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mothiir · 17 days

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story time with isaiah

I can’t stop writing for these boys I love them.

Cw for caning, descriptions of blood.

—

It has been just under a month, and the Emperor — in His most glorious and unending mercy — has seen fit to continue to conceal your existence from the rest of Isaiah’s battle brothers. He and Reuben benefit from your redemptive labour, as you atone for your extensive sins by darning their socks, polishing their armour, and keeping their dormitory spotless.

With a little satisfied sound, you set aside your mending. You have been piecing Brother Reuben’s hair shirt back together, and your fingers are raw from handling the tough wool. Isaiah smells the iron tang of your blood.

You stretch your arms up over, closing your eyes as your joints click. Isaiah looks up from his current dedication — transcribing the life and times of Saint Celestine onto fresh parchment in his neatest handwriting — and sees that you are relaxing back into your bunk. His brow furrows a little. It is not time for you to sleep, and you show no signs of engaging in contemplation of the Emperor’s many noble deeds — though perhaps you are doing this internally?

“Free time is an affront to the Emperor, little mortal,” he says, dipping his quill into ochre-red ink to outline the title of the newest segment, wherein Saint Celestine engaged in combat with a daemonette of Slaanesh and defeated it. This segment is an especially lengthy one, and well-illustrated, and he wants to do it justice. “Ensure at all times you keep Him in your thoughts.”

”Yes, my lord,” you say, eyes snapping open — a sure sign of guilt. One of your hands protectively rests over the hair shirt, probably recalling the last time that Isaiah had seen fit to bless you with more work. “No need to tear this, lord, I am more than happy to keep the Emperor in my thoughts while uh —“

Isaiah sighs, setting the quill down. Since the dormitory now only holds two Templars, he and Reuben have been able to redecorate, hammering the unused bunks into a workstation, pushed up against the wall. Their trunks serve as an adequate chair, tough durasteel enough to support the bulk of an Astartes — providing the Astartes in question is not armoured.

“I am not going to tear the shirt, girl. I tore those socks because you showed an uncouth amount of joy in finishing your work for the day. And — besides, that is not the subject of discussion,” he says, thankful that Brother Reuben is not here, otherwise he would once again find himself rehashing an old absurd argument. Brother Reuben had objected to ‘his underwear being used as part of a pointless lesson and now she is upset and my feet are cold’.

You had, admittedly, been a little upset — uttering little hitching squeaks, like you were swallowing back sobs — but Isaiah maintains it was an important chance to practice the virtue of patience, and you had restitched all of the socks in record time, so what was the harm done?

Still. Perhaps this is a chance to impart a gentler kind of lesson. Good relations with lesser mortals is an essential part of serving the Emperor.

“Have you ever heard the tale of Saint Celestine?” he says instead. To his surprise, you brighten up.

“Yes, my lord! I saw the latest holo about her before uh — before my world was cleansed in Holy Fire. Though of course it may have been a corrupted version of the story and uh—“

You are babbling. You often do this, and Brother Reuben has assured him that it is not a fault in your genetics, but a natural consequence of your human frailty. Isaiah cuts you off.

”I will teach you one of her many victories,” he says, “and of how her undying faith in the Emperor brought glory to both her and those who fought beside her.”

He turns away from his manuscript, folds his hands in his lap, and begins the tale. Saint Celestine was once a member of the Adepta Sororitas’ Order of Our Martyred Lady…

—

Just over an hour later, he finishes up the tale of how she appeared in glorious golden raiment to the beleaguered defenders of the city of Karlstadt, who were standing proud against the hideous assembled forces of heresy and ruin. How she had drawn her blessed blade and sliced apart the daemons arrayed before her. How she had blessed the inhabitants of the city, before fading into the rising sun like a dream of better times.

“That was beautiful,” you say. Isaiah had been staring off into the middle distance, allowing his eidetic memory to take hold of his tongue — but at your voice he focuses on you, gratified by the adoration in your eyes. The Living Saint is a balm to the faithful, and a scourge to the heretic.

“It is, is it not? Now, you recite it.”

Silence. You blink at him in puzzlement.

”You recite it,” he prompts. “So that you may tell the story to others.”

”Oh — uh — well, once there was…”

”No, no, no,” he says. “That is not correct. You must recite it exactly as I did, with the same words — this is how it was taught to me, and it is how it must be taught to you.”

”The — the exact same words?” you say, starting to grow flustered, your hands twisting into the hair shirt. The movement agitates the wounds on your hands, filling the air once more with the fragrance of your blood, and it gives Isaiah a splendid idea.

“Yes. Do not worry, I will help with your memory — I understand that it is far inferior to mine.”

He looks around for a suitable implement. His warhammer is too heavy; his bolter far too precious. He reaches up to one of the unused wooden shelves and, with very little effort, rips it out of the metal brackets, before splintering it with a single crushing fist.

“…my lord?” you say, sounding nervous. Isaiah smiles in what he hopes is a soothing way.

“Do not be worried. I understand that your lapses in memory are not a sign of heresy, only of your own feeble genetics. This is a method that I was blessed to experience as a neophyte, before my implants worked fully, and it worked very well.”

He extracts the longest piece of wood, and uses his thumbnail to polish it, turning ragged pulp into a more suitable smoothness. He swishes it experimentally. Perfect.

“Now,” he says sunnily. “I will say a segment of the tale; you will repeat it. Every time you get it wrong, I shall give you a little tap with this. The pain focuses your mind, and ensures that next time you will not forget!”

”Uh — I do not think that is necessary my lord —“

You are hunched like a Jerboa about to bolt, smelling of fear. Isaiah sighs.

“Girl, please do not be ungrateful. I am trying to bestow the Emperor’s kindness upon you. Now give me your hand.”

Your arm trembles, but you still extend your palm, fingers curled protectively over it. Just as he is about to begin the exercise, he recalls Brother Reuben’s fury at his torn socks. Ah. Yes. Anything that will hinder your ability to work is probably going to cause issues with his battle brother — and baseline humans take so long to heal.

The soles of your feet? No, he cannot have you unable to stand. Your back? No — you need to hunch over your mending. Your face? Some of the serfs ritually scar themselves as part of their penance.

No. Not your face. That is a little dramatic for something as trivial as learning a story.

And then it occurs to him in a lightning flash — of course!

“Kindly lift your skirt up and bend over the bed,” he says, thanking the Emperor for His guidance. If you struggle to sit down then that is no problem — you can sew standing up! And you can sleep on your front, so it will not even affect your lengthy and inefficient spells of rest.

You make a strange strangled sound.

“My — my lord?” you manage, and that warm feeling kindles once more in his belly. Bringing a waif to the Emperor’s light; imparting unto you stories normally reserved for Astartes. It makes him feel all happy and tingly in a way he usually associates with a battle hard won, or an especially entertaining heretic burning.

“Hurry up now,” he says, indicating the bunk. You look behind you, as if expecting Brother Reuben to materialise with his usual rebukes, but he is busy in the chapel (though Isaiah cannot imagine what possible issue his brother could have with this plan).

Trembling like a new fawn, you bend over the bunk, propping your elbows on it.

“Your skirt too,” Isaiah says, helpfully. “If fabric gets into the wounds it can cause infection, and that is a serious matter for a baseline.”

You inch your skirt up in little shuddering movements that Isaiah finds absolutely hypnotic for reasons he cannot quite understand. You bare plump, tender flesh — thighs sweeping up to the curve of your buttocks, which quiver under his gaze.

“Do you not have any undergarments?” he says.

“I did,” you say, after a moment. “They uh. They vanished.”

How baffling. Humans are absentminded to the extreme — perhaps you mislaid them? He will have to ask Brother Reuben of their whereabouts.

“Now,” he says. His mouth feels odd — a little too dry. He swallows a few times, rolling his tongue against the soft insides of his cheeks, wondering briefly — absurdly — if your skin would feel as soft against the press of his fingers. ”Let us begin.”

—

You start off so well, parroting back the first few sentences he recites for you almost down to his intonation. Alas, you are still only a human, and the mistakes soon begin —

“…for Saint Celestine appeared in —“

Wssshhh goes the instrument, and you squeal. Your buttocks jiggle in a way that would definitely distract a lesser man; but Isaiah is completely devoted to the Emperor’s word, and thus does not take more than forty five seconds to watch them move as you squirm in pain. He thought the strike was gentle, but your flesh is softer than butter, slicing open with the least touch.

“You missed something out,” he says, after his momentary pause. “Try again.”

”I am sorry — ow that hurts — uh — “

This time, you get the phrasing right (‘miraculously appeared’ not just ‘appeared’), and proceed until —

“—her hair of gold — “

Another strike. The flesh of your rear splits like ripened fruit, and you yowl.

“Hair of black, eyes of gold,” Isaiah corrects patiently. It is just as well he has taken you under his wing. The way you squirm and squeak is most immodest, and he is certain that none of the other serfs take discipline with the same lack of dignity.

“Hair of — hair of black, eyes of — eyes of gold —“

He forgives you the stammer, but he cannot forgive the lapse that follows, as you describe Saint Celestine’s armour as ‘radiant’ rather than ‘luminous’. This time, Isaiah is most careful with his blow, and your skin only flares bright pink, rather than splitting asunder. You still whimper and wriggle as though he has made you bleed, which is most unbecoming.

“Do try and endure the pain,” he tells you. “There is no need to be so…squirmy.”

Once again, he thanks the Emperor for guiding you to him, and not to a man with less moral fortitude, because the way the blood slicks over the curve of your rump and glistens would almost certainly lead a lesser man to sinful contemplation.

The next lashes — earned through forgetting four of Saint Celestine’s thirty eight titles — have you blubbering, your face pressed into the blankets. Your buttocks, and the upper parts of your thighs, are streaked purple and pink with bruising, and blood drips down towards the backs of your knees. It smells bright and fresh — somehow more pleasing than the foul blood of xenos or heretics. Perhaps because it was shed by a penitent in service to the Emperor, not one of His enemies? Though Osric and Jean’s blood never smelled quite so…delicious.

Hm. When did he last eat? Maybe he has been fasting overly much. That must be the reason his stomach tightens so.

You burble a slurry of sound into the mattress — even to his trained ear it barely resembles Gothic.

“You’re not even halfway through memorising this,” he chides, and you manage another hiccuping attempt at repeating the conversation between Saint Celestine and her former Battle Sister Augusta. It is a most touching soliloquy on the importance of placing your faith in the Emperor, but —

“—and I will — I will do I must and take Him inside me, and let His will fill me like a flood — nay, like an ocean. His Holy Fire will spill deep inside my body —“

— for some reason it sounds a little different when you say it. His cheeks warm.

Still, the technique is working. He finds he has to hit you less and less as you continue; the pain sharpening your mind, clearing the fog of doubt, permitting the Emperor’s words to penetrate.

Finally, your approach the denouement, where Saint Celestine addresses the Emperor directly in prayer —

“My Lord, I beg of you to fill my humble body up —“

He strikes you without thinking.

“Wha — what did I get wrong?” you squeal, and it takes a moment for Isaiah to focus. He is staring at the jiggle of your thighs as you heave in desperate, pained breaths — by the Emperor’s light, clearly he has not done his job in teaching you how to best conduct yourself, because you are responding to proper discipline like a whore. Your spine arches as you try fruitlessly to escape; your eyes are wet and red-rimmed; your lips slick with spittle. Do you realise what you are doing? Ignorance is no defence against judgement; Isaiah could build a new monastery with the bones of those he has slain whose only crime was ignorance.

Isaiah presses one hand on the small of your back, pressing down just enough to calm your twitching. He feels your heartbeat echo up through his palm; the scent of your blood fills his nose, and saliva puddles on his tongue. He is a Black Templar. His purpose is to slay the enemies of the Emperor; to crush them beneath his boots, to lay waste to their cities and hear the lamentations of their children, before they too are cast onto the pyre to ensure the rot does at the root. He is stronger than you. He is better than you, and your mewling is not effecting him, it cannot be effecting him —

”Keep going,” he says, his voice a low, hungry growl. “Finish the tale.”

” —yes. Of course. Saint Celestine thus spoke to the Emperor: “Fill my humble body up with Your Grace and Your Judgement, and let me then be a vessel for Your Will, bringing Your light to the dark and Your hope to the hopeless. Amen.”

“Amen,” he echoes.

—

He helps you clean up, for he would be a poor teacher indeed if he left you in a puddle of your own blood to contemplate your lesson. He waves away your protests that you can take care of yourself — it is a small matter for him, just requiring a little water and a clean rag. Your flesh is already swelling, puffy and tender, and when he runs his palm from your calf to your back he can feel the difference in temperature: from cool thighs to fever-warm buttocks.

The apothecary insists that Astartes be thorough in their care of themselves. Thus, Isaiah takes care to repeat the gesture a few times, his large hands — each of which easily encircle your thighs — skimming with utmost consideration over your bruised flesh.

“There,” he says, when he has attended to your wounds to his satisfaction. He tugs your skirt down to cover your modesty, pleased that he has fufilled his duty of care to you. “Is it not wonderful to learn the Emperor’s word?”

You prop yourself up on your forearms, turning back to look at him. “Yes,” you echo. “Simply wonderful.”

Isaiah beams at you, absent-mindedly lifting his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean. He has probably been fasting too much; a Templar must remain well fed to best serve the Emperor.

“You can have the afternoon to recover,” he says, magnanimously. “We can commence your next lesson in a ten day — or whenever your schedule allows.”

”Yes, my lord. Thank you my lord,” you say. “All hail the Emperor and His most bounteous mercy.”

”All hail,” Isaiah says, already planning how to best explain this to Brother Reuben — while also making it excruciatingly clear that Brother Reuben needn’t trouble himself with the serf’s continued holy education. No, Brother Reuben can focus his considerable energy in locating the poor thing’s missing undergarments — a role far more befitting his station. “And next time,” he adds, licking the last of the blood from the back of his hand. “Refrain from squirming and mewling like a slattern. Have some self control.”

#the holy trinity #I promise at some point the serf will get fucked just not yet #black templars/reader #my writing

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wingedhallows · 8 months

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i won't make it, love ; marauders

pairing: marauders (sirius idk ) x reader | 0.6k words plot: betrayel has consequences, in most cases, death. prompt: "i won't make it, love." authors note: a little something i wrote after a shitty day, hope u like it

navigation | happy ending

“It’s somewhere here, see.” Atreus held the parchment for you to see, his long dark hair whipping around in the cold winter wind. You nodded and gave him a small smile which he returned.

"Firewhiskey’s on me after this darn miss-”Crucio!” Without as much as a second to take a breath you slumped to the moist ground as a horrid howl escaped your wringing form. The pain shot through you like lightning as Atreus tried to fend off whatever caught you off guard.

The pain left you, slowly but surely as cold air rushed through your lungs, your eyes adjusted to dark once more as you scrambled to your feet, your wand tightly wrapped in your hand. Atreus was fighting against what seemed to be a death eater and- and.. Peter?

“Peter?” Your voice caught him off guard as his wide eyes found yours. Without a noise Atreus crumbled to the ground, eyes wide and dead.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you stared at Peter, your breathing speeding up. “Y/N, oh, you have to understand, there was no other way!” He tried but you cocked your head to the side, tears gathered in your eyes as you tried to keep yourself from sobbing.

The betrayal flushed through your veins like ice. “But, Peter.” He shook his head and pointed his wand towards you.

“Stupefy” Peter spoke and without warning you’re launched back, your wand still tightly in your palm as you pushed yourself to your feet.

A small chuckle left your lips as the tears spilled, you weren’t going to see Sirius or Remus again, you’ll die in this alleyway and neither James or Lily will know what happened to you.

You couldn’t let that happen. Peter had started crying and the Death Eater became impatient, his want pointed towards you as well.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” he spoke as you got ready to apparate. “Sectumsempra” Peter yelled. Just as your body warped and bent through the portal you could feel it. The burning white pain shot through you as you crashed into concrete, your head pounded in despair.

“Incendio” you whispered as a flame shot out of your wand towards the window of their house. They knew about your mission, they must all be there.

You could hear some noise, the blood slowly crept up your throat having you choke out. The blood pooled out from underneath you, your hands now covered in crimson.

The door snapped open and the yelling began. “Oh my god-”Y/N-”Remus, make way-”Get out the way.” James had his hands under your armpits, Sirius had your ankles as they dragged you inside.

“Lily!” Remus yelled, some hands pushed down on your chest as more blood made its way up your throat. “Love!” Sirius held your face, eyes spiked with tears as you tried to give him a smile. “Sir-Sirius.” You choked out, as James went for your hand.

“What-What happened?” Sirius whispered as he brushed some dirty hair from your face. “Peter.” You whispered. His eyebrows furrowed as Lily pushed past him, clothes in hand. “Sirius, please.” She pushed him. “James, call a healer, now!” She yelled and James followed suit. “Peter is a Death Eater.” You choked once again, you could feel it, the life leaving your body.

“I won’t make it, love.”

He shook his head as he sobbed out, hands on your face again. “Don’t-Don’t say that.”

“I love you.” Your feet felt like ice, your hands went numb and slowly but surely your brain gave up, it just sent you straight to sleep.

“No, baby, please!” Sirius yelled, hand pressed on his eyes as he sobbed, Lily stilled to let out a breath.

“Please, please, open your eyes, y-you-you can’t d-do this, fuck!”

You were dead and there was no point in calling a healer, James tucked his wand away.

#harrypotter #hp fanfic #marauders era #marauders imagine #the marauders #sirius black #sirius black x reader #harry potter fanfic #sirius black angst #harry potter angst #the marauders angst #marauders angst

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thefreakandthehair · 2 years

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happy (belated, sorry!) birthday to @henderdads!! this was supposed to be just fluffy but y'know. the hurt/comfort monster got me. I hope you had a perfect day! <333

can also be found here on AO3!

stars and satellites (will always bring me home)

---

Eddie tries not to think about his birthday.

He and Wayne have an agreement to let it pass with little to no mention, save for his 16th birthday when he’s able to start driving and his 18th birthday when he hands Eddie a few singles and tells him to go grab himself his first legal pack of cigarettes— and to get one for him, too, since he’ll be at the store anyways.

It works for Eddie and he goes as far as to hide his birthday from his friends for as long as he possibly can. Gareth, Jeff, and Frank still have no idea. The new found family he’s been adopted into since averting the (apparently third or fourth) Apocalypse don’t know, despite being asked by just about everyone at least once. It’s a fine-tuned skill, evading the question and changing the subject.

“Hey Eddie, when’s your birthday? Did we miss it already this year?” Dustin asks at Will’s own birthday party.

Eddie smirks. “Roll for insight, Young Henderson.”

“Alright, got a die?”

“Nope, darn!” Eddie pretends to pat the pockets of his jeans before shrugging and walking away.

Nancy is the hardest to fend off but unless she finds his birth information through the microfiche at the library, he’s stalwart in his stance. She might, though, and that’s his only real concern. But by and large, his friends let it go, chalking it up to one of Eddie’s many quirks and occasionally joking about it when someone else’s birthday rolls around. The one person who won’t put it down though?

Steve Harrington.

Steve I Throw Parties For Everyone Harrington. Steve I’m Going To Annoy You About This At Least Once A Week Harrington. Steve Is It Today? Is It Tomorrow? You Seem Like A Winter Baby? Harrington.

And truthfully, Eddie can’t find it within himself to be genuinely mad at him about it, despite having snapped at everyone else who’s dared to ask more than once. Eddie grants Steve a pass for reasons he’s not quite ready to evaluate just yet, reasons he knows he’ll never tell, reasons that would require the same security clearance that knowing his birthday would because knowing his birthday would mean knowing this past. He’s not sure yet if he wants everyone— or anyone— to know about his dear old dad.

In true The Universe Must Be Sentient And Actively Hate Me fashion, Steve happens to ask him again on his actual birthday. Steve’s backyard is glowing in the bluish tint of the full moon, stars twinkling in and out behind rogue clouds and smoke billowing from the joint they pass between them up towards the sky. It’s cold— early February in Hawkins is no joke— but Steve and Eddie have discovered an affinity for the cold breeze against their skin, finding it grounding and centering in its own way.

“So, when’s your birthday? Is it getting close?” It’s a question Eddie’s heard no less than twenty times in the same cheeky intonation, Steve having learned not to expect anything besides an out of pocket response. What he doesn’t expect is silence. Steve never expects silence from Eddie.

He turns to look at Eddie and sees him sitting in the same patio chair he’s been in all night, right next to him— too close, but not close enough at the same time. One leg is drawn up beneath one thigh and Eddie looks up at the sky, pointedly avoiding eye contact. If the moment didn’t feel as heavy as it does, Steve would find himself staring at the muscles of his neck and the way his throat bobs when he swallows. It is heavy though, and Steve can only focus on the weight of the space between them.

