether you speak or sit in silence, you will not hide.” It was not a request. 

And when you walked in behind the butler, eyes searching the room until they landed on her, Eloise felt the air leave her lungs.

Dinner was a blur. Conversations swirled around her like fog. Anthony teased Kate. Daphne shared stories about her children. Francesca and John sat quietly, but contentedly.

You did not speak much. But when you did, it was careful and precise. When you laughed at Colin’s terrible pun, she caught you and your eyes softened when you looked her way.

It was unbearable.

After dessert, Eloise excused herself to the library. A safe room. A familiar one. She buried her face in a book she did not read and pretended her hands were not shaking.

The door opened softly behind her. She did not look up.

“You do realise,” she said, voice tight, “that I may never trust you again.”

“I know,” came your reply, soft.

“And yet you are still here.”

“I will keep showing up,” you said. “Until you believe I mean it. Until you believe I am telling the truth.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, Eloise closed her book. She still did not look at you but her voice was no longer trembling when she spoke.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because I want to believe you.”

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The problem with forgiveness, Eloise thought, is that it rarely arrives all at once. It is not a thunderclap. It is not a sweeping, cinematic gesture. It is a slow, infuriating drip. One hesitant glance. One moment of weakness. One remembered smile.

And then another.

You had stayed through dinner. You had not fled when she left the room. And when you found her in the library, you didn’t demand anything. You simply… waited.

That was new. And dangerous.

Because it made her remember everything she’d spent so long trying to bury: the warmth of your fingers brushing hers under a table, the fire in your voice when you defended a book she loathed, the way you once said her name like it was a promise.

And now?

Now you were here, in London again. Alone. Unmarried. A widow by title only, your late husband more shield than soulmate. Violet had told her the truth in the quiet, careful tone she reserved for bruises not yet scabbed over.

“She married him to protect herself. And you, in a way.”

Eloise had said nothing. She didn’t know what to say. All she could do was sit with the ache of it, of everything you both had lost and everything you were now trying to reclaim.

The next morning, she found herself wandering the park where you'd once met in secret, half-expecting you to be there. Foolish. Hopeful.

But you were.

You were seated on a bench, alone, with a book open in your lap but untouched.

“I thought I imagined you,” she said softly, approaching.

You looked up, startled. Then, “I was hoping I might see you.”

“Why here?”

“It was ours,” you said. And Eloise hated how much that word still made her chest ache. 

She didn’t sit, not yet. But she didn’t walk away either.

“You shouldn’t be seen with me like this,” you added after a moment. “Not now that people are beginning to remember me. Remember us.”

“Let them talk,” Eloise said, fiercer than she intended.

You looked up again, more startled this time.

“I’ve spent years letting people silence me,” she continued, voice trembling. “You don’t get to come back and tell me to do it again.”

For the first time in days, you smiled, and she couldn’t help but hate you a little less.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

There were letters Eloise had never sent.

Dozens, folded neatly and hidden in the back of a drawer she had once filled with pressed flowers and other foolish, romantic things. She’d written them in the days after you left—when her heart was raw, her pride shredded, and all she had left were ink and fury.

She had written to demand answers. She had written to curse your name. She had written to beg.

But she had never sent them. Because even then, even when she hated you, she’d known she still loved you.

And now you were back, standing in front of her in the very places you used to hold hands and hide glances, and all those old letters felt like ghosts pressing against her ribs, desperate to be heard.

She didn’t know how to let go of them.

Later that week, she found herself at the Modiste, pretending to care about fabric swatches while Penelope talked idly beside her about debutantes and the endless parade of pastel gowns.

But Eloise wasn’t listening. She was thinking about you.

Again.

She tried to stop, truly she did, but you were in everything now—how she sipped her tea, how she paused before entering a room, how she looked over her shoulder and half-expected you to be there.

“Eloise,” Penelope said gently. “You haven’t heard a word, have you?”

Eloise blinked, caught.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I—what were you saying?”

Penelope studied her, brow furrowing in that way that meant trouble. “I asked whether you’d seen her again.”

Eloise went still. Her lips parted, then closed again. Penelope didn’t wait for an answer.

“I saw the two of you in the park,” she said, softer now. “You were speaking. Civilly.”

Eloise felt a flicker of something... defiance? Shame? “She is trying,” she replied, voice tight.

Penelope raised an eyebrow. “And are you?”

Eloise didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Instead, she rose from her seat and walked to the window, staring out at the street beyond. Carriages passed in slow rhythm. A woman held her daughter’s hand as they crossed the road. It was an ordinary day in an unremarkable week. And yet…

“She left,” Eloise said suddenly, quietly. “And I know why she did. I do. But it still hurt.”

“She loved you,” Penelope said, and there was no cruelty in her voice. Only knowing. “She always did.”

Eloise turned, sharply. “You wrote about us.”

“I did,” Penelope admitted.

The silence that followed was vast.

“I thought I was protecting you,” Penelope continued, voice steady despite the weight in it. “But I see now I wasn’t. I was protecting the idea of you I carried in my head. Not the person you were. Or who you might have been, if I hadn’t-”

“Don’t,” Eloise interrupted, too tired for apologies. “We can’t unmake what’s already been done.”

“No,” Penelope agreed. “But you can decide what you want now.”

That was the thing, wasn’t it? What Eloise wanted. What she had always wanted. She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she knew what she had to do.

Later, she returned to that drawer. The one with the letters. One by one, she unfolded them. Read them. And then, gently, she struck a match. She didn’t need those words anymore. She didn’t need the past to speak for her.

She would find you herself. She could speak for herself.

The street outside your townhouse had not changed.

The lamppost at the corner still leaned ever-so-slightly to one side. The iron gate still creaked when the wind shifted. The rose bush beneath the front window had grown wild, rebellious and untamed, the way you had always been.

Eloise stood across the road for several minutes, unmoving, the hem of her pelisse clutched between her fingers like a shield.

She had rehearsed no speech. There was no plan. Only the sound of her own heart, loud and furious. “I am not a coward,” she muttered to herself.

And then she crossed the street.

The door was green. Deep and solemn. She knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Her breath caught when she heard steps approaching from the other side. And then… there you were.

Hair swept back loosely, your figure framed by morning light. You had not even fastened all the buttons of your day dress. There was ink smudged at your wrist and something domestic and intimate in the way you blinked sleep from your eyes.

Eloise could not speak.

You could.

“… Eloise?”

She hadn’t realized how long she’d been staring.

“I burned them,” she said suddenly.

You blinked. “Burned… what?”

“The letters. All the ones I wrote to you. After you left. All the things I was too proud or too furious to say.”

Your mouth parted just slightly. The kind of silence that says everything words cannot.

“I thought it would feel like revenge,” she admitted. “But it didn’t. It just felt… like letting go.”

You stepped back instinctively, enough to give her space. “Would you like to come in?”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Eloise.”

She looked at you then.

Really looked at you.

“You’re still my favorite mistake,” she whispered.

You exhaled, quietly.

“I’m tired of being a mistake,” you said, and there was no edge to it. Only truth.

Eloise nodded slowly. “Then let me try again.”

You hesitated for just a moment before you stepped aside, holding the door open.

The house smelled of books and lemon oil. It was quiet, save for the soft crackle of a fire lit somewhere deeper inside.

As she stepped over the threshold, something in her loosened.

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not quite.

But it was a beginning.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

You had imagined her at your door before. Hundreds of times. Sometimes angry, sometimes weeping, sometimes impossibly proud, chin high and voice brittle. Never like this—unsure. Unarmed.

You still weren’t entirely sure she was real.

She stepped inside like someone breaking a rule. And perhaps she was. That had always been the danger of it, hadn't it? That no matter how you touched or looked or loved, you were always breaking some invisible thing. A law. A promise. A future.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she admitted softly, glancing around your foyer like it might offer answers.

“I think you do,” you replied.

She met your gaze sharply then, that steel still hiding behind her softness. You had always loved her for that — the contradiction of her. Brave and afraid all at once.

“I still don’t know if I can really forgive you,” she said.

You nodded. “I didn’t come home expecting you to.”

“I wish that made this easier.”

You offered a sad smile. “We were never good at easy.”