“Hey, you good? You know I’m just fucking with you, right?” Steve asks, passing the joint back to him as an excuse to pull his attention back from the sky above them. Of all of the things Steve’s imagined having to fight for attention from, the moon was certainly not one of them but he supposes that tracks for Eddie. Nothing about Eddie is according to plan.

Eddie takes the joint and carefully avoids Steve’s eyes, keeping his glance at his hands before returning to the stars and taking a deep inhale. Another few hits will make this all go away, he thinks to himself. The day had been difficult— memories he’d rather not have creeping up and wrapping themselves around his limbs like living vines.

Steve watches little bits of smoke curl out on his exhale and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

“Ed, seriously, I’ll stop asking. I’m just teasing, I’ll quit it, just stop with the silence, dude. It’s… weird.”

“Why?” Eddie asks, quietly. It’s just a single word but he’ll take it.

“Why is it weird?”

“Yeah.”

“Because you’re not quiet. You don’t do silence unless something’s wrong.”

“Maybe something is.”

Steve sits for a second, his brain running in circles around itself. You fucked it up, c’mon, you kept asking, you knew better, why’d you have to keep prying, now you made him uncomfortable like you swore not to do—

“I can smell your brain overheating from here, Steve. Relax. It’s not you, I promise.” Eddie chuckles humorlessly under his breath and he makes a spontaneous decision, an impulsive decision he might regret but there's a little part of him that finds it hard to believe he'll ever regret sharing something with Steve.

“Then what is it? What’s wrong? Is it, y’know, End of the World- related or…?” Steve’s voice trails off. Part of the reason they’ve come to have these nights smoking in the cold, alone together, is that exactly: End of the World- related invisible scars. But Eddie just shakes his head no and sighs, placing the joint down on the glass patio table.

“It’s today.”

“Huh?”

Eddie turns to face him and raises both eyebrows. “It’s. Today. My birthday. It’s today.”

“Wait— shit, really? And you’re telling me?” Steve’s heart pounds in his chest, not blind to the gravity of Eddie telling him his closest kept secret.

Eddie shrugs and smiles without it touching his eyes. “Guess so. Take it to your grave, please?”

“Well yeah, man, I don’t make a habit of going around and telling people’s secrets. But… thanks? For trusting me?” Steve reaches the few inches to Eddie’s shoulder and lets his hand rest there. It's contact but it's not enough. It’s never really enough, but it has to be. He has no reason to think Eddie feels the same way about him and he’ll be damned if he loses his best friend— second only to Robin, but that’s besides the point. The point is, he rests his hand on Eddie’s shoulder and lets his fingers move in slow repetitive circles into the fabric of Eddie’s jacket.

“You’re welcome. It’s just— I have some… not so great memories attached to my birthday so I don’t celebrate it. Rather it just not exist, to be honest.”

“Well, since it’s a big secret, you could just make it another day, y’know. We’ll all respect it and you can, like, create new memories and start over.”

Eddie glances down at Steve’s hand wandering, absentmindedly trailing his fingers along the base of his neck and to collarbone. Fuck his birthday, and fuck the horrible memories Clyde Munson had poured into it. The way his heart tumbles from his chest into his mouth negates all of it.

“Really? Any suggestions?” He breathes, relieved that Steve doesn’t pry. He’s learned enough about Steve’s own childhood though to imagine why he doesn’t. For all of their outward differences, Steve gets it. Gets him.

Steve watches Eddie’s eyes widen before they glance down at his hand and back up, filled with something that looks dangerously like hope. Steve, in turn, feels something dangerously like hope.

“Maybe the day you woke up? In the hospital? I don’t know, I can see you liking the whole phoenix thing. Rebirth into something beautiful or whatever.”

Eddie’s breath catches. Beautiful feels like an overinflated balloon floating precariously through the woods in Steve’s backyard— cheerful and buoyant, but always at the risk of catching on too sharp of a branch and tumbling back down to the hard ground.

“Beautiful, huh?”

“Yeah. It fits you.” Steve’s hand wanders again, this time intentionally, to brush a piece of Eddie’s hair behind his ear and cupping the side of his face.

“Steve…” He whispers as they move slowly— achingly slowly— together, as though attached by an invisible thread. And maybe they are— the little red string of fate that’s been pulling them closer and closer since the day they met. Close enough now, finally, for Eddie to know how Steve’s lips feel against his, how his hands feel in his hair, how his heart beats in his chest when Eddie presses one hand there to tether himself to reality with nothing. No one but his stars watch him find his way back home, to Steve, where he should've been all along.

Eddie’s new birthday becomes April 2nd, the day he’d woken up from the induced coma. Eddie and Steve’s anniversary becomes February 9th, his old birthday. He can’t imagine a better way to create beauty out of ashes.

#steddie #steddie fanfic #steddie fanfiction #steddie fic #steve harrington x eddie munson #eddie munson x steve harrington #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #stfic #myfic

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stellayuta · 3 months

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Love on The Grid - Formula 1 AU! Yuta Okkotsu - Pt 3.

Your likes, comments and reblogs really encourage me to write more! So do interact with this post and let me know your thoughts 🧡

PART 1 ||| PART 2

synopsis: One-night stands were nothing but a necessary painkiller for your inability to cross paths with true love. Your most recent find at a Vegas Club was no different. He was boring, obedient, SLOW! You leave him high and hanging hoping you'd never see him again until you find yourself gawking at a supersized billboard of him on a Vegas highway with the title 'LEGEND RETURNS TO VEGAS'.

genre: some smut and lots of angst

content: 18+ only. Formula one driver! Yuta x f! reader, all sorts of sexy stuff (fingering, oral, orgasm denial), swearing, angsty elements, cheating and discussion of mental health <3

word count: 5.2k

a/n: can't stop writing this lmao. here's part 3. Also, I noticed I have some trouble writing second person pov and keep switching to first so pls excuse any grammatic discrepancies.

WARNING: always use protection!

The chilly November air is ruthless as it bites your exposed skin. You had an ambitious plan for the night with your flashy dress, but all of it fell apart, leaving you alone and miserable for the second time in your life. Maybe it's the cold, but you feel your nose leaking - or maybe it's your uncontrollable crying that's causing that.

"Oh my god, stop crying!" you snap at yourself. This is pathetic. Your friends will not be happy with this advancement. You couldn't even get Noritoshi his darned autograph.

You seemed to have picked the back exit of the casino fortunately because you can still hear camera shutters going off in a distance. There is nothing in the back except a small, marble fountain with a weak stream of water. You do notice a very flashy, bright red car parked near it though, very far from the parking lot which is more towards the front of the casino. You look at in awe, how it casts a pinkish-red glow on the white marble around it - almost looks like it's made of rubies.

"Like my ride?" a haughty voice grabs your attention, and you haphazardly rub at your eyes before looking up. It's a tall, slender man in a fiery red suit and black accents walking towards you. You take note of his snowy white tresses and crystaline blue eyes. You feel like you've seen him somewhere before? Is he perhaps an actor or a supermodel?

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare at your car." You apologize to the man in case he had plans of accusing you of an attempted grand theft auto.

"Ah, don't worry about it." He says, waving his hand dismissively, "These cars are meant to be stared at, otherwise what's this point."

The comment makes you smile at bit as you hug yourself a little to get some relief from the cold.

"So?" He begins, twirling his keys on his long index finger. "What are you doing out here? Saw you last with Okkotsu? You his chick?" He interrogates you.

"I just came out for some fresh air, I don't quite like crowded spaces." You tell him, evading his question.

"No one hates glamor." The man says, fashioning a pair of circular sunglasses from his jacket pocket and putting them on. "Especially not formula one glamor. The richest of the riches. The most esteemed parties, crowd. What is it that really irked you?"

You frown at him. "Why do you believe everyone is interested in that kind of life? Do you think one kind find genuineness in life when your environment is constantly this superficial?" Maybe you spoke too much but the man seems intrigued.

"So Okkotsu bagged a smart chick. Good for him." He teases but you are not in the mood for any of it. "I am not his chick. We are friends. Not anymore probably. But don't make assumptions." you snap at the guy.

"Ah, calm down, tiger..." He says, putting his hands up and sitting up on the hood of his car. "Yuta doesn't just bring any chick along with him to places. I thought the two of you looked nice together!"

"He doesn't?" you ask. You feel a terrible ember of hope inside of you but want to immediately douse it. The strange man lets out a manic laugh.

"What? Did you think he was some Casanova, getting into everyone's pants. Do you even know anything about him?" he asks you mockingly and you feel a blush of embarrassment creep onto your cheeks. "He's not like the rest of us - forever on the search for love, and getting played by women who want us for the fame." He says, gazing at the sky. It is quite pretty out here today, a starry night.

You don't know for sure if this guy would know anything, but it seems like he would so, you can't help but ask him.

"What's going on between Yuta and that woman with the mole?" you ask, not making eye contact with the man. He looks at you with narrowed eyes.

"Who? Rika?"

"Yes, her."

"Oh yeah, they dated. For a year maybe? Yuta thinks they were in love, but I disagree. Yuta would think he's in love with anyone as long as they love him. He's pretty stupid I must say." The last part brings a smile to your face. "What happened between them?" you prod.

"Hmm, aren't you curious, as a friend?" He sticks his tongue out at you but continues on before you can protest.

"Well turns out, Rika loved how popular he was. Ad campaigns, parties, press tours, social media. Rika loves to be talked about. And with Yuta, she'd be as notorious as him. That was when Yuta was at the peak of his career. He hasn't been so well this year and Rika, finding that she had no screen-time anymore, decided it wasn't worth being linked to Yuta anymore." He says, sighing. You furrow your brows at this reveal.

"And so, as all fake things must come to an end, she asked for the breakup and Yuta had to comply. Do you know why he let her go?" Gojo asks you and you shrug your shoulders.

"Because he felt he wasn't deserving of being her boyfriend if he can't even be famous and publicly liked enough to be known as her boyfriend. He thought she deserves better."

You and the man exchange a glance, knowingly fully well that no man would think this way. Yuta was truly, genuinely too stupidly kind for his own good.

"W-why is he still in contact with her then?" you ask. Now this came from a place of selfishness. You didn't mind that Yuta had a past, but you didn't want her around him anymore. Regardless of whether you and Yuta had anything going or not.

"Well, they got to know each other because she is his personal manager. He didn't want to risk her livelihood by firing her." Gojo says.

"Well not anymore." a third voice joins the two of you as you turn around to see a livid Yuta close the door behind him and walk towards you. His hair is now falling onto his head, lock by lock, ruining his neat hairdo but very much reminding you of his fucked-out look from the other night. He has discarded his grey tuxedo jacket for good. He stands in between you and the white-haired man, seemingly trying to shield you from him. "I got rid of her for good. Now, what are you doing here, Gojo?"

Gojo. Now you get it. The first Ferrari driver who crashed out today. The question makes Gojo give Yuta a half smirk.

"Bad timing, Okkotsu. I was just about to ask this pretty lady here for a ride in my Ferrari. Third-wheel much?"

"Well, that won't be necessary." Yuta declares, pulling you in by the waist. "My Lambo's faster and Y/N prefers the better driver."

Yuta's blatant show of talent supremacy makes your mouth pop open in sheer admiration for a full two seconds.

"See you around..." Yuta says, pulling you along and not waiting for Gojo's reply.

Before the two of you can get to the car though, he finds a crevice between two pillars to push you into.

"I am apologizing again. One last time. You won't see the likes of her again." He says, very seriously, his spiky dark hair brushing the top of your forehead due to his proximity to you. You stare at his lips mindlessly, not knowing what to say. Why would he go this far for you?

"I don't think anybody in your world wants to see you with me and, she seems like she is still in love with you, Yuta..." You admit more to yourself than to him, cupping his face in your quivering hands. His expression is very honest as if he wants to shout it out to you with every cell of his body.

"She can go to hell. So can all of them." It is but a gentle whisper and he waits merely a second for your nodded consent before he presses his lips onto yours and your legs turn to jelly. You take fistfuls of his black shirt into your hands for support as you wrap your arms around him, melting, drowning into the kiss without any hope of surfacing. His hands run up and down your torso, trying to touch as much as body as possible before deciding to settle one hand on your ass and the other holding your chin to face you as he breaks the kiss to take a breath.

The two of you huff, separating yet still connected by a slimy string of your salivas. The weather doesn't seem chilly anymore as you feel his marble-like, wet back from under his soaked shirt. You also find your nipples poking out of your dress painfully, your collar bones shining with sweat as Yuta notices them and swoops right in to start kissing them.

"We'll be papped in this position, dummy." You slap Yuta's back, looking around with haste to see if you had peeping company.

"Don't care," he mumbles, groaning while he peppers the top half of your chest and your cleavage with kisses.

"I care!" You tell him, trying to yank him off of you. "I don't want to be on the gossip pages of a tabloid, making out with you."

He looks up, his dark blue eyes feral. "My car has tinted windows. No flash would penetrate."

You follow his stream of thought to realize what he's saying and bite your lip. You nod at him to give him the green signal to take you back to his car, parked out at the front where the paparazzi is parked too.

But it is not near enough.

You are clinging on to his muscular arm as you walk and feeling the weight of his arm right between your breasts is driving you insane.

Thunder makes a surprise appearance as a previously clear sky starts collecting an army of angry, dark clouds, illuminated by a shameless full moon. It's about to rain down on you two people, whose passion knows no bounds.

"Wait, Yuta-" you make him stop halfway and bring down his face to kiss him yet again. You run your finger along his jawline, admiring how perfect its edges are and occupy your hand with grabbing his hair. You take a small break to mumble truthfully against his puffed-up lips- "I couldn't wait till the car..."

That is enough motivation for Yuta to pick you up in his arms like a doll and carry you the rest of the way to the car, with your legs wrapped around his waist and your tongue fighting his for dominance. Fortunately, it seems the paparazzi had deserted the front area of the casino and you hear them in a distance yelling out "gojo" and "ferrari". So it was him. Now you owe him one. Thanks to that, you're able to manage getting into Yuta's sexy black lambo pretty discreetly.

This is the first time you get to properly see the car and with its teal interior and white lightwork, it truly looks like an engineering masterclass. Somehow your brain wires back to Toji driving this car around smoothly through the streets of Vegas and you turn to Yuta who's already made himself comfortable in the driver's seat.

He looks at you with yearning but it's unsafe to drive under the influence of lust.

You stare at him though till he raises his brow.

"Are you sure you can drive the car, I mean, it's an expensive car." you say before you realize what's coming out your mouth.

Yuta makes the most interesting expression possible.

"Remind me whose car this is?"

"Yours?"

"Remind me what I do for a living...?"

".... drive cars really fast...?"

Okay that was stupid on your part. It's just out of Toji's smooth, more practiced hands and into Yuta's younger, more energetic hands - you didn't know what to think. You were now going to witness Yuta Okkotsu in his true element - doing the thing he was born to pioneer.

Yuta revs the engine and pulls the car out of its spot and out of the premises smoother than buttery silk. He gets on to the road and soon enough we accelerate to a comfortable pace.

You admire how perfectly this car moves, like a black cat prowling through the roads.

Once Yuta hits the highways though, he assaults the gas pedal.

"Ahhhh!!!" you yelp, feeling the air hit your face with the windows down. It feels like literally being slapped by the wind. This earns a hearty laugh from Yuta.

"You should sit in one of our race cars, this is nothing!" he yells, rolling down his window too.

Since it is the wee hours of the night, the highway is practically empty, and you watch Yuta own the road like he was meant to rule it.

"Woo-hoo-hooooo!!!!" You scream out again, this time, cautiously putting your head out the window. You watch the buildings and the shimmering rows of cars running on the local streets pass by at a distance. Your hair finds its own rhythm, flying with the wind.

When you finally get off the highway, the both of you roll up the windows and relax into your seats. You feel wide awake now, more than you've ever been before.

"That was the best!" you tell Yuta, still high on adrenaline.

"You're welcome..." he says coolly.

"Where are we going?"

"On a scale of 1 to 10, how much do you like stars?" Yuta turns to you, smiling, probably already knowing your answer by how your eyes begin to twinkle just like those stars he mentioned.

****

The car finds itself right at home by the edge of a cliff as Yuta helps you out of the car and locks hands with you. It is quite windy up here too and the cliff overlooks the Vegas City, the view is mind-blowing.

But nothing can beat the expanse of the universe that is showing you a glimpse of itself in the night sky. You stand there looking up at the myriads of colors and glitter decorating the inky black canvas of the night. You spot at least 5 shooting stars in 30 seconds.

"Come here." Yuta calls out to you, and you turn around to see that he has laid out a fluffy blanket on the hood of his car and has another one in his hand for you two to use, perhaps.

You approach the car skeptically and ask Yuta if it can handle the weight.

"It can handle much more." He comments, urging you to join him on the hood of the car. The two of you maintain a good distance between you on the hood, but you so want to touch him right now. The sparkling sky finds its home in Yuta's dark, spectating eyes too and you can't help but look at him with... l-love?

For a while the two of you just sit there, enjoying the view and saying nothing. The silence isn't awkward this time but calming, very warm. You bring your knees closer to your chest. Without club alcohol, you feel shy now, of all times to be shy.

The last strand of your patience snaps though when you put your hand down on the hand and accidentally brush fingers with him.

The two of you exchange a look and you are not sure what's stopping you two? Dignity? Qualms? To hell with all of that.

"Stop looking at me..." you whisper at him, slowly sliding towards him, across the hood and climbing on top of him, right on his crotch, making him lay back down on the hood. He, however, does not want to stop looking at you like he wants to drink you up,

"Look anywhere else!" you gasp, placing your palms face down on his chest and yet, he won't break eye contact at all. He is studying you now, up and down, eyes stopping a second too long on the cleavage out for display, your lush thighs around his hips.

"Why, is it bothering you? I'm not going to look away." He declares, propping himself up on the hood and running his hands up and down your sides. The roughness of his hands that is evident even through the dress makes you bite you lip and breath out harshly. You are now practically sitting in his lap.

"Usually..." He continues, bringing his lips dangerously close to yours, brushing them against yours as you breathe in his heady scent.

"People have a thing for doing this stuff inside the car." His tongue slides across your bottom lip and he moves to bite your earlobe.

"Yet, here we are..." he comes back to your lips, nose brushing against yours as his hand snakes up your side to hold your neck gently. "Right out in the open... inviting anyone to see, am I right, Y/N?"

You look at him with pleading eyes and move in to kiss him but he uses his other hand to hold you by your hair. He doesn't hurt you but pulls with enough pressure to keep the two of you apart.

"I want to touch you..." you confess. What is his problem, this jerk? The only thing he is accomplishing by delaying this is making your heart race and making your bottom wet.

"Would you have gone with Gojo if he really invited you out for a ride?" He asks, his eyes darkening further while his fingers stay intertwined in your hair. Oh, now you see. He is the territorial type. Well, you can't judge him, so are you. But two can play at this game.

"Well, he was quite hot." you lie with a convincing smile, pretending to dream of some attractive version of Gojo that does not exist in your brain. Sure, he is handsome - but, Yuta made you suck him off in record time, that's something. Even Megumi took a month.

Yuta must believe what you say because his grip in your hair tightens ever so slightly.

"What did you talk about?" He asks, cocking his head to the side as he uses his free hand to slide it down your back and raise your skirt up. He must be pleased to find his target already soaking wet and you barely control a squeal when he plunges two fingers in at torturously slow pace. You have wanted him for so long though, that you begin to lose focus and he lightly tugs at your hair.

"Go on, what did you talk about?" he demands in a lower voice.

"Huh, oh yes." you try to continue your farce. "H-he was telling me how good I look. He told me he's a good ride." you grin at Yuta and he curves his fingers upward into your womanhood to finally earn a disgruntled moan from you.

"You riding him? Don't make me laugh." He says, a twisted smile forming on his face that only makes you want to prod him more.

"Why not?" you push. "He's tall, has a majestic body. He looks like he's got a lot of endurance. He looks like h-he'd b-be." With every compliment you direct towards Gojo, Yuta's pace increases as he assaults your sensitive spot.

"He what?"

"H-h-he... it would be fun to r-ride-" before you can finish your sentence though you can already feel a balloon of pleasure inflating rapidly inside your nether regions. You were about to cum any second now.

But just as you are about to go over the peak, Yuta pulls out his fingers without warning. Your brows furrow together, and you look at Yuta with a face so shocked, he almost wants to laugh.

"What happened, baby?" He asks, pushing his face into your cleavage. "Go on... tell me." he says, the vibration of his voice making your nipples erect.

"Why'd you stop?" you ask him, still unable to fully recover from the loss of your orgasm.

"That's your punishment for lying about Gojo."

"Yuta that's unfair!" you grab a bunch of his hair and hug him tight, making his nose press between the valley of your breasts.

"Mhmm..." he replies lazily. "I can give you a chance to make it up to me though." He kisses your nipple through the fabric of your dress and looks up at you. He doesn't need a nod to know that you are up for his challenge. He helps you shimmy yourself out of that flimsy dress and it lays discarded on the top of the car. Now you are butt naked in the middle of nowhere, atop Yuta's car. The thrill of it sends a shiver down your spine and certainly a shiver up your puss.

Yuta makes you get on your knees on top of the hood, facing the windshield. The cold touch of the glass on your squished breasts makes you sensitive and ticklish. He pokes your ass. "Up!"

At once, you raise your bottom for him to feast his eyes on. A leaky mess you are, glossy liquid covering your inner thigh and the opening to your womanhood. Yuta doesn't waste too much time gawking at it though and gets straight to business.

He licks one strip up your slit to get you started as you moan out. "Yes, that's your task. You only get to come today, if you are loud enough."

"What if someone comes running to find us?" you ask, turning around only to see Yuta raise a brow. "Isn't that what you want?"

You hate that he is right. This is exactly what you want. It's a massive, massive turn on for you, the risk of being seen. How does he know though?

You merely nod at him and lay your face back down on the glass as he continues to alternate between licking your nether lips and inserting his tongue into your hole. With each move, you are unable to hold you moans and whimpers that echo away in the night.

Soon, you feel another tingle of a bubbling orgasm and your moans turn to lower groans which makes Yuta stop again.

"Yuta, I swear to fucking god!" you scream out.

"Yes, keep that volume up!" Yuta grabs a hold of your ass and takes a deep dive into your crevice, picking up a lot of speed as he goes in and out with tongue and using two of his fingers to prod at your clit.

"Ah! Oh my goodness!" you shriek, moaning louder than ever, your breasts hitting the windshield with every time he thrusts his face into your heat.

"I-I'm cum-" this time, you are able to go over, losing your mind in the process, going cross eyed as Yuta doesn't slow down at all.

He doesn't stop until minutes later when your orgasm has subsided, and you are speechless from overstimulation. When he retracts you simply slump down the windshield and lay flat back on the hood, facing the sky - your face red and in a daze.

"How does it feel?" Yuta asks, placing a warm hand on your abdomen. He is completely soaked - in sweat and in your fluids. So is the blanket he laid out on the hood.

"Please Yuta..." you beg him, raising your hands up at him. "I can't, I need to kiss you, please..."

"God, baby..." Yuta pouts at you and leans over, connecting your lips together as your grab hold of his hair and deepen the kiss. This is all you wanted at the end of the day. To feel his lips and their warmth, to breathe in his odor. When you finally separate, you keep your heads connected and smile like a crazed teenager.

"Wait, it's your turn..." you remind him.

"It's fine. We can do that later." Yuta says, grabbing a hold of the second blanket to wrap around you while using the first one to clean you up down under. "You'll catch a cold out of here. Sorry, if I went too far."

You don't want to buy that though.

"You're going too far if you don't let me see mini Yuta again."

"Don't call it that oh my god." Yuta fake-heaves.

"But that's my favorite part about you!"

"What happened to liking someone for their character, Y/N?"

"Ughh... shush.. you!" you snap, getting off the car and reaching for your dress. It's a chore to put it on but you have to.

"I'm not letting you go without pleasuring you." you declare but Yuta merely guides you by the back and makes you sit inside the car.

"Soon, soon." he says. "We're going back to my hotel anyway. We need a change of clothes and a proper bed."

"So it's part two of last night?" you ask him teasingly. It was impressive that it had not even been a whole 24 hours yet it seemed like forever between last time and now. It also seemed like you got to know so much more of this man who was a complete stranger as of last night.

This made you smile but it immediately made you anxious as well.

When this night is over, where will the two of you be?

You were partially afraid to say anything and break your trance. what if this is all a dream?

"What are you thinking?" He suddenly asks, caressing your hair. This is the first time he touches you in a while. Well probably, it's only been a few minutes but it felt like a while.

"I-" you begin but are unable to find words.

"Do you think this is just an infatuation and will dwindle down to nothing in the next few days?" you finally say. It's better to face the truth now than to delay it. Yuta has to take a chance to ponder over it for a while which only proceeds to create a knot in your stomach.

"That depends on whether you believe in love at first sight?" he replies unexpectedly.

A woman of no nonsense, you can't help but reply "I don't."

"I don't either." he reciprocates. "But I do believe in potential at first sight."

He separates himself from you only for a moment to hold you and look into your eyes as he speaks, pouring out his feelings.

"After the first time we locked eyes, after our first conversation and after the first night we spent together - albeit it was rushed and impulsive and although I won't say I was in love back then, I can't stop thinking about you either." He tells you, transparently.

"This pull between us, it doesn't exist without reason. So I'm asking you..." He says, taking a deep breath.

"Are you willing to give this a chance?"

----

Megumi and you met at a mutual friend's house-warming party. Both of you were newcomers in a small town who migrated for work. There was that in common other than the fact that both of you were slightly awkward, not great talkers and certainly liked the indoors better than adventure. You were just happy that you could find a similar soul in a town full of older people or already married people with families. It was almost not surprising when the two of you started dating. It was a choice of convenience. There was love, without doubt. At least from your side. How could you hate a man, who made you coffee first thing in the morning after a long, tiring day at work. How could you not love a man who played with stray puppies he found on the side of the road. How could you not love a man who knew how to have intelligent conversations and also appreciate your intelligence at the same time.

For you, love was a no-brainer. If this wasn't your perfect match, who would be?

Although Megumi had never explicitly given you any 'I Love You's ,Who could Megumi possibly find in this small town that was more compatible with him than you?

So, when another new hire at the company, Nobara, first reached out to you to set her up with some social circles, you started out by inviting her home for dinner. The three of you had a pleasant evening and you thought nothing of it. Megumi and you had been together for three years at this point. You were even planning to adopt a dog together. You thought of yourself as a married couple, almost.

Then why?

Why, after a horribly taxing day at work, with chinese takeout in your hand and barely enough energy to make it your room, do you find yourself listening to noises of a creaking bed. Why do you find yourself looking at your boyfriend biting Nobara's lips as he tells her the filthiest, yet most romantic phrases. Why is pressing her forehead on to her as he cums. It doesn't make sense. Intercourse with Megumi was quiet, quick affair. That's why it was 'intercourse'. It was something the two of you did to quickly satisfy each other, mostly him.

When you dropped the take-out bag, curry streamed out onto the wooden floor and carpet, and you could only do so much to keep yourself upright and not fall into the small puddle of curry. The noise made the duo turn to look at you and your brain was completely tuning out what Nobara had to say. She seemed to be apologetic, pleading almost but your eyes only followed Megumi as his bare self got out of bed, put his pants on and walked right past you - like you were air. Like you were invisible to him. He went to the restroom and closed the door, with Nobara scurrying out of the house, half clothed.

That night, a part of you was lost forever. The other part of you that refused to give up your survival instincts pushed you - it pushed you until you found yourself at Momo and Noritoshi's doorstep - the Kamo household.

You remember telling them the whole thing as it killed you again, word by word. You find yourself sobbing till you got a panic attack - and then one more. Momo had to call over Miwa and her boyfriend, Kokichi too.

They were the ones who decided that to pull you out of this, you'd need to be pulled out of that town.

The Vegas trip happened only after you promised yourself in the mirror, with a lot of conviction that you would never, ever fall in love with a man again.

----

It's like his confession sobers you out completely. You fall back into the chasm of reality.

Yuta's dark blue eyes wait earnestly for an answer. And maybe you know what you're going to tell him. You'll have to tell him it's not going to work. You'll have to tell him you can't place your heart in jeopardy again.

You will have to stab yourself in your heart because you can't afford to hurt yourself, but you absolutely can't lie to this man and hurt him too.

After tonight, you will let him go..

"Let's get going, Yuta." You laugh nervously. "I'm too tired, don't mind if I sleep."

to be continued.... PART 4 HERE

a/n: phew, this part took some time to figure out what direction I wanted this to go and what elements I wanted to include in this part. Expect a LOT of angst in the next one. I believe Part 4 may be the penultimate chapter. Till then, stay tuned and stay healthy!

116 notes · View notes

sweetheartmotives · 8 months

Note

I saw your request to the void for story requests! Here I am to oblige, if you'd so please.

Would you be down to write about a Yandere!Prince, who falls in love with a low tier noble. Just the idea of going to a party to for our coming of age, expecting nothing given how low your family is in status, only for the crown prince to fall in love at first sight!

Or something like that xD. Hope you are taking care!

-🌟

𓆩:*¨༺✧♛ Yandere prince ♛ ✧༻¨*:𓆪

Desc and possible Cw: Yandere themes, reader is tired of everything and everyone, reader is a lil hater, the prince is an egotistical jerk [what did we expect], and probably some wrong info about the medieval times. [Please forgive me if anything is wrong, I'm a bit misinformed.]

Let me know if I missed any!

As a low-tier noble, you never expected to be invited to a royal party, let alone the coming-of-age celebration hosted by the crown prince himself. Your mother had insisted on dressing you in some of your grandparents' old clothes, which may not be as elegant as what the other guests will be wearing, but they'll do. Nervous knots twist in your stomach as you prepare to attend the kingdom's most exclusive event. Would the prince even notice you? Let's be serious: even though your mother had you bathe three times in a row, sewed your grandparent's old clothing to make it look presentable, and did your hair in a nice way, you still wouldn't be noticed. After finishing getting ready, your mother added some finishing touches and sent you off to the party.

As you walk toward the kingdom, the cold winter air blows past you, causing you to shiver and pout. This is total bullshit. Why did the prince decide to hold his coming-of-age party in the winter? This is bullshit! BULLSHITTT!!!! As you internally cuss out the prince and his parents, you enter through the kingdom's gates and into the castle, where beautiful women and handsome men make their way to the ballroom to meet the prince. You scoff quietly and follow behind the crowd, heading toward the ballroom.

As soon as you and the crowd enter, the sparkling chandelier springs to life and lights the entire room with a powerful glow that nearly blinds you. And now that I mention blinding, the light shining off the gold vases and wall decor is so darn bright it's burning your eyes! Damn this place! You squint and focus your eyes on the dramatic prince on his father's throne, cross-legged. What a prick! First, he hosts this stupid party in the middle of winter, aka the time when the weather is the coldest it's ever been, then he turns on that bright ass chandelier that nearly blinded you all, and now he has the audacity to act like he's above all of you? I mean, he is royalty, so technically, yeah, he is, but still! What a jackass! You scowl and stand behind the beautiful women in big, puffy dresses. They'll cover you nicely with those giant dresses; btw, they do look super nice, so you might compliment them later.

The prince clears his throat and stands up, placing a hand on his chest while the other sneaks its way behind his back. “I welcome you all to my ceremony; today we are celebrating me, of course, and since I'm the most important individual here, it's quite obvious I'm the one who is getting celebrated.” The prince said it very smugly as he smirked and waved his hand around as he spoke. “I invited some men here since I don't want any of you ladies to go home tonight feeling disappointed, so have fun mingling about! Now, we will begin dancing in 3, 2, and 1.” The prince steps down from the throne and snaps for a butler to turn on the music. Just as soon as he [the prince] snaps, a butler turns on music. The crowd claps and begins to spread around the ballroom. Some women try to ask politely for a dance with the prince, and some men ask a few women around to dance. This is truly ridiculous. To you, of course.

You sigh and make your way through the crowded room, aiming for a nearby balcony to hide away until the party is over. Everyone knows that the prince is an egotistical jerk, but no one has ever said anything because of the fear of getting executed or something like that. You don't know, and you don't care; you just want to leave. I mean, you could leave, but you'd be reprimanded by your mother for leaving the prince's ‘ceremony’, if you could call it that. It's more of a show-off party for the sake of boosting the prince's ego. It's bad enough that he's a jerk, but he's a jerk with an ego as big as a windmill.

Unknown to you, the prince has already got his eyes set on someone. You!

After a while of leaning on the balcony and staring off into the nearby scenery, someone comes beside you. You feel an arm against yours, and you turn your head to look at the person—it's the prince! You give him a mean, judgy look in hopes he'll find you unappealing and go away. He only smirks in return and opens his mouth to speak. “What are you doing out here? You should be out there celebrating me with the others.” He says smoothly, his tone of smugness never leaving for a second. You roll your eyes and look at him. “I'm out here because I want to be out here," you say plainly, still praying, no, hoping that your attitude will drive him away. The prince chuckles and rests his elbow on the balcony's railing, placing his head in his hand. “Seriously? Why? Don't you like celebrating the one who's your soon to be king?” He replies, smiling smugly as he chuckles even more. You scoff and look away from him, deciding to ignore him.

The prince, after 30 seconds of silence, smiles even more and snaps his fingers in your face. “Hey, you shouldn't ignore your higher-ups. It's impolite.” He smirks and giggles. You give him a confused look as you judgely look him up and down. The prince laughs and throws his head back. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” He says in between laughs, clearly finding your judgmental look funny. “Because you're annoying.” You reply harshly, not holding back your annoyance, even though the person you're talking to is royalty. He laughs even harder and smacks the balcony rail in amusement. “Wow, so mean~ you're even more than looks! I think I love you already.” He smirks and giggles even more. You deadpan. Excuse him? Did he just say he loved you? You blink in surprise for a few seconds before scowling and giving him another judgmental look. He laughs even harder at this and takes a few minutes to catch his breath from all the one-sided laughter. After that, the entire night [the rest of the party] is just you and him, him laughing his ass off while you scowl and keep giving him those amusing judgmental looks.

From the looks of it, I guess he's already decided who his future spouse is.

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Welcome to the end credits! This is where I will give information on my new or previous yans!

The prince is bisexual! He just needed an excuse to invite men so he could take a look at his options in both categories.

Hello 🌟 anon! Thanks for requesting, this was super fun to write, and it was probably the fastest fic I've ever written, haha! I hope you and everyone else are doing well! I hope you enjoyed reading as I enjoyed writing! (^ω^)

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#yandere prince #yandere oc #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere male #male yandere #yandere scenarios #yandere scenario #x gender neutral reader #x gn reader #gn reader #x reader #x gn y/n

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slippinninque · 3 months

Text

😤Fussy 😤

Fontaine x black reader

Fontaine listens on as you get some things off your chest.

Warnings: fluff, cursing, fussy!reader, long fic, before work drop so may have some typos before I can edit lol

Fontaine can tell the difference between you being angry and you being fussy.

One would entail a cold front of emotions, you turned into an absolute Ice Queen when angry.

Fussy, on the other hand, Fontaine found you to be utterly adorable. He would never dare to say this as the Ice Queen will appear, but he did keep his smiles to himself.

You reminded him of a video he saw of a kitten at the vets office, just meowing and screaming at the audacity of being taken care of.

How you stomped around the house like an angry little bear, your lil' flip flops slapping frantically as you tried to remember what you came into the room for.

If he saw you wince when taking off your bra or feel you tossing in turning in bed, he knew what was coming. He kept the heating pad and ice cream bars ready.

The wrinkle in your nose? The sharpness to your gaze? The one dimple that came out when you purses your lips? Fontaine was weak for it.

He rather you have a rough day and come home spitting fire rather than see you tripping over your tears.

Fontaine knew you were a pot of emotions and not everyone that poured out may be pleasant, but he loved you more than enough for that not to matter. What mattered to you mattered to him. While he may rob you or poke fun, Fontaine will still offer any help you may need.

--------

"Whatchu doin', pretty?"

"Locking up."

"Mhn. Sound mad, you okay?"

"...smch, I'm fine. This dang-darn-damn-fuckin'-fuck ass gate won't close!

Fontaine choked on the other end of the line and you paused in wrestling with the iron gate. It was never the same since the Disastrous Book Fair of 2018. Poor thing.

"Don't you be sayin' that out loud, baby. No one should know yo' gate don't work."

"What? What they goin' do, burgle some damn books? At the free book house?"

"Damn, that's what they callin' libraries now?"

You growled into your phone as you strained to keep the latch lines up just enough to flip the lock.

"That's what Imma call 'em now. D'you know this old man got mad at me 'cause I wouldn't show him how to pull up titty pictures?!"

"Mn! Bold as hell."

"Right? Then gonna look me up an' down and ask for someone else t--!"

You gasped then shrieked as the latched pinched your finger before settling into place. Rage doused you and before you could recall yourself--you dropped your bag and kicked the gate.

"Fuck you, fucking broke-ass, rusty-ass, tragic-ass gate! Imma turn yo' ass into scrap!"

Furiously stabbing the lock home and finally securing the gate, you grabbed your fallen items. Still ranting and raving under your breath, you did take a look around to see you were alone before tattling to Fontaine.

"The gate fucking bit me..."

"Just come on home, baby, okay?" Fontaine's voice gentle and it somehow only fueled your indignation.

"I am," You snapped as you stomped towards your car, "I want to cuddle. Hard."

------

Yowling, crowing, and calling --you told on the day you had. Unreasonably unsatisfied patrons, rinky-dink electronics that should have been swapped out ages ago, and to top it all off the A/C died as the day reached its muggiest.

"That was when I decided to leave the house." You muttered, staring gloomily down at the bump of your belly beneath the seat belt.

You were only bloated but you hated how you looked like you were expecting in your favorite skirt. Your hair wasn't fuzzy in the way you liked and your locs were staging a rebellion.

As you crawled through the late-afternoon traffic, you noted that your tank was nearing half. You always kept a full tank if you could help it.

"I ain't worried 'bout that car," Fontaine's voice held no room for argument through the car speakers, "I'll take your car an' fill it up later--I asked you to come on home."

When Fontaine wouldn't let you stop for gas, you huffed and puffed to his unceasing fondness. All up until you pulled down the street and into your driveway.

As soon as you came through the door, Fontaine was there to meet you. He took away your purse and pulled you into his arms, despite your grumblings.

"I could have done it, y'know." You grumbled into his chest. It felt good to be home. It felt better being in Fontaine's arms but there was a restlessness under your skin. You resisted the urge to bite the

"I want to do it for you, how's that?" Fontaine countered before he began running his hands over your aching shoulders. You grumbled, momentarily lost in the feel of his hands on you.

Then you remembered your outrage.

"No, I wanted to do it 'cause I was out and I could have gotten my cinnamon bun early. I could have slept in an extra 5 minutes..."

He leaned put his lips to your ear, "Then how 'bout I get you your cinnamon bun, too. Hm?"

"I guess..."

"Yeah?"

His lips trailed softly around your neck to kiss your cheek, arms tightening around you enough that the next sigh that escaped you wasn't as hostile.

Fontaine took your silence as acceptance as he lead you away from the door and past the living room.

"I want to sit." You muttered, enticed by the blanket nest you made the previous night. Fontaine held you fast with as tsk and insisted you shower.

Your aggravation flared but before you could open your mouth to complain, Fontaine kissed you again. He grabbed a handful of your ass in tandem, swallowing down your surprised yelp.

"Get in there and clean up, Imma feed you and you can tell me all about it."

He released you with a pat to your ass and a "go on now" slant to his eyes. Stomping your foot was all you could think to do before turning on your heel and going towards the bathroom.

-------

The shower did help to loosen your body but the wrinkle in your brow remained as you left the bathroom.

Fontaine met you with another kiss, pressing a plate into your hands before wordlessly setting you toward the couch. You gratefully settled into your blanket nest and released a huff, your comfort and hunger coming at once.

Still...

You didn't eat. You craned your neck over the couch to try and see into the kitchen, only to be caught by Fontaine as he balanced his dinner and drinks for the both of you.

"I'm comin', baby." His knowing grin warmed your face as you settled back down. Then you registered what was on the screen and perked up, absentmindedly reaching for your folk.

"You don't mind, do you? You can put on somethin'--

"No, no--I want to see you play."

Fontaine had a talent for eating dinner and keeping himself alive on GTA. You liked the chaos of the game and Fontaine liked to ride around to cause some just for you.

By the time your fork hit the ceramic of the plate, Fontaine was joined by a few of his homies though he didn't bother with the headset. You watched them challenge rivals and loot their spots. The action sucked you in and hearing the gang laugh together and crack jokes loosened your frown up.

Belly full and suddenly feeling very lazy, you fell over to lay in his lap. Fontaine chuckled and leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. He shifted to put his feet up on the table, giving you more room to lay out and face the TV.

"Feel better fusspot?"

Maybe a bit pouty but the only remainder of your annoyance came from your bandaged finger. You could not recall too much, not while settled on Fontaine's warm thighs and perfectly encased in your blanket.

Content was creeping back into your chest, shooing away the yucky feeling and returning your balance. All you had to say about your day has been said ten times over, the horse was buried by now.

"...Yeah. I feel better."

Looking up at him in time to catch his fond smile, you felt the rest of your ire fade away. You just had an off day and you would have a better one tomorrow.

Now was time to enjoy the night with your man.