That made her laugh, a short, dry, startled laugh. “No. We weren’t.”

Silence stretched between you like a memory. There was still distance. Still fear. But also something gentler in it now. Something curious. Hopeful.

“Tea?” you offered, because it was polite and practical and British, and you needed to do something with your hands or else reach for hers and ruin whatever this was.

She nodded once, tight-lipped.

You disappeared into the next room, letting muscle memory carry you through the motions of warmth and ritual. The whistle of the kettle was louder than it needed to be. So were your thoughts.

When you returned, she was standing in front of your bookshelf, her fingers grazing the spines the way they had done so many times before. Her posture softened at the sight of the familiar.

“This one,” she murmured, pulling out a volume of poetry and holding it up. “You made me read this out loud.”

“I liked your voice,” you said.

She raised a brow. “You said I was terrible at reading sentiment aloud.”

“You were. But I liked your voice.” You grinned but let it drop in a flash and ducked your head, trying to hide the blush that crept up your cheeks.

Eloise stared at you for a moment too long.

Then she looked down at the book in her hands.

“I read it again,” she said. “After you left. Every night for a week. It stopped hurting after the fourth time.”

That was more than you deserved. You handed her the tea. She took it wordlessly.

You stood across from each other in your small sitting room—no chaperones, no pretenses, no shadows this time. Just two women and everything that had once lived between them.

“I married him because it was the only way to keep loving you without the world tearing us apart,” you said suddenly.

She froze. Her fingers clenched the teacup just slightly.

“And did you love him?”

“No. But he was kind. And lonely. And the deal was mutual. We gave each other safety. Isn’t that what everyone else gets from marriage?”

Eloise stared at you like she could read the truth in your skin. “That’s not what I wanted from you.”

“I know.”

You set your cup down before your hands could tremble.

“I was scared.” she said, not accusingly, just honestly.

“So was I.” you said, just as honestly.

She inhaled, sharp and shallow, like your honesty physically struck her.

Then, very softly: “I still am.”

You stepped closer. Only slightly. Only enough.

“I’m not asking for anything, Eloise.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because you came to my door.”

Her lip trembled before she turned away. But she didn’t leave.

You were standing too close now. Not improperly close. But close enough to feel like danger.

“I told myself I’d hate you,” she said aloud, not even sure if she even meant to.

You didn’t flinch. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” She looked up at you, and it hurt. Your face. Your eyes. The apology you wore like a second skin.

“Do you know what it’s like,” Eloise whispered, “to grieve someone who isn’t dead?”

“Yes,” you said softly. “Because I did it too.”

You sat across from her, across from the woman you left behind but never stopped loving. And the strangest part of it all was how quiet your love still was. Still intact, still folded neatly inside you like a secret note never sent.

“I woke up every morning in a foreign country with his name on my lips, and yours in my throat,” you confessed. “And I smiled and played the part because I thought maybe that was what love had to look like for us. Distant. Imagined. Safe.”

Eloise’s lips parted, but no words came out.

So you kept going, because this time, silence was not safety.

“I thought if I stayed here, I would destroy you. And if I left, I’d destroy myself. And I did, Eloise. I broke in places I didn’t know I had.”

Her eyes shimmered. But no tears fell. Not yet.

“You didn’t even say goodbye.”

You swallowed. “Because if I did, I wouldn’t have left.”

Her breath caught. She felt she should be shouting. She should tell you how cruel it was to disappear, how Eloise clung to every letter she didn’t send.

But she doesn’t.

Because Eloise could see it in you — the guilt. The regret. The love.

God, the love.

Still there. Still as real and fragile and dangerous as it had always been.

“Do you still want me?” she asks, though it barely comes out above a whisper.

You blink, startled. Then you lean forward, voice just as hushed. “Every version of you.” And Eloise cries. Not because she’s sad. Not exactly. But because someone is still holding her name in their mouth like it’s sacred. Because the world said no, but she still came back.

You move to sit beside her, slowly, giving her the chance to say no.

She doesn’t.

You don’t touch her. Not yet. But you feel the shift… the magnetic pull returning after years of forced stillness. “I don’t know if we can ever have what we dreamed of,” she says. “Not fully. Not here.”

“I know.”

“But if there’s even a sliver of a life where I can sit beside you like this and not be ashamed…”

You turn toward her, breath hitching.

“…then I want to try,” she finishes.

And you smile. Not because it’s perfect. But because it’s a beginning.

“Then let’s begin.”

xxxxxxxxxxxx

There were certain things one came to accept as a mother.

You accepted that your children would lie to you, however cleverly they thought they did it. You accepted that they would learn lessons the hard way, that they would fall in love - and sometimes fall out - and that they would not always allow you to save them.

But you also came to know them in ways they did not know themselves.

Which is why, when Eloise returned from her morning walk with roses in her cheeks and an absent-minded hum under her breath, Violet noticed.

And when Eloise spent breakfast fiddling with her tea spoon and smiling, actually smiling, at Benedict’s ridiculous attempt to rhyme 'muffin' with 'lovin’, Violet took note.

It was not that she was suspicious.

It was that she had not seen that kind of light in Eloise since… since before the rumors. Since before the sudden absence of someone who had become, if Violet were honest, like a second daughter.

And while Violet never asked outright, never pried in a way that could cause injury, she was no stranger to grief. Nor to what its absence looked like.

After the table had cleared and the younger Bridgertons fled the drawing room like bees from an overturned hive, Violet caught Eloise’s hand.

“You seem… lighter today,” she said, watching carefully.

Eloise blinked. “Do I?”

“You do. Though I suppose it’s hardly a crime to be in good spirits.”

“I assure you, I have committed no crime, Mother.”

Violet raised an eyebrow. “That would be a first.”

Eloise looked down, and for a moment, Violet saw the girl she had held in the dead of night when dreams turned into nightmares. But then Eloise looked up again, and she looked like a woman with something growing inside her. Hope, perhaps. Or something just as dangerous.

“You always said the world was unforgiving to people who don’t fit the mold,” Eloise said suddenly. “But that sometimes, just sometimes, it’s brave enough to love them anyway.”

Violet’s breath caught. “I did say that.”

Eloise squeezed her hand. “I’d like to try being brave again.”

And there it was.

Not a confession. Not exactly. But Violet knew. She had known since the moment you had mysteriously disappeared, and her daughter stopped speaking in full sentences. She had known it wasn’t just a friendship lost. It was a future denied.

So she smiled, warm, steady, and, above all, safe.

“Then you must. Because if anyone can teach the world how to be brave, it’s you.”

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The Bridgerton drawing room was as loud and boisterous as ever - voices overlapping, teacups clinking, laughter erupting in bursts like fireworks. But through it all, you were hyper aware of just one presence in the room.

Eloise sat across from you, tucked into a corner beside Francesca, her fingers nervously playing with the fringe of her sleeve. She hadn’t met your eyes once since you entered. Not that you blamed her. You could still feel the press of her lips on yours like an echo, sweet and trembling in the shadows of last night.

You weren’t sure if today was meant to be a performance or an unveiling.

“Do you need more tea?” Violet asked you gently, leaning in.

You gave her a grateful nod. “Thank you, Lady Bridgerton.”

She waved the formality off with a smile. “Please, you’re family. No need for titles.”

A few feet away, Anthony narrowed his eyes at the exchange, but made no comment. He hadn’t said much to you at all since your return. A careful watchfulness - as though waiting for a shoe to drop.

You felt it too.

Throughout it all, Eloise could only think about you. About how beautiful you were.

Even surrounded by the chaos of her family - Gregory’s loud guffaws, Daphne’s subtle but amused glances, Colin’s ongoing tale about spoiled jam in the countryside - all Eloise could do was steal glances.

You hadn’t spoken since the doorstep. Since you'd taken her hands and kissed her like the years between you had never existed. She had meant to talk to you today, meant to be brave.

But it was so much harder to be brave when your entire family sat inches away.

Francesca leaned over to murmur, “You’re unusually quiet. Plotting something?”

Eloise blinked. “What? No.”

Francesca gave her a very knowing look. “You’re in love.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“I’m not. It’s you who’s being obvious.” Francesca patted her hand and turned back to Hyacinth, who was trying to start a card game in the middle of the rug. Eloise groaned softly into her cup of tea.