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Ending notes: another before work drop of something that was flying around my mind! 🤣Tell me what you think and give me some prompts! Im slow but I love to get them! Please comment and reblog! 💕💜✨

✨taglist: ✨@megamindsecretlair @thadelightfulone @mag1calenchantr3ss @cocoeffects @wide-nose-and-wonderful @8ttached @thadelightfulone @hobiesmain @thickeeparker @longpause-awkwardsmile @ms-angiealsina @educatorsareslutstoo @mysterychick93 @sageispunk@hunnishive@notapradagurl7@mcondance@longpause-awkwardsmile@ms-angiealsina@educatorsareslutstoo@miyuhpapayuh@mogul93 @kindofaintrovert@blowmymbackout @mcondance @kindofanenigma @eggnox

#fontaine x black reader #fontaine #fontaine x reader #they cloned tyrone #john boyega #x black reader #fontaine x blackfemreader #Fontaine x Black!Fem!Reader

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etherealyoungk · 1 year

Text

badboy!wonwoo au

a/n: because im down so bad for this idea of wonwoo

pairing: badboy!wonwoo x reader

warnings: kissing, use of curse words // tw: knife, violence, blood

word count: 1.9k

taglist: @daisycheols @merapehlapyaarwaapasaagaya @ksyongi @hyunyin @yoongyuplace

badboy!wonwoo who always wears his signature black leather jacket, with his hair always messily styled or slicked back. either way, he pulled it off, making him look hot. he would wear a chain around his neck sometimes and rings around his fingers which somehow only added to his charm. his one arm was adorned with tattoos that just made him look pretty darn attractive when he wore sleeveless, which also highlighted his well-built arms.

badboy!wonwoo who was usually cold to everyone, not bothering to make small talk. he was always going causing trouble and everyone in college usually steered right clear of him - except you. you didn’t take shit from anyone, especially wonwoo. so if he came around bothering you, you made sure to put him in his place. he’d be amused because that’s not what usually happens and this just makes him want to rile you up more. so that’s exactly what he does.

badboy!wonwoo who would come into the library, not bothering to be quiet, as he walks along the rack of shelves and books before he randomly pulls out a book, feigning interest in it, his eyes looking for you instead. he would spot you sitting as you typed away on your laptop, studying and he’ll make his way towards you as he slams the book down a little too hard on the table, startling you.

“what the fuck”, you mumble under your breath as you look up to see wonwoo taking a seat in front of you. you roll your eyes as you continue studying, ignoring wonwoo’s existence. “knock knock”, he says after a few seconds when you don’t acknowledge him. he repeats the words making you annoyed as you snap your head up to look at him. “what?”, you ask. “it’s rude to ignore someone”, he says deadpan, his deep voice illegally attractive. “you’re supposed to be quiet in a library”, you snap back, making him tilt his head in amusement. “really?”, “yeah, maybe you’d know that if you actually studied or came to the library with to read”, you say making him smirk softly. oh, how he loved when you fought back against him. wonwoo would follow you home that evening, feigning innocence when you turn around. “quit following me", you say, annoyed. “i'm not, my house is this way”, he says with a stupid smirk that you would very much want to wipe off his gorgeously handsome face. you just huff as you continue walking and reach home. but in reality, he was just making sure you got home okay since it was late but he wasn't going to tell you that.

badboy!wonwoo who would get always into fights and always somehow show up with a bruise here or there. one night he shows up at your doorstep wounded and bruised and bleeding. “mind sparing some water to drink”, he asks. you observe the bruise on his cheek and knuckles and his busted lip. “you’re hurt”, you say. “water baby i need some water hm”, he repeats. you let him in and he doesn’t bother sitting down, just gulps down the water and turns to leave when you stop him. “you’re hurt. let me clean up your wounds”, you say but he doesn’t listen, brushing it off and walking off, a tense look on his face. you don’t see him on campus the next day or for the next three days either. and when he finally does come back to class, he’d be up to his usual antics - bothering you. his wounds seemed to have healed a bit and you’re secretly glad that he was back because you had missed seeing his annoying face. he crashes your table at lunch. “where have you been?”, you ask. “why? did you miss me baby?”, he prompts with that stupid smile, making you roll your eyes but he doesn’t miss the small smile you give him when he says that.

but after that day wonwoo wasn’t to be seen at college. fast forward to a few days later and you’re walking back home from your part-time job. it’s dark and it’s late as you’re walking down the road. you hear voices down the alley in the road next to the road where your house was, and you hear a voice you’d recognize anywhere – wonwoo. you walk towards the source of the noise, only to hear people yelling and someone being pushed. wonwoo is standing and his jacket is lost on the floor and his tattoos are visible. “what the fuck is your problem”, wonwoo grunts out, jumping onto the other guy as he throws a punch. but then wonwoo slips and the other two guys take their chance. you watch from the corner as two guys throw punches and kick at wonwoo as he grunts, collapsing to the ground. you’re frozen in your spot, unsure what to do. should you call the cops? but what if wonwoo got in trouble too? the other guy fetches a small pocket knife from his pocket, slides it open, and laughs. fuck this was getting bad. you couldn’t just stand there as you watched wonwoo get killed so you did a stupid thing and threw yourself into the fire.

“stop or i’ll call the cops”, you say stepping into the light. they turn around to look at you, bursting into a fit of laughter when they see you. “what’s this”, the guy with the knife mumbles. “y/n what are you doing”, you hear wonwoo say urgently. “looks like your lover is here huh?”, the guy repeats, stepping closer to you, but you stand your ground.

“let him go”, you repeat trying your best to sound confident but you’re shaking on the inside. wonwoo manages to stand up, breathing hard. “you’re cute aren't you��, he whispers as his hand reaches out to your cheek but you smack his hand away and he lets out an annoyed scoff. “was going to be nice to you and let him go, but you just lost that chance”, he spits out, turning around and slicing a part of wonwoo’s arm, making you let out a gasp. “wonwoo”, you yell, stepping forward but the other guy holds you back. and now you’re thinking you should have called the cops before interfering.

“get away from them”, wonwoo spits out, stepping forward but the other guy is quicker and grabs your wrist tightly, making wonwoo freeze. “move and they’ll get hurt”, he threatens. wonwoo grunts, balling his palms into fists, angry. “ let them go”, wonwoo says, emphasizing each word. you’re so scared as you stand trapped. you try to pull your hand away but his grip is too strong. "just then a police car siren can be heard and the guys look out. “shit, let’s go”, the guy holding you says to the other guy. “you got lucky today”, he mutters as the police car gets closer and he lets you go, pushing you forward, making you stumble and fall. they make a run for it and wonwoo is beside you in an instant.

“y/n are you okay”, he asks worry written all over his face, his brows furrowed in concern as he looks at you. you notice his arm where he got sliced and it’s still bleeding, blood running down his arm. his lip is busted again and his cheek is scratched too, not the mention his bruised and bleeding knuckles.

“you’re bleeding”, is all you can say as you stand up. you drag wonwoo back to your place and make him sit on the couch as you fetch your first aid kit to tend to his wounds. you both sit in silence as you treat wonwoo’s wounds. you first take care of the cut on his arm. he winces and inhales a sharp breath as the disinfectant burns. you can feel his burning gaze on you and you can’t take the suffocating silence anymore.

“what the fuck were you thinking wonwoo. you could have gotten hurt”, you says, your voice sharp with an undertone of worry. he don’t say anything, still shaken up from what just happened.

“i’m okay”, he says like it's completely normal, only making you even madder. "you're so-", you say but your voice betrays you, cracking at the end. the way there was a slight tremor in your hands as you try to put the band-aid on wonwoo. and that told him everything he needs to know and that you were most definitely not okay.

“hey look at me”, he asks softly and you slowly lift your eyes up to meet his. your eyes are wet from trying to hold back your tears. you let a few tears roll down your cheeks. “you’re such an idiot, always getting in trouble and getting into fights”, you mutter. “what if you got hurt wonwoo, you could have gotten killed”, you say and he realizes how worried you actually were. he wipes your tears with his thumb as he jokes about how he would have survived anyway and those guys wouldn’t have really done anything much, only to earn a whack on the chest from you. he says a few cheesy lines to make you feel better as you clean up the blood on his knuckles.

and that’s when you realize how hot wonwoo actually looks after a fight, fuck. you rarely see him without his jacket that is always covering up his tattoos but tonight he just looks so damn attractive that you can feel yourself getting nervous. you try to distract yourself by making conversation. "did they hurt?", you ask, referring to wonwoo's tattoos as you gently trace one over with your finger. "hm not really?"

you focus your attention back on his bruised knuckles and wipe them clean before wrapping them in gauze. your hand was tiny compared to wonwoo's and it was quite amusing actually. "my hands so small", you say, putting your hand against his hand to see the size difference. "if you wanted to hold my hand you could just say baby", he says with that stupid smile as he intertwines his fingers in yours. you roll your eyes. you slip your hand out of his and he chuckles. you get back to treating his wounds and move a little closer to him so you can clean the scratch on his cheek, not realizing how close you were to him until you glance down at your lips and gulp.

he notices where your gaze has been and smirks as he slowly leans forward. “be gentle hm, it hurts”, he says lowly. you go back to tending to the cut on his cheek and put the tiny band aid on the wound and your gaze flickers back to wonwoo. he’s so close you can feel your heart beat faster and faster and you’re pretty sure wonwoo can hear it too. you don’t know what comes over you but you lean in, closing the gap between you both as you kiss him. he kisses you back with vigor, his hand going up to cup your cheek as you deepen the kiss. your hand grips the collar of his shirt as his other hand wraps around your waist, pulling you closer as he moves his lips against yours, making you sigh into the kiss.

you pull away trying to catch your breath as you look at wonwoo looks at you, his eyes going a shade darker, his hair disheveled and messy, his lips pink and his hands warm. "didn’t know you had a thing for bad boys”, he mumbles against your lips. “i hate you”, you mumble back, kissing him. “hm i know”, he whispers, capturing your lips again as he kisses you dizzy.

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melancholic-hues · 5 months

Text

the hectic way of things (take a break)

posted on AO3

fandom - honkai: star rail

rating - general audiences

warning - no warnings apply

category - f/m

pairings - boothill/robin ; robin & sunday ; boothill & robin ; boothill & robin

tags - written before version 2.2 ; alternate universe

word count - 7848 words

chapters - 1/?

She is just about done with her makeup, about to move onto her wig, when she hears her balcony door lock get picked. Then comes the distinctive sound of the door sliding open, and the clacking of heels against tiled floors.

“Boothill!” Robin shoots up and runs over as the cyborg opens his arms wide. She crashes into him, her landing against his metal chest softened by the vest he’s wearing, and he twirls her around, his cold, metal hand in her own soft, warm ones. “You came!” she beams, expression genuine and sincere.

“Wouldn’t miss a second of you for the world, darlin’,” he drawls, accent all western and sweet, leaning down to kiss her. “‘sides, I did promise I would come, didn’t I?”

“You did,” she smiles, giving him another peck on the lips. “Through my balcony.”

“Aye, cut me some slack. I at least picked the lock. If it were one of my targets, I would’ve blown the darn thing to pieces,” Boothill grins, his smile sharp and charming and all the reasons why she fell for him in the first place.

“You could’ve come through the door, you know?” she says, grabbing a light trench coat and leading him over to her vanity, where a blonde wig sat atop a bust. They’re going to an amusement park just to have fun, so she has to wear a disguise. Thankfully, she’s done this before with ease — get a disguise, she means. She hasn’t been to an amusement park in a while.

Boothill trots over, footsteps soft, leaning on the wall, next to her vanity. He says, “didn’t want your freak of a brother to stare at me. Climbin’ through windows are more my style.”

“He’s the one driving us there, so you might as well have given him a proper hello,” Robin hums a light and happy tune, carefully tucking her blue hair under the wig cap. “Don’t stare at me like this, I’m practically bald right now.”

“And I’d still love you all the same,” Boothill reassures, “with hair or no hair.”

Even though it’s meant as a simple and silly sentence, Robin blushes. “Thank you,” she mutters, carefully putting the blonde wig on. She hates using wig glue, and, since this is only for a short while, clips will suffice. While she is snapping the clips together, she looks over at Boothill’s appearance.

It’s not often you get to see a cyborg, especially one who is a Galaxy Ranger and, well, pretty, like Boothill. He looks the same: a worn, black leather jacket and similar-looking pants; a belt full of ammo, his revolver, and a coil of lasso; and, of course, a wide-brimmed cowboy hat.

“Ay, quit staring,” Boothill teases, throwing her a wink.

Robin giggles. “Alright, alright. Aren’t you going to do anything about that belt? Pretty sure you can’t bring that to the amusement park. Which, might I remind you, is in the public. Also, you’re notoriously well-known around here.”

“Can’t help it if the people recognize this absolute perfection of a face and this machine of a body,” Boothill sighs, popping his hip out, all cold, metal plates. She agrees; his face is absolute perfection, and she would be lying if she said she doesn’t often think about the machine of a body that he has. “I’ll just swallow my gun and bullets.”

“We can keep your stuff in Sunday’s car. Most likely, he’s just going to sit around and work.” Work, work, work. That’s all there is, these days.

There was a time, far before, when her brother wasn’t so caught up in work and professionalism. When he was actually, you know, her brother. When he was just Sunday, not the leader of the Oak Family. Not the head of Penacony. They used to escape their lives all the time when they were younger: she, standing on a box and singing; he, sitting on the ground and being her first and most loyal fan.

Now, they barely get twenty minutes of face-to-face time with each other a day.

Hopefully, this day trip to the amusement park can change that. Even for a day. She’s willing to give up her entire singing career for a good, solid week with her brother.

“…you alright?” Boothill asks slowly, leaning down to check on her, hands stuffed casually in his pockets. “Robin?”

Robin nods, smoothing out the fabric of her knee-length dress and shrugging on the coat to hide her wings. “I was thinking. Sunday wasn’t always this obsessed with work.” After pausing for a second, she continues, “I’m worried about him, Boothill. What if he’s overworking himself? I feel like he’s a ticking time bomb, just about to blow.” She stares at her reflection in the vanity mirror. The crease in her brows shouldn’t be there. She has to be happy.

“Your brother, ah,” Boothill sucks in air through his sharp teeth, “as much as we don’t like each other, and don’t tell him I said this, but he can handle this. He’s a tough one. Takes more than that to crack him.”

“But everyone has a limit.” Robin takes a deep breath, the tears retreating. She puts on a smile. Her reflection does the same. It’s a practiced expression, one too often used. “What if we take him along? Invite him to go on some rides with us? He’s probably already donning a disguise. Might as well put it to good use instead of wasting it, sitting at a table and creepily watching me.”

Boothill stares at her, incredulous in his target-shaped eyes. “Your brother? In an amusement park, actually going on the rides with us? I’m sorry princess, but the chances of that happenin’ ain’t somethin’ I’d bet my best revolver on.”

She rakes a hand through the wig, smoothing out its strands. “Maybe. I don’t know. I want him to stop working for more than an hour straight in a time when he isn’t sleeping.”

“Well, you sure as hell can try. For goodness sake, you’re his sister. He’ll listen to you more than any of us,” Boothill shrugs, the sunlight from the balcony behind glinting off the metal pieces of his jacket.

Robin looks down at her vanity, various cosmetics spread across the surface, and wrings her hands together. She looks away from Boothill for a moment, her shoulders tensed in worry.

Boothill strides over, his metal hands on Robin’s soft shoulders. She looks at both their reflections in the mirror and thinks, kind of wryly amused, of how different yet how compatible they are. She has never known a day of hard, arduous labor underneath a scorching sun, chasing an elusive target; Boothill has never had anyone to fret, to worry over him, almost to the point of overprotectiveness.

“Hey, now,” Boothill softly coaxes, mechanical voice husky yet calming, “you’re the Robin. You’re magnificent, darlin’. Now, you don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise, ‘cause you ain’t nothing less than wonderful. If you really set your mind to it, I’m sure your brother will understand and do whatever you want. Hell, maybe he’ll even give the head position to someone else if you ask hard enough. Got it?”

Robin’s shoulders drop. They lock eyes in the mirror reflection, and she gives him a genuine smile, her hands holding onto Boothill’s and her wings softly fluttering. There’s something about his words that, even though she’s heard them hundreds of times before from other people, makes her actually believe him. “Got it.”

“Great, now get out there and wow us all, sweetie,” Boothill urges, jutting his chin toward the door. He extends a hand toward Robin.

In moments like these, she finds it all the more lucky that Boothill is here. Underneath that cold, beautiful exterior is a soft, gentle person looking for a purpose. She’s glad he gave her a chance.

Robin takes his hand, and he leads her up, pulling her close. Robin lets out a gasp of surprise, one hand braced on where his collarbone would be and mouth an “o” as he spins her to the door. They stop in front of it, and Boothill bends into a low bow.

“After you,” he says, hat hiding most of his face from view.

Robin opens her door and walks through, Boothill following. “I’m sorry for dumping all of that on you. This is supposed to be a happy day. You didn’t even ask for it,” Robin mumbles, walking down the long hallway, toward the stairways. The expensive statues and paintings that they walk past only further remind her of her duty to be perfect and focus on Penacony and work first and foremost. It fills her with a heavy sense of guilt.

“‘s fine,” Boothill simply says. “You oughta have someone to confide in. No good keepin’ this all for yourself, you know?”

Robin looks at their intertwined hands. She nods.

“Wow. Look at those pretentious brats.” Boothill snickers at the portrait of a former head of the Oak Family. Back straight, wings unfurled and radiating pure power, expression powerful yet patronizing.

Now that she thinks about it… “you’re right,” she agrees. The subject does look quite stuffy and stuck-up. Probably never had enough friends. She laughs. “I’ve never seen it that way before.”

“Now you do.” Robin notes how Boothill’s sharp smile disappears when he looks over the railing of the stairs.

She peeks over the railing to see what caused it, and someone is standing there.

Sunday.

He has an unpleasant look on his face, one of disgust and disdain. It’s directed at Boothill, right next to Robin and holding her hand, but she can’t help but feel it’s all toward her.

“Good morning, Robin,” Sunday says, eyes pinned on Boothill as they make their way down the stairs. Boothill’s heels clack on the marble, the sound ringing loud and clear, with each step. Sunday’s voice is cold.

“Good morning, brother.” She tries her best to remain upfront and cheerful. Sunday has changed out of his professional clothes, settling into a light blue hoodie and jeans. They still must be designer clothes, because can you imagine Sunday wearing cheap street clothes? But they’re, well, actually casual. She was so sure Sunday had no idea what the term ‘casual’ meant since all she saw him wear were suits. But she’s been proven wrong.

Sunday nods, acknowledging her greeting, but he hasn’t taken his eyes off Boothill, no, not even once. Boothill levels Sunday’s stare, his smile not at all friendly. Robin feels trapped between them, her gaze warrily going from Sunday to her partner.

She watches Sunday take a deep breath, shoulders rising then falling, then his gaze softens as he finally looks at her. “Well, Robin, are you ready to go? I see you’ve got quite the disguise already.”

Robin is so, so glad for the change of tone. “Shouldn’t we be talking about you? You’re finally out of that suit, for once.” She tries not to let the wistfulness and sadness bleed into her voice. She wishes Sunday (her brother, maybe? Eventually, or is she holding onto an unlikely future?) could dress like this every day.

“Well, I’ll be going to the park with you, so it’s only fitting that I stay undercover. I have upset a lot of people to attend this with you,” Sunday says. “You look beautiful, as always.”

Robin holds onto Boothill’s hand tighter. He squeezes back. ‘Attend’ as in business matters. This is still Sunday, the head of the Oak Family, and not her brother. Never her brother, it seems. “Thank you,” she replies.

Sunday opens the door for her. He lets her walk through, and she pulls Boothill through before Sunday can intentionally close the door after him.

The air outside is warm. Perfect for a trip like this.

“Isn’t the weather wonderful today, Boothill?” Robin asks. She can feel Sunday’s glare on Boothill’s back. She can tell Boothill can feel it too.

“Yeah, darlin’, it’s wonderful,” Boothill answers, voice and posture stiff. A fancy car — always extravagant, always over the top —is sitting in the driveway, and Sunday takes out a key from his pocket. Unlocks the car.

Boothill reaches forward and pulls open the passenger seat door, tipping his hat low and winking at her. “You first.” He guides her into the car’s back seat like a princess to a carriage, their hands never separating. Sunday must be having several strokes just watching them.

She so desperately wants him to accept her relationship with Boothill and actually see Boothill as a person (cyborg?), not just as barbaric, western scum that’s beneath him. She wants Sunday to listen to her just once, without having to assert his own decisions and feelings into it.

But today is not one to spend wishing for miracles. She’s going to an amusement park! The amusement park in Penacony! Where people go to have fun and relax and forget about their problems for a short while! Robin is desperate for even a minute away from her troubles.

“Everyone has their belongings, yes?” Sunday asks when he slams the driver door, inserting the key into the ignition. Boothill pulls the car door closed behind him, his cowboy hat taken off and leaning against his legs.

“Yes. Is it okay if, uh, Boothill leaves his belt in your car?” Robin asks when they’ve pulled out from the driveway. “We can’t bring it into the amusement park.”

Sunday glances at her. “Why didn’t he leave it home?”

“He’s right here, you can ask him,” Robin suggests. The reflection of Sunday in the rearview mirror’s eyes widens and Boothill stills, next to her. She sits there smiling innocently. These two are going to talk to each other, whether they like it or not. Well, this is the perfect opportunity. She’s trapped them. Either they talk, or they risk leaving Robin upset.

Sunday caves. “Well, erm, Boothill.”

Robin beams in encouragement.

“You can leave your… supplies, uh, in the car,” Sunday hastily finishes.

“Where are your manners, Boothill?” Robin chides softly.

“Thank you, Mister, uhm, Sunday,” Boothill thanks through clenched teeth.

“That wasn’t so difficult, now, was it?” Robin asks.

Sunday looks straight forward, and Boothill looks out the window. “No,” they both say at the same time. Sunday’s look is intense; Boothill looks pained. Robin hides her smile with her free hand — the other is still in Boothill’s grasp, and dear Xipe is he clutching it for dear life.

“There, there,” Robin soothes, tucking a strand of Boothill’s hair — a mix of snow white and charcoal gray — behind his ear, careful not to touch the ammo-shaped earring. She pats his cheek, one of the only remaining parts of his organic body and flesh. His stiff posture loosens by a bit.

“Robin, how are your concert performances?” Sunday interrupts.

“They’re going well! My newest album was well received by my fans and the critics. The next concert isn’t for another two system weeks,” Robin idly comments, yawning. She got up early out of pure excitement for the day, and she’s definitely regretting it.

“Tired?” Sunday glances at her through the rearview mirror.

“A bit,” Robin confirms. “Woke up too early.”

Sunday hums, “take more care of yourself.”

“Pot meets kettle, brother.” She totally doesn’t place a huge emphasis on the last word. “You got me there,” Sunday smiles.

Robin puts her and Boothill’s intertwined hands on his thigh, head leaning on his shoulder. Her eyes are drifting shut. “I can’t wait. How much longer until we get there?”

“Two and a half hours. Enough for you to get some sleep in.” Sunday’s voice is tender, reminding her of a kinder time.

“Okay.” She yawns. “Boothill?”

“Yes?” He moves to make her more comfortable on his metal body.

“Don’t start with Sunday while I’m sleeping, okay? You too, Sunday. Don’t argue with Boothill when I’m sleeping,” she murmurs.

Her eyes drift shut before they can respond.

—

Sunday watches Robin’s shoulders gradually rise and fall, her head on Boothill’s shoulders, through the rearview mirror. Boothill is looking down, quite fondly, at his sister and smiling. Their hands are intertwined, carefully placed on the cyborg’s machine thigh.

Boothill.

He has a million questions about Boothill and Robin. Where does he even start? Just how, oh how, did his sister, sweet and kind, pick up a man as bloodthirsty and crazed as Boothill? They are not compatible, no, not even in the slightest. Galaxy Rangers are dangerous, and Boothill has an enormous bounty on his head, placed by the IPC. Boothill will only ever hurt Robin.

Sunday presses his lips into a tight white line, fuming. Now that Robin’s asleep, the atmosphere changes without her bright, calming presence. He can tell Boothill doesn’t like him, but he’s Robin’s older brother, so that son of a Memory Zone Meme can take his opinion and shove it up his cogs. Aeons, he’d gladly fight Boothill if it isn’t for Robin.

No, no, that’s wrong. He can’t fight Boothill; no, that’d be stooping to his level, and Sunday is way more dignified than a ruthless, rowdy cowboy who makes a living killing others. Having a job that requires killing is never a good sign.

But Robin is an adult. She doesn’t need that much fawning over, right? That’s why Sunday doesn’t forbid her from seeing Boothill. Someone had to keep her company. Sunday can’t anymore.

His grip on the wheel tightens, skin around his knuckles turning white. Work, work, work. That’s all there is, these days. Things in Penacony have calmed, but the rebuilding effort takes so much thinking and the public needs so much reassuring and everyone is so Aeon-damned incompetent that he has to deal with everything himself.

He curses the entire Bloodhound Family, that bartender fraud, the gambler from the IPC, the arrogant doctor, Boothill.

He takes a deep breath. May Xipe and the Harmony help them all. Save him, please.

Boothill combs through Robin’s wig, stupidly smiling. Sunday is so distracted by the action that he realizes the car in front of them has slowed.

He slams the brakes, sending them all leaning forward.

Sunday’s back hits the car seat again, and his next inhales are audible. Boothill lets loose a string of swears. Sunday is saying them in his mind, two totally different things. He does not have anything in common with Boothill except for their care for Robin.

After Boothill has repositioned Robin, who slept through the whole ordeal, on his lap, Sunday snaps: “you kiss my sister with that mouth?” Thinking and actually saying these swears are two completely different things, remember? They have nothing in common!

Boothill’s expression hardens. He doesn’t back down.

“Yeah,” he bites out. “And she seems to like me perfectly fine that way.”

Sunday can’t argue with that. Robin seems content with Boothill, and he’s trying to not think about the last time she was at peace like this with him. It’s all the work piling up, he tells himself. It’s not him.

“You don’t have bad intentions with her?” Sunday asks.

Boothill considers him for a moment, wary in his piercing, target eyes, then looks back down at Robin. “No. Why would I?”

“You’re a Galaxy Ranger. You could easily use her celebrity status to your advantage. Galaxy Rangers are dangerous, you are aware of that, aren’t you?” Sunday states, savoring the moment Boothill’s cold expression wavers. Doubt. He doesn’t even need the Harmony’s powers to sense it.

“I am well aware of what I do,” Boothill responds. But his voice doesn’t have the same confidence and surety as before. Sunday subtly smirks. “And I be darned if I bring much trouble to Robin.”

“Hm? What if you do? How can I trust that you won’t go back on your promise?”

“I may not be as refined and elegant as you, Mister Sunday, but I sure as hell don’t go back on my word.” He’s being sincere. But sincerity alone isn’t enough. There needs to be more control. Sunday knows what it’s like.

“Swear it, then,” Sunday demands, voice calm but threatening. “Surely the best cyborg Galaxy Ranger out there, who hasn’t shot a single stray bullet in his career, doesn’t need to hesitate when doing so? Since you have so much pride in your occupation, surely this is but another trivial matter?” He expertly weaves the Harmony into his words, the gentle hum of its power buzzing in the back of his mind as he taps his gloved fingertips on the wheel.

Boothill’s eyes are full of fury when he declares, “I swear it. On my life.”

“Good. Because I’ll take you apart, piece by piece and cog by damn cog if I have to, if she gets hurt while in your care,” Sunday smiles and totally doesn’t think about all the ways he can take Boothill’s body apart — painfully, preferably. “The Harmony will remember this. Thank you for swearing it on your life.”

Boothill glares at him. He looks away and mutters. Something something Robin’s words.

‘Don’t start with Boothill.’

The car falls into silence, the effect of the Harmony wearing off.

A memory resurfaces.

***

They were finally alone one night, when the sun had long dipped below the horizon and the stars were brightly twinkling in the night sky. Both unable to sleep, Sunday finally decided to confront Robin about her relationship with Boothill.

“I don’t get it. Him, of all people?” Sunday asked, brows creased in worry. “He isn’t threatening you to do anything for him, right?” Fear clawed at his heart at the possibility of his sweet, dear sister being forced into doing anything. No one should have control over her — not even Sunday. He was merely suggesting what she should do as her older brother, which wasn’t ‘control.’

Robin gave him a concerned look as if questioning his sanity because, well, who didn’t love a bloodthirsty lunatic–cyborg who travels the universe to chase other targets while simultaneously having a bounty on his head? That was sarcasm. “No, brother, I love him. Truly. It’s of my own accord.”

“Are you sure? What do you even find in him?” Sunday reached for Robin’s hands. He took them in his own. “I don’t want you to get hurt, you know?”

Robin squeezed their hands. “I won’t. I can handle myself, and Boothill can protect me if I can’t myself. As for what I find in him…” she blushes, pink coating her cheeks.

Sunday waits for her response, head tilted, the wings by his head slowly flapping.

“It’s like, uhm, whenever I see him,” Robin explained, the blush reddening, “I just feel like there are butterflies in my stomach, you know? When your bones melt and suddenly, all you want to do is stare at their face. Boothill has a very pretty face.” Sunday would not refute that. By all definitions, Boothill’s face was physically attractive — physically. It’s whether one was attracted to him that matters. He wanted Robin’s response regarding that.

“I feel like he understands me,” she had finally said. “He just knows what I want. And he’s giving it to me.”

Sunday’s eyes widened. “And, uh, what do you want?” Aeons. He might be sick. Was his sister — ?

Robin seemed to realize what he was thinking too. She quickly shakes her head, and the blush spreads. “No!” she hastily corrected. “No! No. That’s, ugh, Sunday! Mind out of the gutter! No. I want someone who can look past the superstar status of me. I want a break, if you understand what it’s like to take a break.”

“I take plenty of breaks,” Sunday defended. It was a lie. There was simply not enough time in his hectic schedule to afford the ever-elusive luxury of rest.

Robin rolled her eyes. “Sure. Anyway, Boothill’s kind and honest. I’m in very good hands, brother. I promise you that.”

“I just want you to be happy.” Sunday sighed. “I don’t like him.”

“Well, I do.” Robin’s face was set and determined, an absolute, take-nothing-else gleam in her eye. Something about her willingness to compromise had changed. Sunday wondered when it had, and how he hadn’t noticed. “And I love him, Sunday.

“Can you accept that?”

***

Can he accept that, huh?

Sunday rests his cheek on his fist, elbow propped against the windowsill with one hand on the wheel. He glances out the window at Penacony’s bustling metropolis, with its towering skyscrapers, bustling streets, and diverse culture brought together from hundreds of different cultures around the universe. The more populated cities have been spared of damage, thank Xipe, so their primary rebuilding focuses are the agricultural and suburban areas affected.

Penacony has always been one of his greatest loves from the start. He will stop at nothing to make sure it is a planet whose name is passed around the universe like a legend, a paradise so far and so unreachable that you can only read of its honor in fairy tales and books.

He’ll just have to figure out a way to deal with Penacony’s ruined reputation among the public and interstellar organizations.

Only if he was better.

His gaze drifts over to Robin and Boothill again. Boothill must be keeping Robin company when Sunday couldn’t, and that was almost always. Well, that settles it. Robin loves Boothill dearly, and Boothill loves her right back, swearing it on his life to protect her. Fine. If that’s what it is, then he’ll have to accept that. However begrudgingly. For Robin’s sake.

Where is the damn SoulGlad when you need it?

—

Boothill drags a hand down his face, cursing this machine body and the eleven bullets he swallowed earlier.

He knows he loves Robin. He knows he’s willing to lay out his life for him. But there was something about swearing his life for her in this Aeonforsaken car and in front of her brother, no less, that he couldn’t help but feel suspicious about. Now, he ain’t the brightest gun in the rack. However, that doesn’t mean he’s gullible and easily manipulated.

Reignbow Arbiter’s piercing arrow shoot through him now. Boothill mouths a swear, upper teeth digging into his lower lip, and glares out the window. Robin is still sound asleep.

Sunday reaches over to turn on the radio, and an upbeat, funky tune fills the car. He turns the volume down, head bopping to the rhythm of the bass drums.

How the hell this man looks so calm after threatening Boothill with dismemberment, he has no damn clue.

Two hours pass, and Boothill is about to dismember himself out of boredom.

Finally, finally, the amusement park comes into view. He recognizes the color and shapes of some of the coaster tracks of the attractions Robin was showing him a few days prior. There’s a ride that shoots its riders up the nearly straight-up track then plummets them right down.

The parking lot is almost empty when they pull through. Robin insisted on getting there a bit before the park opened so they wouldn’t be stuck waiting in lines, but she already brought speed passes for everyone, so does it really matter when they get there since they could just skip the lines?

Boothill gives Robin a slight shake in the shoulder. “Darlin’,” he whispers, adamant not to look up because Sunday will be glaring at him.

Robin’s eyes flutter open.

Boothill smiles. “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” Robin says as he leans back so she can sit up. “Are we there?”

“Right at the gates,” he confirms.

Robin stretches, yawning. “Nice."

Sunday stops the car. “We’re here.”

Boothill opens the door and gets out. He offers a hand to Robin. She takes it and steps out of the car, all celebrity and princess-like.

He produces a bottle of sunscreen from his pocket and squeezes some onto his fingertips. “Look up ‘n close your eyes,” he instructs. Robin does, and he carefully applies the sunscreen over her face, neck, and shoulders. He gives the rest of the bottle to Robin for her to lather the rest on her arms and legs and wipes the rest of the sunscreen on his fingers onto his pants.

After she’s done with that, he places his hat on her head.

“To protect you from the sun,” he says when she lifts the brim to peer at him. Robin returns with a smile and they follow Sunday, who has his hood pulled up and a mask on and is probably sweating like crazy. “Oh, and this.” He snaps off his belt and leaves it in the car, but not before opening up a capsule on the right side of his waist and tucking his gun in. He stores some of the bullets in his arm and pops another four in his mouth, leaving one to chew on.

Robin watches him with fascination sparkling in her ocean eyes. Boothill smirks, the sole bullet remaining held between his teeth.

They get into the express lane (Boothill tries not to look too smug at the lines of people waiting in the slow lane or pay much mind to the way they’re gawking at all three of them — what can he say? They’re all gorgeous. Especially Robin and himself) as Sunday checks them in. The attendant, thankfully, does not look too closely at any of them and tells them to place any baggage on the bins to be inspected.

Boothill and Sunday have nothing on them except their phones. Robin drops her purse in the bin as it rolls toward the staff members. It goes through a scan in a large, black box before getting returned to Robin. She thanks the staff and wishes them a nice day, catching up to Boothill a few steps ahead.

They enter the amusement park, some of the rides already opening up and functioning. Robin grabs a map of the park from a nearby directory board and unfolds it. She stops, and Boothill leans over her, chin on her head, to look at the map with her. Sunday is looking at the digital map on the board.

“I want to hit up the mild rides first, then we can progress onto the thrill rides,” Robin informs them, one perfectly manicured nail tracing their would-be path through the park.

“Ain’t nothin’ that looks ‘mild’ about this place ‘sides the kids’ rides,” Boothill grumbles.

Robin laughs, tucking the paper map in her purse. “Are you scared, Boothill?”

“What? No way,” Boothill rolls his eyes. He has nothing to fear here. He swallows the chewed bullet. There’s no way he can use that one after all the bite marks on it.

“Let’s save the grandest ride for last,” Robin looks up and points to the ride that shoots straight up, “the King of the Jungle.”

He snorts. “Corny — freakin’ — name.” He frowns. Right. Someone (he’ll find the bastard and force them to change it back) tinkered with his Synesthesia Beacon, so he can’t say words aloud. ‘Freedom of speech’ his bullets.

Robin covers her mouth with her hand, failing at hiding her smile. “I forgot that your Synesthesia Beacon does that.”

He sighs deeply. “Well, it ain’t fun either.”

“Alright,” she closes the map and tucks it in her purse. “What about Clockie’s Twisted Coaster? It’s right here.”

The coaster in question is, indeed, right in front of them. Penacony’s signature mascot, Clockie, is plastered all over the ride: its face is square and center on the ride’s tracks, the ride name in script next to it, the entire ride’s colors are all ones found on Clockie, and the stupid music blasting out of the speakers is Clockie’s theme song or whatever it’s called.

The ride itself isn’t very long — the cart, with seats for four people, two on each side, hangs below the track and progresses up, swinging the cart, and drops down a series of curves, rotating the cart 360-degrees. The ride continues like this in an ‘s’ shape but with more exaggerated bends before coming to a stop.

Pretty mild, it seems.

“Let’s go,” Robin says. “Sunday?”

The man shakes his head. “I don’t do roller coasters. Here, let me take your purse.”

Robin is visibly disappointed, but she nods in understanding. She hands her purse over to Sunday, who tosses it over his hood carefully. “Your flash passes,” Sunday continues, taking out two cards from his pocket. He walks over, handing one to Robin. Boothill takes his when Sunday offers it to him, but the man’s gloved hand grips the card tight.

Boothill is so ready for a fight.

It doesn’t come.

Sunday lets go, looks him in the eye, and tells him, “make sure she has fun, okay?”

It takes him by surprise. He blinks, arm still extended and holding the card.

Sunday nods and turns back to Robin, who’s now practically glowing with happiness. “Go. Have fun.”

“I definitely will, brother,” Robin throws her arms around Sunday. “Thank you thank you thank you!” She backs away, takes Boothill’s hand, and tugs him to the flash pass entrance of the ride. Boothill lets himself be dragged along.

—

What? What!

Robin is so excited. Have you seen Sunday? Did you see him hand over the flash pass to Boothill? Do you know how long she’s been wanting Sunday to finally talk to Boothill without being openly hostile?

She’s practically buzzing with relief and joy, her previous disappointment from Sunday’s rejection to joining them on the ride temporarily forgotten, when she and Boothill show their flash passes to the staff and enter through the gates.

“He handed you the card, Boothill!” Robin says, just shy of jumping up and down like a child. “Wow. I can’t believe it.”

Boothill leans down to kiss her on her forehead. “Me neither. Your brother was lookin’ really unwilling. Thought he’d be out for me for at least a while. He probably still will.” He tucks the flash pass into the back pocket of his pants.

When she thinks of Sunday offering an olive branch to Boothill, or the other way around, she thought it’d be in more intimate, private settings. Like the living room in their giant mansion, way too big for just the two (occasionally three, but Boothill sleeps in her bed) of them, or in the kitchen after Robin left to use the bathroom or wherever. Not in public, not when they’re surrounded by innocent bystanders. She’s not complaining. The amusement park works too.

“This ride looks, ah, weird,” Boothill mumbles into her ear.

“Hmm? This one’s a classic,” Robin tells him. “We’re next!”

“I’m gonna regret swallowing those darn bullets,” he grimaces as the attendant opens their gate, directing them to the open cart. Boothill places his hat on the rack they have for loose items, and they get on, Robin on the inside and Boothill on the outside. They can’t hold hands through the safety seats. Well, they technically can, but Robin’s body is primarily flesh and bones so it’d be really uncomfortable for her.

“You got this!” Robin encourages, swinging her legs. The attendant starts the ride, and they move forward.

***

“Holy Aeons and all of Lan’s arrows,” Boothill says, one arm slung around her shoulder and mostly relying on Robin for support (don’t underestimate her strength and endurance — she’s a singer, remember?), “I’m gonna throw up all my bullets.”

“Hey, at least you didn’t scream,” Robin teases, giving Boothill the time to recover and stand on his own.

“Now, I was just sayin’ that ride was too loop-de-loop,” Boothill manages, wincing, “not that it was scary. I ain’t even feelin’ nauseous. It’s, ah, the rattle of these parts, per se. Aeons, what the heck. Everyday I discover somethin’ new ‘bout this helluva body.”

“Mhm,” Robin reassures, waving to Sunday.

“How was the first ride?” Sunday asks her, hands crossed behind his back and posture ever so regal for an amusement park. He must be smiling underneath that mask — his eyes crinkle. He doesn’t ask both of him; no, just Robin. That’s okay. Baby steps, baby steps.

“It was wonderful,” she declares, “Boothill wanted to throw up his bullets,” and doesn’t elaborate further. She loops her arm through Boothill’s. “Which rides next?” She tilts her head at Boothill, repeatedly poking at his cheek.

Boothill catches her finger between his teeth, bite gentle. Robin pulls her finger back. “Wherever you go, I’ll follow,” he tells her, eyes twinkling with mirth, tucking an exposed strand of her baby blue hair behind her ear, patting down her wig.

“Okay. Drop of doom next!”

Boothill’s expression drops, like the ride they’re gonna go on next.

***

Robin steps out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house. It was actually a roller coaster with a whole cinema and, of course, Clockie theme. She turns around, her wig blowing around her in a gentle breeze, and extends a hand toward Boothill, her smile wide on her face.

Boothill shakes his hair, the dual-color strands whipping around his face, and puts on his hat. He takes her hand. “Where do you wanna go next?” he asks, trailing behind her on the steps leading up to ground level. Sunday starts toward them the moment he sees Robin emerge from the exit.

“Can we stop for food?” she announces. All of the walking around and getting on the rides and general cheery atmosphere has her hungry.