Anthony hadn’t missed the glances. He never did.

He watched his sister try not to look - and fail - and watched you fail even harder.

He knew the way Eloise curled into herself when she was afraid, and the way she sat straighter when she was in love. She was a bundle of contradiction, but she was still his sister. And you - well, you had once walked away from her.

And now you were back. He was glad but guarded. This was his sister, her emotions, after all.

When a lull fell over the room, Anthony made his move.

“I imagine Europe must have been very exciting,” he said, casually, sipping his drink. “Such a long time to be abroad. So many things to leave behind.”

The room went still enough that even Hyacinth paused mid-shuffle.

You met his gaze. Steady. “Europe taught me many things. Most of all, what is worth coming home for.”

There was silence. Then Violet’s soft voice broke through like a bell.

“And we are glad to have you home.”

Eloise glanced down into her lap, cheeks burning. Francesca smiled behind her cup. And Anthony, ever the protector, simply gave a curt nod - as though he’d heard enough to be content. For now.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

After dinner, as dusk fell and the family dispersed into various corners of the house (games, walks, gossip in hushed clusters) you found yourself at the window again, the scent of lavender and candle wax warm in the air.

And then, beside you:

“I want to tell them. Not now. Not this second. But soon.”

Eloise, arms crossed tightly across her chest, stood next to you without meeting your eyes.

You turned to her. “Are you sure?”

She looked up. Braver now.

“I want to stop pretending. I want to stop hiding.” Her voice shook. “And, most of all, I want you to stay.”

You reached for her hand. She didn’t flinch.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And for once, in the quiet aftermath of chaos, that was enough. Eloise nodded, determined. And once she had taken up with determination, there was no stopping her.

And so it came out over the next few weeks - not with grand declarations or tears, but in the hush of breakfast the following morning, a breakfast between daughter and mother, the tea cooling between them.

“I think I am in love.”

The teacup paused halfway to Violet’s lips. She placed it down slowly.

Eloise kept her gaze fixed on her hands, now clenched in her lap.

“I see,” Violet said after a long moment. Her voice was calm, careful. “I wish the world were more forgiving,” she said. “But I am not the world. I am your mother. And I love you.”

Tears sprang, unbidden, to Eloise’s eyes. She hadn’t let herself hope for this.

Later, she found her brothers in the drawing room, arguing over who’d eaten the last of the sugared violets.

She watched Anthony closely - saw the flicker in his expression when he looked up and noticed her. He crossed the room to her in two strides and placed a warm hand on her shoulder and, with a brotherly intuition, said, “You are braver than most. I will always be on your side. I will be brave too.”

It was all he said. But it was enough.

Behind him, Colin raised an eyebrow at Benedict, who shrugged and said, “I always knew she had it in her.”

“What?” Gregory piped up. “What does she have?”

“Strength,” Violet said, entering with perfect timing and a too-bright smile. “And perhaps a touch of your father’s stubbornness, God rest him.”

The conversation moved on. But the shift remained.

She wasn’t sure what the days ahead would bring. Whispers. Gossip. Maybe worse.

But at least, now, she would not be facing it alone.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

You found her in the garden.

It was late enough in the evening that the lanterns had been lit, glowing like low stars against the creeping lavender dusk. Eloise sat on the low stone bench beneath the wisteria, her skirts spilling across the gravel path like spilled milk. A book lay open in her lap, though you doubted she’d read a single word.

She looked up as you approached. A smile tugged at her mouth before she schooled it back into something more subtle, more careful - but the shine in her eyes betrayed her.

“You look like something out of a painting,” you said quietly, settling beside her.

“And you,” she replied, “look like someone who was summoned here by a letter too vague for her own comfort.”

You gave a soft laugh, nodding. “It said only, ‘Come if you can. Bring no expectation.’”

“I was trying to be poetic.”

“Hmm, you succeeded.” You let a smile break through your cheeks.

For a while, there was nothing but the soft creak of crickets and the rustle of a breeze through the hedges. No footmen, no family, no whispers. Just the garden and the two of you.

Eloise closed her book and turned to face you more fully. “Anthony spoke to you.”