“Sure,” Sunday agrees, looking at the map on his phone. “There’s a food court that’s not so far away from here. Follow me.” He starts toward a sunset retro-styled house in the distance, surrounded by palm trees and synth-pop blasting out of its speakers. It reminds her of the sunsets on Punklorde, a planet filled with cyberware and hackers. Isn’t there that one Stellaron Hunter girl from Punklorde?

“The style of that food court reminds me of you,” she comments, “don’t you think?”

“Ehh,” Boothill squints at the design, scrutinizing it, “not really. Run-down saloons and bars and the kind are more my type. But I can see myself hangin’ ‘round ‘ere, poppin’ down to the bar and orderin’ myself some booze. Bet they sell real darn booze too.”

Robin giggles at his accent. “You talk so funny.”

“Oh, really? And how do I talk, princess?” Boothill challenges, one hand on his hip.

“Like this,” Robin clears her throat, voice imitating a low, country drawl, “howdy. Name’s Boothill, darlin’s. I’m the best Ranger out there you can find. One shot from my gun, BAM BAM BAM — ” she mocks a gun with her left hand, shooting it — “and the enemy drops dead in less than a second, you hear me? There ain’t a single stray bullet in my entire career.”

Boothill rolls his eyes. “I do not talk like that.”

“Yes, you do!”

“No, I do not!”

“Yuh uh!”

“Nuh uh!”

“Pfft,” Robin exaggerates her exasperated sigh. “Fine. I suppose you don’t actually talk like that.”

“That’s right,” Boothill nods, a satisfied look on his face.

“What do you want to eat?” Sunday stops. Oh. They’ve already reached the place. She didn’t even notice.

“What’s on the menu?” Robin walks up to the menu boards above the counter, making sure to stay away from the ordering line. Her eyes scan the lines of options, mentally coming up with a list. It’s all junk food, as expected. She’s been craving some junk food anyway. Let’s hope Sunday actually lets her eat those ‘artificial foods injected with junk and bacteria.’

“I want three double cheeseburgers with two sides of fries and a SoulGlad,” Boothill announces.

Robin blinks up at him. “What?”

“Three deluxe double cheeseburgers, two servings of curly fries, and a SoulGlad,” he repeats.

“No, no, I, uh, heard you the first time. Are you sure you want that much?” It’s more than enough for one person; then again, Boothill’s a cyborg.

“I can eat a whole lot more,” Boothill shrugs. “Whadda ‘bout you?”

Robin hums. “I’ll take chicken tenders, a blueberry milkshake, and a pretzel. I hope the pretzels here have salt on them the size of dice.” She pats around for her purse, then remembers Sunday has it and he’s paying. “Sunday! We’re ready to order!”

Sunday gets up from the table he’s sitting at, meeting them at the end of the line“What would you like?”

“Three deluxe double cheeseburgers, chicken tenders, two servings of curly fries, one blueberry milkshake, one SoulGlad, and one pretzel,” Robin recites and looks at Boothill. “I didn’t forget anything, did I?”

Boothill shakes his head. “Naw.”

Sunday nods, the pleasant smile on his face he uses when he’s holding back a scathing remark. Ah, well. “I’ll go pay. You two can wait at the table.”

“Thanks!” Robin hurries over to the table before someone else can take it. It’s one of those metal wire mesh tables with benches attached and an umbrella over, taking on an obnoxious shade of orange the same color as the SoulGlad drinks. Boothill takes off his hat and tosses it on the table, letting out a sigh.

“Ain’t your brother dyin’ from the heat?” Boothill runs a hand through his hair. The weather is fair, not hot, but still warm enough to make you sweat after a few minutes basking under the sun.

Robin stares at Sunday, at the counter and talking to the cashier. “Maybe?”

“Are you sure you don’t want Sunday to go on an attraction with you?”

Robin’s smile wavers. “Well, I’m not going to force him onto anything he doesn’t want to.”

“You should. What’s a man doing, out here in a park, having no fun? Take him on a ride, darlin’. Gotta shake him up a lil’,” Boothill urges.

“After we eat,” Robin says. “I’ll ask again if we can go on Hanu’s Great Escape.”

“When I said to shake him up, I ain’t talking ‘bout takin’ him to one that, but whatever calms your horse.”

Robin beams at him. Hanu’s Great Escape is known for being exhilarating and scary. She wants to go on it with someone. The lines are typically very long, up to nearly an hour of waiting in line, but they have flash passes, and she is determined to bring Sunday on one of those rides at least once today.

“This is, ah, a lot,” Sunday says when he sets down a plastic tray with everything on the tabletop. He sits down opposite to Robin and Boothill, taking his share of the food — just a cup of soda and a sandwich — off the tray and leaving the rest to them. “I think it was somewhere around 200 credits?”

Boothill grabs Robin’s food for her, setting down the box of chicken tenders and fries while ripping open the packaging of a fancy plastic straw, sticking it in the milkshake. He takes his share of the food, unwrapping the aluminum foil of one of the cheeseburgers and flipping off the cap of the SoulGlad bottle.

“I can pay you back,” Robin opens up her phone to her money transferring app.

Sunday brushes it off. “You don’t have to. We’re family, there’s no ‘owing’ here.”

Sometimes, Robin wants to excuse all of Sunday’s overprotectiveness and his strict rules because of how nice he is to her, the softness in his voice lulling her into a false sense of trust and security. But nice doesn’t mean kind, and Sunday isn’t exactly kind. Perhaps the only person Sunday is truly kind to is Robin, and even that has its occasional exceptions. Sunday is a control freak, more or less and however much she condemns it.

She bites into a chicken tender a bit too harshly, the meat soft and the food warm and her teeth clacking. It isn’t healthy to keep on bringing up sad topics. Today is a happy day, and she will make the most of it by shutting up and having fun. How many times has she said that now?

Boothill bites down on the burger, taking half of it as he chews and swallows. Watching him eat has always intrigued her. How does the food, organic and soft, dissolve in his mechanical insides? How does the food get processed without the chemicals and cells and nerves found in a typical human body?

“You’re starin’ again,” Boothill warmly points out, tapping her on the tip of her nose.

“How does the food work in your body?” Robin has asked this before, and not once has she gotten a coherent response.

“Do you think I’d be a ranger if I knew? ‘Cause boy, does this body need a lot of engineerin’,” Boothill groused, “this thing’s almost more trouble than what it is worth.” He takes a swig of the SoulGlad, orange dribbling out the corner of his mouth. Robin extracted a handkerchief from her purse, on top of Boothill’s hat, and dabbed at it.

“There.” She folded the handkerchief into a neat square, placing it on the table.

“I’m waterproof, hon. For the most part,” Boothill deadpans.

“Isn’t it cute, though?” Robin counters playfully, leaning in to peck him on his nose.

Sunday, with his mask pulled down, very loudly sips his drink. Third wheeling must be sad.

“Sorry,” Robin apologizes, not really meaning it. She leans away, pressing close to Boothill, knocking their ankles together under the table. She grabs a curly fry from his box, munching on it. This place really loves their salt, huh? They’re in luck since she does too.

“No, that’s alright,” Sunday passive-aggressively says, finishing his sandwich. Boothill moves onto his third cheeseburger.

“Is that all you wanted?” Robin asks, pulling over her box of chicken tenders. Granted, there are only three left, but they can make it work. “We can share this.”

Sunday waves his hands, dismissing her offer. “It’s fine. Save some for yourself.”

“Oh, please, I have Boothill’s shares if I’m really that hungry,” Robin then makes a show out of it, grabbing a handful of Boothill’s curly fries. She likes the fries. Or anything with a copious amount of sodium in it, which, unfortunately, may be every junk food. Boothill shows no sign of objection, he’s almost done with his cheeseburger. It’s honestly kind of impressive.

“That’s fine, but I’m not hungry anymore. You know me. I never had that much of an appetite,” Sunday offhandedly mentions, casting a side-eye at Boothill. Boothill crumples up the aluminum foil of all three cheeseburgers into one giant ball.

“Okay.” Robin takes back the chicken tender, grabbing one and dropping it in Boothill’s box of fries. “For the curly fries,” she explains and moves back to eating her chicken tenders.

Boothill pecks her on the forehead. Robin giggles.

They gradually finish the rest of the food, and Sunday goes to return the tray and throw out their trash. Robin uses this opportunity to ask Boothill whether she should ask Sunday to go on Hanu’s Great Escape with her.

Boothill crunches down on a bullet. Where did he get that from? “Go for it,” he says simply.

“Really?” Robin asks.

Boothill pats her head. “Of course.”

“Okay.” Robin shuts up as Sunday returns to their table. Here goes nothing.

#melancholic-hues #writing-hues #robinhill #robin x boothill #boothill x robin #hsr robin #hsr boothill #hsr sunday

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bittenbyyou · 1 year

Text

Stolen Moments

High School!AU | MCU!Peter Parker x Best Friend!Reader

genre: fluff

description: You and Peter’s first kiss didn’t go the way you planned.

word count: 2.6k

warnings: references to Spider-Man: Far From Home, Peter not knowing any fairytales/Disney princesses and being a lovable dork

a/n: Another snippet based on real life events of how my bf and i got together lol. Enjoy the fluff and please feel free to let me know if you liked it!

One thing you loved most about your best friend was his inability to remember classic fairy tales. No matter how many times you summarized them, Peter would find a way to botch it every single time. Even going so far as to invent alternative story lines, which never failed to crack you up. You would tease him endlessly for it, but then he’d grill you for having never watched Star Wars or any of the Harry Potter movies. That’s what we’d call balance in your friendship.

“Fairy tale pop quiz!” Peter groaned dramatically as he plopped down on his couch, phone in hand with your big grinning face on FaceTime.

“Not fairy tales… anything but those. They’re my weakness,” he whined. You laid on your side in bed, giggling.

“The great Peter Parker who’s in band, robotics, and the decathlon can’t recall a few simple fairy tales?”

“Well, I actually quit those,” he shared, ruffling the back of his hair with a sheepish grin. Your face fell, eyes wide and concerned.

“Wait, when? Why?”

It’s not like Peter could tell you he was Spider-Man even though he really, really wanted to. The less you knew, the better. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if anything happened to you.

“I’m really busy.”

“Stark Internship?”

His eyes lit up when you gave him a reason. “Right, yes!”

Thank god for your incredible memory. “Makes sense. It’s been a while since we’ve even FaceTimed each other. You’re usually so busy at night.”

He saw the way your lips pouted as your crestfallen eyes looked away from the camera, making his chest feel tight. “I miss you too.”

Your gaze flickered back up to meet his own. Peter gulped, wondering if he sounded too emotional. Too affectionate. Too… obvious.

“Touché, Parker,” you said, rolling onto your back. “Okay, no more stalling. Tell me… which fairy tale princess ate the poison apple?”

Peter shut his eyes tight, thinking carefully. You both went to LegoLand one time and there was a display case that had the poison apple. You had asked him the same question then, pointing at the apple excitedly.

“Before we’re old would be nice,” you teased. Peter lifted up his index finger and shushed you.

“Hold on, I got it,” His eyes fluttered open after remembering there was a small sign next to the poison apple display. “Little Mermaid.”

“Why would The Little Mermaid eat a poisonous apple?!” You bursted out into laughter at his confidence. “Dude, you said the same thing back when we went to LegoLand. The sign was in the wrong spot.”

“Darn it,” he muttered with a snap of his fingers.

“I’ll give you a hint. Weather.”

“... Tornadoes?”

“What princess has “tornado” in her name?!” you exclaimed, trying your best not to wheeze. Peter couldn’t help but join in the laughter, knowing he was making a fool of himself.

“You snorted,” he said in a taunting voice. “Gross.”

“Shut up, you love it.”

It’s true. He loved your laugh. Mostly because you always laughed with your whole body and sometimes would keel over. Even in public. In fact, you were probably about to fall off your bed right this second because your face suddenly became blurry and shaky.

“Did you almost fall?”

You successfully caught yourself and your phone before it fell on your face. “No,” you readjusted your position and cleared your throat, “Try again. It’s cold weather.”

“It can’t be Frozen… I think I’d remember that. You’ve never said anything about an apple in Mulan the many times you’ve told me her story…” You nodded many times, appreciating the fact he remembered your love for Mulan. You saw how his brows furrowed in concentration, loving how serious he was taking this. “Snow White.”

“Good j—”

“Oh!” he shouted all of a sudden, almost giving you a heart attack. “She’s the one with the seven smurfs, right?!”

Oh Peter Parker…. You’re the cutest human alive, you thought.

Another wave of laughter overcame you, which intensified tenfold once you saw the big dumb smile on Peter’s face. The boy really thought he got it right.

“No… honey, they’re dwarfs,” you said once the laughter subsided.

“... Same thing,” he said, followed by a shrug. “I knew that.”

“Oh, we’re in for a long night. How about Jack and the Beanstalk?” That one should be easy.

“Ooh! Um… wait, I got it, quit laughing, I haven't even started,” he said, chuckling at how you placed a hand on your mouth to refrain from laughing more. “A guy sells a dog or cow or sheep for beans that grow into a big bean stalk and climbs up there and I think there’s a giant in the clouds? I don’t know.”

“I like how you completely disregarded the part where he was persuaded to sell his animal for magical beans, but okay. Pretty good.” You gave him a wink, which he returned.

“Told you I’m good at this.”

“Uh huh. Last one.”

Peter gave you a nod. “Go for it.”

“Cinderella.”

“Easy. She’s the one with long hair, with the glass shoes that’s supposed to be a perfect fit but somehow falls off and I think the guy uses her hair to find her and climb the castle before midnight when some magic wears off…”

You didn’t have enough energy to laugh and risk your abs becoming a liability, so you opted for parting your lips open slightly, shocked at how someone could be so, so wrong.

“I think there’s some sisters or step sisters in it too!” he added, giving himself a pat on the back. “Nailed it.”

“Quite the opposite,” you said, shaking your head. “I love your dumbass sometimes.”

He knew you were using the word as a term of endearment, so it made him smile. He loved you too. So much.

“What’s occupying all that headspace of yours these days that you can never remember the stories?” you teased.

You are… and Spider-Man, Peter thought to himself.

"Oh you know, there's an ongoing battle between my inner monologue and my stomach's incessant cravings for Aunt May's chocolate chip cookies. Spoiler alert: the cookies usually win."

“Oh my gosh, her cookies are the best.”

“Right?”

You both laid on your sides, a comforting silence blanketing the two of you for a few seconds.

“So um…” you started to say, a twinge of nervousness in your voice. “Because your knowledge on Cinderella is so—”

“Awesome?”

“Awful,” you corrected, smiling at his lame joke. “I was wondering if you wanted to go see the school play this Friday. They’re performing Cinderella.”

Peter sat up from his couch. “You mean, you and me, g-going together?”

“Yeah. MJ didn’t want to go because seeing a damsel in distress who solely relies on a man saving her kills her vibe.” Peter chuckled at that. “Are you and Ned doing anything?”

“No.”

“Oh good,” You paused. “You can invite him to come too!”

Oh.

Peter hid his disappointment by placing his phone down on the couch for a split second, gathering his thoughts. Why was he assuming that this was a date? Of course you’d ask Ned to come too. He was so silly.

“Peter?” you said. “Peter~, are you still there?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m here.” He picked up the phone and gave you a thumbs up. “I’ll go. And I’ll ask Ned about it.”

“Cool. See ya then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Peter was so nervous. Which he knew was ridiculous because this was not a date, yet he spent hours picking out an outfit. What does one even wear to a school play anyway? In the end, he slipped on a white button-up with some jeans and headed to the school.

He saw you standing by the front doors, wearing a pretty blouse and shorts. Simple but cute nonetheless. You always looked pretty to him.

“Hey! Sorry I’m late,” Peter said while running up the steps to get to you. “Were you waiting long?”

You shook your head. “Not at all. The play starts in five minutes, so you made it on time.”

“Good. Good…” Now that he was up close, Peter noticed how you styled your hair differently from what you usually did. “Did you do something to your hair?”

“Yeah… is it weird?”

Peter shook his head rapidly. “No, you look good.”

“Just good?”

“Great. Spectacular. Fantastic,” he said with exploding hand motions.

You giggled. “Okay Mr. Thesaurus. Where’s Ned?”

“Ned told me he didn’t want to go.” Which Peter was secretly thankful for, but he’d never let you know that.

“Okay. Then it’ll just be us two. Let’s go.”

The two of you walked to the front doors and you didn’t miss how Peter practically ran in front of you just to open it first. You thanked him and then made your way to the school’s auditorium. Peter always suggested sitting in the back, claiming it had the best view but in reality, it’d be the easiest for him to slip away if duty called.

You did notice his backpack, finding it slightly odd he brought it to school after hours. However, you didn’t think too much of it because Peter always carried a backpack. It was handy when the two of you hung out at the mall and snuck in snacks into the movie theater or when you accidentally bought too much stuff at Target after claiming you only needed one thing.

“I bet Betty is going to look so beautiful. She’s Cinderella,” you said as you sat down on Peter’s left side.

You’re beautiful.

“Really? And Ned’s not the prince? I wonder how he feels about that.”

“Oh, they broke up,” you informed him. “I found out yesterday.”

“What? Dang, we could’ve had a double date,” he joked, testing the waters with you. You playfully smacked his arm.

“In your dreams.”

The lights soon dimmed, letting you and Peter know the play was about to begin. Honestly, the play was far more entertaining than expected because it turned out to be a parody of Cinderella, much to your horror. Peter was relishing at how upset you were, whispering to him every few minutes on how the story “wasn’t accurate.” Honestly, it was super adorable seeing you so worked up.

You leaned close to Peter’s ear, causing his breath to hitch. “This is so ridiculous. It’s supposed to be a pumpkin carriage, not pumpkin pie.”

“... There’s supposed to be a carriage?” he whispered back.

“See, this play is tainting your mind.”

“But you can’t tell me you’re not enjoying it.”

“It is pretty funny,” you admitted, noticing his arm on your shared armrest. You were about to place your hand on top of his when Nick Fury’s stern voice echoed loudly in his ear.

“Parker. Are you in position?”

“No,” Peter said loud enough for you to hear. You immediately retracted your hand and Peter realized what you were about to do.

“No…?” you said softly. The look of hurt in your eyes made Peter panic.

“And why the hell not?” Nick Fury interrogated. Peter slapped his ear/earpiece to shut it up.

“I-I didn’t mean that. Um… I need to go to the restroom.”

“You okay?”

“I’m…” His mind raced for an excuse. “I’m feeling sick, um, I ate dairy and you know I’m lactose intolerant and all that.” He got out of his seat awkwardly, your eyes never leaving him. It pained him to see you so worried. “Oof, I’m feeling it now. Gonna be a while.”

He held onto his stomach to make for a convincing act.

“Okay. Feel better.”

He apologized to you and then ran out of the auditorium.

“Parker, you better be on your way,” Fury’s voice warned.

“I’m coming,” Peter huffed, looking at the backside of your head one last time before disappearing.

Peter finished his mission by the time the play had already ended. He saw you were sitting at the front of the school on the steps, so he had to go through the back and exit as if he had come from the restrooms.

“Whoo~! That was painful,” Peter said as he approached you, hand on his stomach and backpack on his back. He let out a sharp exhale and watched your expressions to see if you were buying it. “I really shouldn’t have eaten that ice cream… I’m sorry. I left you all alone.”

“It’s okay. Betty says hi by the way.”

“Oh. Hi.” He held his hand up and waved at you as if you were Betty. That earned a chuckle from you. “I really am sorry. What did I miss?”

He took the seat next to you on the steps. “Well, it’s safe to say you’ll never learn the real story of Cinderella. Or at least the Disney version.”

“Was it that bad?”

“The worst.”

He nudged his shoulder against yours, flashing you a warm smile. “Are you mad at me?”

“A little. I waited outside the restrooms for you, but you took so long.”

“... It really hurt my bowels. The battle was rough.”

You rolled your eyes. “Uh huh. You know what, I’ll forgive you if you can answer one thing. What’s something pretty much all the Disney princesses have in common?”

Peter pouted his lips in confusion, searching his brain for a possible answer. “They’re… girls?”

“No… they all get kissed by the end of the movie.”

“O-Oh… Oh. Oh~,” he shot you a perplexed look. “Have you… ever been kissed?”

You nodded. “Yeah. By my ex-boyfriend.” Ah, right. Peter was not fond of him at all. “What about you?”

“Me? No…” he looked down at the cement. “Not yet.”

“Didn’t you and Liz date? You guys didn’t kiss?”

He shook his head. “No. And I’d probably messed it up anyway.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well in the movies and stuff it’s always perfectly well executed.”

You scooted a bit closer to him so that your knees would touch. “That’s only in movies. Most people’s first kiss is awkward.”

“Was yours?”

“Yeah. But I’d like to think I’m way better at it now.”

That made Peter’s eyes widen, but he still kept his gaze glued to the ground. “I-Is that so?”

“I mean… Do you want to find out?”

He finally lifted his head up to look at you. You reached your hand over, caressing the side of his face and he leaned into your touch right away. Was this a dream? Because his heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest. Having his first kiss was one thing but having it with you? That’s all he ever wanted.

“There’s no such thing as a perfectly executed first kiss. But I’d like to try to give you one if you want,” you said softly.

“Y-Yeah… that’d be nice.”

You smiled and leaned in closer, but Peter got too eager and pecked you on the lips first. He couldn’t help it. He’s been wanting to kiss you since forever. So yeah, it was sloppy and unplanned with zero technique. He honestly almost missed. You stared at him, too stunned to speak for a moment before your face twisted into frustration.

“Peter!”

“What?”

“That's not how it was supposed to be! I was going to kiss you soft and sweet and slow and it was supposed to be romantic. You ruined it!”

“I’m pretty happy with it,” he said nervously. The look you gave him screamed murder.

“Ugh. Well, that’s all you get. Your first kiss. Rushed and terrible.”

“I can live with that.”

You blushed for the first time that night and Peter had to stop himself from doing a backflip out of joy.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker fluff #peter parker #peter parker mcu #peter parker imagine #peter parker x oc #peter parker x y/n #my writing #stolen moments

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winniemaywebber · 5 months

Text

The Apple Tree • Part 7

read previous chapter here

(gif by @hephaestn)

Rosie and Y/N make a decision about their relationship.

A sweet breeze ripped through the trees, the May weather finally rearing its head between inconsistent cold snaps. The children were grateful for it, the sun shining in their faces once again. One of the greatest joys in life was seeing them run madly through the fields, the sunshine turning their pale skin a delicious golden brown color. Another was seeing their eyes widen with joy when their persuasion worked.

“Please, Miss!” they'd beg, their puppy eyes softening your already mushy heart. “Please can we go over to the air field?” You'd pretend to consider, falsely uhm-ing and ah-ing, keeping them on tenterhooks until you pretended to relent. It wasn't hard to say yes; the children got to see the planes take off and land, some of them hanging around with their favorite crew chief - sweet Kenny Lemmons was only nineteen and far away from home, a playful big brother to the kids. Always so gentle with them and always so willing to answer any question they had about his job, he made them feel so special with his kindness.

“Children!” You'd softly scold, making apologetic eyes at Ken. “Leave Lemmons alone. He has a job to do, and you're under his feet!”

“No worries, ma'am,” he'd reply, his young eyes twinkling with joy at being able to pass on his knowledge to more young minds. “I don't mind at all!” And he'd take them across the field, letting them watch him and the rest of his crew patch up flak holes.

You'd get to see Rosie, always so darn handsome in his flight gear. The best part of it all would be seeing his face light up the second he saw you, running over to give you a secret kiss when the children were distracted by Kenny and the crew.

“I'll be back before you know it,” he'd murmur, pushing your worries away with a soft kiss to the forehead.

“I love you, darling.”

You'd started to enjoy the longer days that this new summer was bringing, especially how the sun rose even earlier, flooding your bedroom with bright light. It was even better when you got to wake up next to Rosie - the soft morning daylight reflecting over him; the reddish tint in his hair coming out because of it. He'd usually kicked off the covers, the blanket ending up at his waist. Sometimes, the prettiness of him would take your breath away, your hand stroking every exposed part of him you could reach. Even in his slumber, he'd smile softly at your touch, humming as your gentle tickles on his broad shoulders would wake him slowly.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he murmur, pulling you closer as he woke up.

“Hey, handsome,” you'd reply, curling up in his arms and savoring every second of his warmth. It's on one of these mornings that he looks at you seriously with those beautiful blue eyes, still full of sleepiness.

“What happens when this is all over?” he asks, suddenly.

“What do you mean, my love?”

“When this is over…and I have to go home.”

“Yes?”

“Would you come with me?”

The question shocks the breath out of you, you crawling out of his arms to sit up and look at him.

“Darling,” you begin, your hand on his chest. “I absolutely would. But I have a life here. I have my job, I have this house. My friends…my whole life is here. I can't just simply turn around and give it all up.” You feel him sigh under your hand, his face dropping slightly. Without a word, he takes your hand and kisses it, nodding. A moment of silence passes between you both, the tension of the question hanging in the room.

“Will you at least think about it, Y/N?”

“Yes, sweet man. I will.”

—

“Turn on the radio!” Sally squeals, rushing through the door as you're in the middle of explaining fractions. “Oh, heck. Sorry, Y/N.” Their eager eyes turn to you, and then back to Sally.

“Miss Sally,” Harrison pipes up. “We only listen to the radio at school on Fridays.”

“Well, I'm sure Miss Y/N here will make a special exception,” she replies brightly, turning back to you with her teeth gritted. “Turn on the darn radio.” With a sigh, you do as you are told and hear the familiar voice of Prime Minister Winston Churchill:

"Yesterday morning at 2:41 a.m. at General Eisenhower's Headquarters, General Jodl, the representative of the German High Command, and of Grand Admiral Doenitz, the designated head of the German State, signed the act of unconditional surrender of all German Land, sea, and air forces in Europe to the Allied Expeditionary Force, and simultaneously to the Soviet High Command…Hostilities will end officially at one minute after midnight to-night, but in the interests of saving lives the "Cease fire" began yesterday to be sounded all along the front, and our dear Channel Islands are also to be freed to-day.”

The whole room erupts into cheers at his last words, the booming voice of the country's leader being drowned by joyful screams, the children pumping their fists in the air. You and Sally grab one another, hugging tightly and jumping up and down. As you break apart, the joyful tears in her eyes suddenly turn to sad ones when she figures out what it all means for her. With a deep breath, she slinks back into your embrace, her whole body shaking with sadness and adrenaline.

“Oh, Sal,” you say, surprised to feel a sob catching in your throat. “Hey, now. No need to cry.”

“I'm scared,” she weeps into you, her arms getting tighter around you. “I don't know what I'll do without you.”

“Doll,” you sigh. “You'll be fine. We'll write all the time, Sally.”

“B-but…”

"No buts, lady. Give me a minute.”

You break away from Sally and clap three times to get your students' attention, them stopping their celebrations immediately upon hearing it.

“Wow, thank you. This is a very exciting day and it would be rude of me to not let you celebrate properly. I'm dismissing you all early!” Another cheer erupts, some running over to wrap their arms around your waist in thanks. Retrieving their belongings from their cubbies, they hastily wave as they rush on home, except for Penelope who hangs back.

“What is it, dear?” you ask, walking over to her. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a shiny red apple, placing it in your hand.

“Wanted to give you this, Miss,” she says sweetly, her eyes bright. “Was gonna give it you at the end of school. Picked it this morning.”

“Thank you, darling. You are so sweet. Go on home to mum now, okay?” Penelope nods and skips out of the school house, her long hair flowing behind her before breaking into a run to catch up with her friends.

—

Walking home arm-in-arm, you and Sally have to stop every few moments to greet or wave to someone passing by. Some even hug you both in celebration before rushing off down the street to the pub which, no doubt, was opening early today.

Opening the door to your cottage, you let Sally in first. She sniffs, her eyes cheekily squinting at you.

“It smells different in here than usual,” she teases, elbowing you in the ribs.

“Whatever do you mean, Sally?” you reply, winking back at her. “I guess it's just because it doesn't smell like solely me anymore. It's me and someone else.” Her face drops suddenly, her eyes filling with fresh tears.

“And what will you do when it just smells like you again?”

“Oh, Sally!” you say, exasperated. “You keep dropping these hints, like I'm meant to know what to do.”

“You never told me he asked you to go home with him,” she replies, sitting down in an armchair.

“Because it doesn't matter if he asked or not,” you respond, kicking your shoes off in the entryway. “I haven't made a decision. I thought I'd have much longer, but obviously after today, I–”

“You'd better make up your mind. Don't break his heart, Y/N.” Suddenly frustrated, you stare at her pointedly.

“I wasn't planning on it,” you say, feeling your cheeks turning an angry shade of red. “But what about all this? What do you think Granny would think if she was here if I just gave up this nice house she left me? And what would the kids do? I can't just leave them like that. I can't abandon them when they need me.”

“When will you ever think of yourself? What do you want?”

Without hesitation, you respond, the words spilling out of your mouth. “I just want to be with Rosie,” you say with a shrug. “But it's not that simple, is it?”

“There. Yes, yes it is. You and I, we'll figure this out.”

“What if they figure out we're hard to live with, huh? What then?” You joke, Sally breaking into giggles.

“Then at least we'll have somewhere to come back to.”

—

The celebrations on base had carried on until first light, you and Rosie walking back to your cottage hand in hand. The early morning mist hung atop of every house in the village, the grass sparkling with dew in the morning light.

Walking into your cottage, you lean down to start the fire to warm you both up. Sitting on the couch, Rosie sits next to you and wraps his arm around you, his warmth enveloping you instantly.

“What a night,” you murmur sleepily into him, and you feel him nod in agreement. Taking a deep breath, he lifts your chin to get you to look at him, his eyes softening as you do so. His thumb begins to stroke your cheek as he speaks.

“Did you think on what I asked?”

“Y-yes,” you stutter out, suddenly awake. “But I haven't made a solid decision yet. There's so much to figure out, but I–”

You’ve barely got time to finish your sentence before he's getting up from his seat and walking towards the door.

“Hey!” you blurt out, walking towards him to stop him from leaving. “Where do you think you're going?”

“I'm going back to base,” he says flatly. “It seems you haven't thought about it at all, Y/N.”

“Believe me, I have.” You reach out and take his hand, kissing his palm gently. “I've been thinking about it an awful lot. It's been torture. I think of saying goodbye to those children and it breaks my heart.” Hot tears begin to spill down your cheeks and you try to wipe them away as fast as they come but the constant stream is too hard to keep up with.

Suddenly, you're wrapped in a tight hug, Rosie shushing you with his hand stroking your hair until the cry is spent, you feeling the frustration leave his body the moment you wrap your arms around him in reciprocation. Sniffling, you break away to look at him, your hand on his cheek.

“Please, don't go,” you whisper, your voice croaky from the sobbing. “Please?”

“I won't, I'm sorry, I--ugh, I just reacted the wrong way and honestly, I'm being selfish. I want you to come home with me. I want to give you a beautiful life, give you whatever you want. I want to take care of you. My ma will love you, Y/N, so will everyone else and–”

“Rosie, you have to understand that I cannot rely on you,” you interrupt. “I've been on my own for so long that being ‘looked after’ is a difficult concept for me. I haven't needed anyone and I don't intend to change that.” You see him sigh, his eyes downcast. “But,” you begin again, your fingers under his chin to have him meet your gaze. “I love you. I'm in love with you. And if there's anyone I want looking after me, it's you.” A pause hangs in the air for a moment before you reach up to kiss him, your hand playing with the soft curls on the nape of his neck. As you break away and see how he looks at you, your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him, how he smiles softly at your touch, you've relented and done for. It's the easiest decision in the world.

“I will come with you, darling. I'd love nothing more.” There's a moment of silence as you press your foreheads together, noses touching.

You break apart and sit on the couch, Rosie holding your hand in his and rubbing his thumb over the surface.

“How will this all work?” you say, meekly, voice squeaking with nervousness. “I mean, where would we live? What could I do for work? I mean…I–”

“I understand your worries, sweetheart. How about this,” he pauses, clearing his throat. “We give it, I don't know, from now until Christmas. We'll write and I'll keep you updated.”

“That's over six months,” you say, eyes squeezing shut. “That is unbearable.”

“I know,” he grins, leaning over and kissing you on the forehead. “But how else do you expect me to save for a ring?”

“A ring?!” You reply, voice full of surprise.

“Yes, my love. I’d ask you right now if I could, and–”

“Just say the word. Then I'd race you to the courthouse.”

“I know it's a long time apart. But, it gives me time to make sure I can look after you the way I want to. I want to find you the prettiest house in the neighborhood, with enough room for a whole army of kids.” You giggle, your head now on his shoulder. “I'll find you the best school to teach at. I'll find you the sweetest dog at the pound. I'll find you and get you whatever you want and need, Y/N.” He pauses for a second, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I just want to spend my life with you. In the grand scheme of things, seven months isn't long when we've got forever together.”

“Oh, darling,” you whisper, kissing him gently. “I'm over the moon.”

—

“Everyone?” you squeak out, trying your best to get their attention despite the crippling sadness clutching at your throat and chest. “I have something to tell you all.” The children's sweet eyes are on yours in an instant, ready to listen as usual. You take a deep breath to try center yourself, calm your nerves and steady your pounding heart.

“Now, you all know that I've been seeing a lot of Major Rosenthal and–” you feel the tears pricking at your eyes as you try your best to stop them running down your face. “Well, he's asked me to join him when he returns home to New York. This means that–”

“Miss?” Harrison responds, his big green eyes brimming with tears. “Are you going with him?”

“Y-yes, dear. I am. I'll be with you until the Christmas holiday, and then I'll be leaving. But don't worry, I've made sure you'll be taken care of.”

A few days prior, your nerves shot after agreeing to Rosie's question, you had seen Rita, bicycling down the lane to her family home. She'd caught sight of you first, stopping the bike as quick as she could and wrapping her arms around you. It had taken everything in you to not begin to weep at this close contact, her face full of concern as she'd taken your expression in.

“Y/N!” she coos, rubbing your shoulders quickly. “Talk to me.”

You'd explained everything, from Rosie asking you to go home with him, you agreeing and then it all hitting you: leaving the children you had taught and been around from infancy, the cottage having to be sold and the thought of being so homesick you could barely stand it.

“Oh, darling,” she soothed. “But think of it this way! What a wonderful adventure, how fantastic for you. You and Major Rosenthal make such a great couple, too. I know you'll be so happy together, no matter what's thrown at you both.”

“What about you?” You sniff, wiping your damp face with your handkerchief. “Are you leaving anytime soon?”

“Oh, no,” she replies wistfully. “It turns out that I'm better off alone.”

“Nothing to do with the fact both your Yanks found out that they were simultaneously engaged to you?” You smirk at her, waiting for her reaction.

“Hey, I'm young,” she giggles. “It's all fun. Fun while it lasted.”

Through your stress, Rita's face still etched with sympathy, the answer had come to you.

“Well, if you're staying, I have a job for you.” You shrug as casually as possible. Rita's face lights up in an instant, nodding enthusiastically before you've even finished your sentence.

“Oh, Y/N!” she wraps her arms around you again, jumping up and down with you. “I'd love to. I'd be honored. Though I'll never compare to you–”

“Oh, stop it, you,” you cut her off, smiling nonetheless.

“I'm being serious! Nobody will compare to you. But I'll definitely try my best.”

---

“Miss Rita will be coming to teach you in the new year. What do you all think about that?” The children's faces go from sadness to excitable within an instant, some even pumping their fists in cheer.

“Good! That makes me so happy.” You let the tears fall freely now, your hand clutched to your chest. “You'll never know how much I'm going to miss you, darlings.” You hear a few sniffles from the little crowd in front of you, and you turn away for a second to wipe your own tears. “But, luckily, we have all this time left together. No use being sad now, chickens. Shall we run over to the air field?”

“Yes!” they yell in unison, zipping out the door in a flash.

—

Rosie's departure date comes quicker than expected, the news hitting you like a freight train the night he tells you, you both sat in the officer’s club.

“Monday?” You manage to push out, feeling your throat close at the suddenness of it all. “Two days away?” Sally looks over at you, those big doe eyes of hers overflowing with tears. At any moment, the floodgates will open. You know you're able to stand it and be strong if Sally doesn't cry, but the second you hear her sniffle next to you, it's game over.

“I need some air,” you croak out, trying your best to stand up without wobbling, in part from the three Old Fashioneds you'd consumed in quick succession. As you turn to grab your handbag, you see Sally clinging to James, him shushing her and stroking her hair as she weeps into him, leaving a dark stain of mascara on his dress uniform. You wipe your own as you walk away, not wanting to overwhelm the situation any more.

“Sweetheart?” You hear behind you as you lean against a wall, face crumpling in what you thought was privacy. Rosie walks up to stand in front of you, his thumb stroking your cheek, catching the first tear that drops from your eyes.

"I'm sorry,” you snivel, holding the hand that's resting on your face. “I thought we'd have more time.”

“I know, baby. Honestly, me too.” He sighs a long breath leaving his nostrils. “But I promise you, it'll go so quickly. Before you know it, you'll be on that boat to New York to start your life with me.” He smiles his beautiful smile, your nerves gone in an instant.

“I love you, Y/N. So much.”

“I love you too.”

—

Monday morning. You awaken before Rosie, not feeling well rested at all. Sleep had refused to come for the pair of you until the wee hours, you both falling asleep on tear stained pillows, clinging to one another so hard that you're sure you've left bruises on his soft skin. The soft morning light peeks through the thin curtains, flooding the room and enveloping Rosie. The gentleness of it brings out the red hints in his pretty hair, his subtly tanned skin glowing in the sunrise. Knowing this will be the last time in a while you'll wake up to him, you reach your hand out and run it along every exposed part of him, just as you do every morning.

The blanket - always kicked off in the night by him - begins at his waist, so that's where your fingers start. Gently tickling upwards, your hand dips at his torso, all the way up to his collar bone before leaving your hand on his face, your thumb stroking the end of his mustache. He sleepily grabs your hand and presses a kiss to your palm, pulling you closer.

"Hmmm, morning, sweet girl.”

“Hi, handsome,” your voice a little shaky. Feeling fresh tears threaten to spill from you, you sniff, trying to will them away. Without needing to say anything, Rosie places his hand on your waist and kisses you deeply. “Let me make love to you one last time before I go,” he asks. “Please?”

You nod before the plea is even out of his mouth. Not wasting a moment, he's inside you, his mouth hovering over yours.

“God,” he murmurs. “How will I manage without you?” You giggle, your hand stroking his face.

"It'll be easy,” you moan. “Just think of all the time we'll have when I'm home with you.”

“Yes, my love,” he breathes deeply, kissing you. “I can't wait.”

—

“Come on, kids,” Rita says, trying her best to hurry them along to the air field to watch the planes ascend for the last time. They walk along, sluggishly, not one single sweet face holding a smile. Their usual ruby red cheeks are flushed, their demeanors the opposite of their happy selves.

“My darlings,” you coo. “I know you will miss your friends. But, let's look at the bright side. They're going home to their families today, after so many years. Let's be happy for them for that, yes?”

“Yes, Miss Y/N,” they chorus, eyes suddenly looking a little brighter as you take control of the situation. Rita looks at you and bites her lip worriedly.

“Don't worry,” you reassure her. “They'll take to you in no time. We have months and they'll get used to it, alright?”

“If you say so.”

Walking along the grassy footpath that leads to the edge of the airfield, you see Croz and Rosie in a final conversation. You hear their joyous laughter from across the way, their bond always softening your heart.

“You want me to bring my infant son to a jazz club?” you hear Croz laugh, his bag swinging in unison with his body.

“Hey, it's never too early,” Rosie replies, his finger wagging at him. With a knowing glance, they part from one another, acknowledging the fact with a glance that they've been bonded together forever due to this experience. As Harry walks away, he catches sight of you and waves, his usual anxiety and nervousness gone. You wave back, some of the kids around you saluting him. He reciprocates, putting his bag down and giving a proud salute in their direction.

You turn back to Rosie and see him masterfully run his hand on the aircraft's every curve, using the same movements with his hands as he does on your body. You feel your stomach drop and it's an effort to keep standing as you witness him put his hands on every part he is able to reach. He sees you staring at him and grins, you running over to him as quick as a flash.

“Love bug,” he whispers as he envelopes you in his arms. At this, you whimper and begin to sob, your body wracked with sadness. “Hey,” He soothes, his beautiful hand stroking your back. “Shh, darling. Those kiddos will keep you occupied and we'll be at city hall before you know it. Yeah?”

“Mhm,” you manage to muster out, your voice blocked by his shoulder. You break away and kiss him deeply, not caring who sees. “I love you, Rosie. So much I can hardly stand it.”

“I love you too, Y/N. My girl.” He hugs you tightly again, as if he cannot bear to let go. Alas, he does, sighing as his arms leave your body. He gently pulls your chin towards him and gives you the most soft, sweet kiss that makes your stomach flip. You take a few steps back and watch him clamber gracefully into the aircraft, your heart in your throat.

You find Sally a few moments later, both your faces blotchy with tears. Hilariously, you both reach into your pockets and swap matching embroidered handkerchiefs, Granny coming in clutch once again.

"Frances strikes again,” Sally says, shoulders shaking from laughter and residual sobs. She reaches down and clings to your hand, her free one waving to James as she sees him whiz down the runway. Following behind is Rosie, who blows you a quick kiss before slamming his window shut.