You nodded. “I don’t think he wants me shot.”

“Well, that’s progress.”

You both laughed, quietly. But the sound felt real.

Then she reached out, tentative, and took your hand. You let her. You always had. You always would.

“I didn’t know if it would feel the same,” she admitted.

“And?”

“It feels… more.” Her fingers curled tighter around yours. “I feel more.”

You leaned in, your forehead resting gently against hers. “So do I.”

“Do you ever think,” she murmured, “that perhaps we were always meant to find our way back?”

You closed your eyes. “Every day since I left.”

A pause. Then, softly:

“May I kiss you?”

It was such a simple thing. But in this world, this time, it was everything.

“Yes,” you whispered.

The kiss was nothing like the stolen moments of your youth. It was slower now. Deeper. Like something rediscovered, a language spoken fluently by mouths that had been silent too long.

When you pulled back, her cheeks were damp.

“I am not sorry,” she said fiercely. “Not anymore.”

You smiled. “Then we can be un-sorry together.”

Somewhere in the house, a bell chimed. The hour turning. The world still spinning.

But for now, just now, it was quiet.

And it was yours.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

Along the Chimney with Care

Prompt Day 24: Stocking | Word Count: 550 | Rating: T | CW: None | Tags: Future Fic, Established Relationship, Learning New Skills, Teamwork Makes the Dream Work

"What are you doing?" Eddie asks, as he leans over Steve's shoulder as he sits at the dining room table. 

"Practicing," Steve answers, as he looks at the scrap of fabric in front of him at the sewing machine that he's dragged out of the deepest recesses of some closet.

"Practicing what?" Eddie asks, because it just looks like a bundle of tangled up threads.

Steve flips it over. 

It's a kind of badly done embroidered version of Eddie's name, but it makes him smile. It might not be anywhere near perfect, but he likes the effort Steve's clearly tried to make. Steve could have ordered them custom-made from somewhere else, or even gotten iron-on letters, but instead he's chosen to do it this way, for better or worse.

"What's this for?" Eddie asks, smiling.

"Stockings for Christmas. I mistakenly thought this looked easy. It is not easy," Steve says, and Eddie sits down.

"Let me help," Eddie offers, even if he has no idea what that will entail. But surely they can figure it out together. They've always been able to figure anything out, as long as they've done it together. Two heads are better than one, and all that shit.

Not to mention, Eddie can sew. In theory. By hand, for sure, and Wayne had an old machine Eddie used a few times while making vests and other shit. He's never made a stocking, but he's willing to try.

"It keeps tangling on the back," Steve laments, and Eddie slides the practice piece of fabric towards himself, so he can look at it more closely.

"Is there a manual?" Eddie asks, and Steve shakes his head. 

"Not that I've ever seen," Steve answers.

"Hmm," Eddie says. He understands the basics, maybe, but he's not sure he can do much by way of troubleshooting.

But he bets he knows who can.

"Joyce says to check the bobbin," Eddie says from the kitchen, holding onto the phone. 

"What's the bobbin?" Steve asks, standing up and looking at the top of the machine.

"What's the bobbin?" Eddie repeats.

Joyce laughs in his ear, "Oh, dear."

But she walks them through it. They take it out, rethread it through the machine, and then test it out.

It's better. It's definitely better.

"That fixed it!" Steve says, pumping his fist in the air, hollering, "Thanks, Joyce!"

"He says thanks," Eddie repeats to her over the line. 

She heard him. The whole block heard him.

Eddie sits on the couch and watches Steve hang the stockings along the chimney with care. They aren't perfect. Far from it. But they do have their names on them, and Steve made them. He also let Eddie sew patches on them, which makes them even more personal to each of them.

A joint effort. Eddie loves them in all their slightly wonky glory, and he hopes they use them for years to come. 

"Okay. They're Santa ready," Steve says, and Eddie grins. 

"I can't wait to see what Santa brings me," Eddie declares, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, and Steve just smiles like he has the biggest secret. 

"Coal, probably," Steve teases, and Eddie laughs, big and bright.

Steve's got something planned, something up his stocking, as it were, and Eddie can't wait to find out what.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun! 🧦