Over the familiar hum of the aircraft, the gathered villagers cheer a chorus of “bye, goodbye! We'll miss you! Get home safe!” The final aircraft ascends, the noise going with it leaving a sort of eerie silence over the village that hasn't been heard in years. With a deep breath, you beckon the children down from the tower and lead them back to the schoolhouse.

Once there, you let them play outside so you can compose yourself before beginning to teach for the day. Sitting under the apple tree, you pull out your book from your bag and plan to read where you left off last week. A small piece of paper falls from it, scrawled in Rosie's penmanship.

“Counting the days until I see you again. I can't wait for you to come home. All my love, always. Rosie."

friends! thanks so much for reading this series. this is the final part of this arc but I hope to bring them back to you soon!!! <3

taglist: @sagesolsticewrites @ginabaker1666

masterlist

#masters of the air #mota #masters of the air fic #mota fic #rosie rosenthal #rosie rosenthal x reader #rosie's riveters #the apple tree #winnie writes

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psychedelic-ink · 1 year

Note

Rockstar AU, 38, Jack. (Because I’m nothing if not loyal to my Pedro boy.)

THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE very tempted to write more of this ngl thank you for requesting!!

𝐒𝐍𝐀𝐏 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐓

pairing: jack daniels x fem!reader

genre: rockstar au + making out as a distraction, smut

word count: 515

summary: You're a music journalist that's assigned to interview a notoriously difficult rockstar. Things don't go as planned.

warnings: heavy make out, making our backstage, dry humping

It was supposed to be easy. You were constantly praised for your silver tongue, for your ability to get the juiciest information from these stubborn rockstars. Even the ones who refused to talk. You would place a hand on their knee and make them feel like they had a friend. They were lucky you weren’t an inherently bad person. Because some of the things these people confessed to you—whew—they are very lucky indeed. You used your powers for good. With great power comes great responsibility.

You weren’t surprised when the editor-in-chief asked you to interview the infamous Jack Daniels—ridiculous name you know— sales were down, and having him on the cover would be an excellent boost. His words, not yours.

It was supposed to be easy. You heard the news about him and his wife, may her soul rest in piece. No one really knew what actually happened. Jack’s manager doing everything they could to keep it under the radar. A funeral was held. Jack disappeared for two years. He snapped at every journalist that dared to reach out to him…you liked those odds.

So why, after half an hour of trying to get this man to talk, do you have his tongue shoved down your throat backstage?

He smells like leather. And a sharp cologne assaults your nostrils. His tongue licks over yours hungrily, his lips melting into yours. Your hands are lost for a moment, not knowing where to hold, after a moment or two, you place them above his shoulder, awkwardly gripping his leather jacket. His thigh pushes between your legs. Without thinking your grind down. Arousal pools between your legs, your underwear feeling uncomfortable and sticky as it rubs against the sensitive folds.

His fingers curl around your neck, he doesn’t squeeze, just holds them there. It feels nice.

“Not so talkative now, are you sweet thing?” he purrs, lips brushing your cheek. You shudder at his warm breath wetly fanning across your skin. “Coming here all high and mighty…treating me like a darn wounded animal. Well, sugar, I ain’t wounded.”

He thrusts up his thigh, the pleasure raking over your skin like cold rain. A whine parts your lips when he flexes the muscle underneath you, your pussy clenching around on nothing. Jack drags his lips down your neck and kisses where it connect with your shoulder. Your nipples tighten under the fabric of your shirt. Yoru entire body singing for him you suck them, pinch them—your nails bite into the leather. Your world is spinning out of control.

“I’ll give you two options, darlin’,” he mutters, blowing a puff of air that chills the wet spot he’d kissed. “Either I answer your trivia questions, or—” he grins, guiding your hips into a slow grind. You moan into his neck. “I make you come. Your choice.”

You don’t even remember the questions you were supposed to ask.

#jack daniels x you #jack daniels x fem!reader #jack daniels x reader #jack daniels au #agent whiskey x you #agent whiskey smut #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x f!reader #kingsman golden circle #kingsman fanfiction #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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shiny-jr · 6 months

Note

pardon my late message i've been letting letting the current damnation chapters sink in the past couple of days after finally taking the quiz (im am still waiting with baited breath but like in a chill way for the rest) but HOLY. MOLY.

i did indeed notice that the MC's have different morality stances, and they match their crimes (granted im still trying to figure out which one did what. cuz rn i got stuck on iago coming fraud or tax evasion, even though theyre super down with murder, but like raven is WAY more down to murder somebody. im just nit paying enough attention to figure it out, really. im having too much fun vibin)

2 THE WAY THE CHARACTERS MAY NOT START OUT ENTIRELY YANDERE FOR THE MC AND INSTEAD DEVELOP THE OBSESSION FOR THEM LATER ON 🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌😭😭😭😭😭 BRILLIANTBRILLIANTBRILLIANT. ok so i got heartslabyul on my first attempt so it wasnt as like "obvious" even though trey and cater are both instantly "shocked" i was like "that could just be bc our character is weird it doesnt necessarily mean they yandere switch has been flipped pshaw! 🤭" BUT THEN eventually i got to pomfiore and epel confirmed it when he was like "ive been imagining things i never did before!" and i was like "oh snap! WAIT is *THIS* part of the punishment? like not JUST being sent to another world that is based on a story, but specifically a YANDERE DEATH TRAP? 🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯"

cuz like, sure, the MC is doing what they can to survive but depending on which one theyre fine to just vibe and let the story take its course if theyve got a good chance to survive not doing anything special. but then the story always gets WEIRD, RIGHT?! stuff always goes wrong! was that part of the vision? or am i going conspiracy crazy?

anyway AMAZING WORK. also you really fed the vil simps on that one story. i thought i was over him and content to be like rook and admire from afar but that SCENE with his hands wrapped around the retainer 🥵 i darn near short-circuited. HOW DARE YOU! (please continue 😉)

its hard to choose a favorite story in this series and i dont want to speak too soon before theyre all out. but i do have favorite bits in each of them.

and i just love the endings to them all. i love the bittersweet nature of all the endings. like none, of them are really romantic in a comforting way (duh its a yandere story) but they do vary in romance level. like by far i think riddle's azul's and vil's are the most romantic while leona and jamil are quite cold and calculating or in jamil's case mostly possessive and manipulative on the surface. it's VERY interesting.

and also bc im silly and you brought up the yandere-ness of the other characters, i start to wonder what happens next in these stories (im not asking for sequels. oh heavens no! never! unless you wanted to, but im mostly just brainstorming character relationships and potential conflicts). like in the savannaclaw story, ruggie and jack are also glued to the MC but not in a really romantic way? ruggie has that "i want to be your #2/by your side forever" which could go either way, but to me initially reads as "jack was pushing his way into MY spot and i want to guarantee he cant have it" rather than a "one day i'll deserve to be by your side romantically and for now i want to ensure i'll always have that opportunity by being next to you and a priority of yours" and then comes leona's proposal at the end, and i was thinking "uhhh but mc is by your side as consort, then ruggie gets pushed out of his spot in favor of the husband taking over. even though ruggie could still be an advisor and confidant, its still like 'move over dude theres another taking priority over you" and then that gets me wondering "what would happen if MC turned down leona? what kinda havoc would he wreak if any? does that put the village in jeopardy if he gets pissed off? what if they accept and they're STILL screwed bc he stops paying attention to the village after he gets the throne? and then the chieftain is taken into the palace and away from the village and has no way back and theyre left to basically flounder without them?"

also i really like how you end your stories with pseudo-cliffhangers? i mean they are but also the plot is mostly resolved and whatever major things that needed to happen happened. and its just the character resolutions and epilogues you dont see. its entertaining. like i said, i like to imagine what happens next and you really leave some stuff open for that.

anyway! thank you so much for sharing your stories!

Oh, for the crimes, just look at one of the questions which I believe asks what you (the quiz taker/MC) committed. Those are currently five of the seven crimes I've listed before, and each MC has committed at least ONE of them. But, they could've always committed more too.

On that other topic, of characters going yandere, one thing I hate is when reading a story and for some reason the characters are already obsessed with the MC but for absolutely no apparent reason. And me personally, I enjoy a bit of build up, which is why I try to implement some in my writing. Which can be a bit hard to do within forty pages when all these other things are happening, but I manage for the most part.

#shiny speaks #damnation twst au

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mintytealfox · 8 months

Note

favorite nortalice headcanon?

Woooooooo boi I couldn’t possibly land on a favorite loooool or a top three, or top ten even. so I will just write out some of the recent stuff, like ideas and scenarios, that have been swirling in my mind 😎

-Experiencing each other’s genuine expressions of happiness: Like Norton getting home looking forward to show Alice this rare find on a personal excavation trip. Practically glowing, pleased as peach at his success, how it all went exactly as planned, and that he was completely right that it would be there and he figured it out and got there first! Him just rushing once inside, looking for Alice and has his bag ready to swing open to show her at any moment ;w; Sitting down with her and telling her all the details of what transpired and explaining the object and why it’s so important and valuable and Alice happily listening cause it’s not often when he is like this ;; and she enjoys every moment she can get. —- Then Alice giddy that she finished a report she had been working on for ages and everything is okayed and submitted and ready to go! Feeling good about another job well done and planning on picking up her favorite treat and relax the rest of the day only to get home with Norton already there with a truffle cake. Him ready at the door to take the truffle cake Alice picked up for herself lol. Two truffle cakes~ yay lol But this reminding Alice that she now has a constant companion there to celebrate with her, and this just sending her into a beam fest heh —————-

-Having to sleep in an abandoned barn that’s between where they left and where they are going, but it’s cold. And Alice trying not to show it but can’t contain a shiver. Norton is laying with his back to her and says “come closer…body warmth is how we are going to get through this one…” Alice hesitating but knows the logic and this is survival Norton turning to face her and grabs her to pull her to him, “all that we’ve survived so far and you’re nervous about a little body heat..?” “Don’t make assumptions Mr. Campbell…” she is slightly taken back by how warm he is, likely doesn’t even need her body heat. “I’m just a little surprised that you’re willing.” Norton rests his chin on the top of her head and just grunts. —- Alice waking up feeling extremely warm and confused what’s going on. She lifts her head to look at Norton’s face to see his sleeping expression is scrunched and blushing red. Amused she just lays back down and presses her forehead to his chest again, ‘so he is embarrassed’ —————- -I doubt anyone has seen Norton cry except for his coin. So in my delusional nortalice land, now Alice has as well~ But for the first time experience with this, I think Alice may have accidentally snuck up on Norton. He not realizing she was still there, thinking she had already left to meet up with her contact about some more supplies. So Norton just seated on the floor in one of the more secluded areas, holding his coin to his face, and quietly sobbing about everything. Finally feeling all that had transpired only for Alice to step in, snapping him out of it as he whips around to see who it is. Alice taken back seeing him in such a state and an expression of shock and pain she hasn’t seen him wear before. Finally seeing what he is hiding. There might be a smidge of an argument with Norton’s insecurity being seen on blast and him doing all he can to re-shield himself but honestly it’s too darn late to pretend and they have been through too much by this point. The next step might just be them sitting in silence and Alice attempting to give him a reassuring pat on his hand.

I think Norton’s tears were spotted first which adds to his defensiveness as well, but when Alice finally shares her tears with him, something in him might reawaken. That soft caring part of him he never really got to show to another person, and it not be fake . Only little animals that would visit when searching for berries and such had the privilege. But then here is this lady that he has been surviving with and trusting him with her tears after all this time, he is finally seeing them. go-go-gadget-rusty-compassion-for-another-person

————- -I think Norton is actually a pretty darn good cook with putting stuff he finds together and making it all tolerable to eat. Norton and Alice in the middle of nowhere with no food so he gets right to work. Putting together something that looks questionable at best with particular roots and weeds and berries and insects etc. Manz knows what can be eaten when there isn’t enough energy to hunt. When it’s ready, Norton just munchin away and Alice trying it and genuinely surprised it doesn’t actually suck. So imagine what he could do with all sorts of ingredients to choose from but I doubt he WANTS to cook lol just does it cause he has to.

Alice may be a little confused in the kitchen. Seems she never had the opportunity to be taught or learn. Plus she is so busy in her head it’s easier to just grab something somewhere for each meal.

-Alice trying to cook- -Norton takes everything away and does it himself following the instructions to the letter loll- They will learn to work together with it later lol

Once they figure out how to work with each other they would likely do quite well with whatever they are working on lol They are both such independent souls, cause the world forced them to be, so it will take time for them to allow that teamwork flow to exist between them. It would likely be nice to see them working so well together once they figure it out ;;

————-

I am gonna stop here cause this is getting LONG LOL

I could keep going honestly 🤣 and I haven't even tapped into the more au coded stuff or future stuff and AH LOL I am insannneee and I love it MUAAHAHHAHHAHAHHHAHAHHAHHHAA

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upontherisers · 2 months

Note

❛ are you wearing my shirt? ❜ for Dora and Rosie . for legal reasons

a/n: this took so long babe my apologizes. cari write established relationship or draw 25 challenge. i'm drawing 25.

It’s hot in the sun, gloriously hot, the kind of hot that seeps right through her bones, the kind that makes her feel like she has dissolved and diffused into the air. The kind that sings her to sleep without any sound, that makes burning feel like a hug, the kind her mother would chase her out of on the grounds of too dark and wrinkles. Sorry, Mama. I’ve always loved the light. The kind of hot that needs no wind, no umbrella, no shade at all – just the clear sky overhead and the laughter of children splashing in the fire hydrant on the street below, shrieking and shouting and ignoring their parents as is their right on such a perfect day.

The kind of hot that makes her sleepy without ever being tired first and she’s already napped today – Pastor had asked after her absence and Grammy, a quick thinker, had pardoned her granddaughter’s absence. A summer cold, you know how those get. And she has things to do – bring her laundry off the line after forgetting for two days and darn a stocking and do her readings for class tomorrow and review a radio contract offer for the picket – but it’s the kind of hot that absolves her of guilt and the day is about indulgences, isn’t it? She’s sunbathing on her roof, for Pete’s sake.

Besides, Robert’ll wake her up before it gets too late.

She cracks an eye open to look at him seated on the blanket beside her, engrossed in a newspaper. It’s tough to make out the date on the front page as it bends into shadow, but the breeze does her a favor. July 7th, 1943. It’s two weeks old but he’s reading like it’s December 8th, 1941, like he’s going to do something about what he’s seeing. You’re in it now, aren’t you?

“They don’t give you newspapers in Texas?”

His eyes, brilliant blue, as blue as the sky above, meet hers over the headline – 6 JAPANESE WARSHIPS BELIEVED SUNK IN FIGHT, and those crinkles in the corners remind her of the day they met, her confusion over Mildred’s forlorn pining when she learned where Dora had been assigned. Oh, I wanted that desk. And then he walked in and offered a hand and smiled and if she were a different woman – ambitious, romantic, concerned with station, she would’ve gloated. But Dora was new and Robert had only just started and they both needed to see who they’d turn out to be, legal secretary and lawyer.

“They give us Texas papers in Texas.”

“And they don’t have the news?”

He blinks and sets that pesky left brow. “Not the backpages stuff. Nothing about New York.”

“I can send them to you,” she says, “if you want to keep up. They’ll be a week behind but—”

“Do you read ‘em?”

“Yes,” she does, and her panic about welcoming him back into the apartment by daylight is that he’d be able to see the pile stacked on top of the piano, in reach when she’s tucked into the nook of the front window. The ones she managed to fish out of the bottom and shove into the broom closet before he finished giving himself the tour were from March and she doesn’t know when that started, but it surely wasn’t good. Just another thing to add to the list of things he made her look twice at – shoes, streetlights, and newspapers. She could at least get the Great Paper Purge done today.

The corner of his mouth lifts, the one Mildred swoons over, he snaps the pages upright again. “I’d rather have your summaries. They’re a little more uplifting.”

She’d fret over yet another assignment getting put down in writing if it weren’t for the sun, for the warm stone under the blanket as she rolls onto her stomach, if it weren’t for the reminder that she’s as alive as anything, and she really needed this, didn’t she? She doesn’t know how he knew, but the sun tells her not to get herself into a tizzy over that either, and she slumps into the pillow beneath her chin, checking her watch – 1 o’clock. An hour won’t hurt. She’d pop up at two, take her laundry down, fix her stocking, then bring her books to the roof. Dinner will have to be sorted eventually, but her eyelids are so very heavy and as Robert hums along to Mr. Delaney cranking his car radio all the way up at the end of the block, she feels like she’s floating in water, indistinguishable from the air around her.

Hell, they can walk to Dean St. and Robert can pay for dinner at Cal’s with his big fancy Air Force salary. She sleeps.

Dora doesn’t snore so much as huff, little bursts of air puffing through her lips with every exhale. It’s sweet, leisurely, and relieving that she doesn’t have to sleep like she’s desperate for it. Shades of the bone-tired woman he had coffee with a week ago still remain – her bleary, addled amazement as her younger sister gleefully announced his arrival at their grandparents’ brownstone, her gentle slump in his passenger’s seat as she quietly watched the city pass by – but she has her light back, the glow that pushes from her as she finds him a file, chats with Mildred and Bob over lunch, sheepishly hops up on stage to play with the Putman house band, and rests here on her building’s roof.

He abandons his article about illness threats to women factory workers – interesting how the men on the line next to them don’t face the same risk – to watch her for a while. It’s strange that she’s here now, in front of him, after so many months of wanting to see her, of writing down stories that would be easier to tell in person, of picking white and yellow wildflowers on the side of the runway in Tennessee and wishing he could tuck them behind her ear and watch her smile, bright, blinding. He thinks of her more than he knows what to do with.

Her face is turned toward him, brushed gold by the sun beating down over her round cheek and slight chin, the oval of her pink mouth, the heart of her Cupid’s bow. He’d kissed that beautiful, wide, flat nose, and brushed his thumb indulgently over her soft skin under the cover of night, but the light reveals the best of her. The small of her back, a heart-freckle on her shoulder, the curve of her spine – he wants to touch.

Hesitantly, he traces a knuckle over her shoulder blade and she stirs, but doesn’t wake. One finger, then another, then the rest, then his palm and he listens to her breathing as he rubs her back. It manages to be musical, like everything about her, as it matches the pace of the horns popping in and out of the Crosby tune floating up from the street. With our full crew aboard and our trust in the Lord, comin’ in on a wing and a prayer. He’s never been a fan of Crosby – crooners are killing the art of big band – but he doesn’t sound half bad when Robert can watch Dora’s lashes flutter as she stretches out on the plush, striped wool under them.

What’re you gonna do about that girl, his mother had asked him as he left this morning.

Jeannie laughed from their dining table. Something stupid.

Something helpful, he insisted.

Something helpful.

He stops rubbing her back before he really does something stupid – brush away the hair falling into her eyes, feel the freckle on her shoulder with his teeth – and pulls out the note he’d written as she was making them lemonade. Be right back. Standing, he discards his unbuttoned shirt, leaves the note on top, and grabs his edition of the Times before descending the fire escape ladder at the back of the building and slipping into Dora’s apartment. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, but as soon as he regains his bearings, he gets to work.

Kitchen first. There’s not much to do; he sweeps, collects the sugar that had spilled on the counter, discards the empty lemon rinds, and washes the dishes in the sink. He picks up around the living room, scooping fallen petals from the purple flowers in her windowsill, placing stray records back in their sleeves – not without putting Benny Goodman on first, and he’s in the middle of organizing the newspapers on top of the piano when he flips through a May edition on a whim and his eyes catch black ink in the margins, two words hastily scrawled next to a small article. For Robert. The headline circled, $3,629,000 FOR REFUGEES; Jewish Relief Unit Appropriates Funds.

He remembers this. She’d written him about it along with assurances that the new Jewish families in the neighborhood were adjusting well. Her Yiddish is rudimentary, her German sparse, and her Polish non-existent, but she made sure to greet them all with a smile when passing by on the street or the bus, and she’d joined an antifascist coalition with her grandparents that had seen her speak in front of jeering crowds at borough council meetings and counter protesters at aid rallies. But they don’t bother me, she wrote.

That’s Dora, kind and fierce. She’s going to make a damn fine lawyer.

There are a few more of her notes as he skims through the papers and leaves them on top of the piano. He tidies the worn cushions in her window sill and it brings him no small amount of peace to picture her reading there with her legs curled under her, basking in the sun during the day and aglow with warm lamplight at night.

He goes to look for a duster for the piano and gets lost reshuffling her broom closet for half an hour.

This wasn’t the plan. The plan was to pick her up in Harlem, change into their bathing suits here, and spend the afternoon on Coney Island before coming back to Brooklyn and getting ready for an early dinner at Rosetti’s followed by a show on Broadway. The tickets, nervously purchased over the phone yesterday evening while Jeannie cried with silent laughter and picked up as he drove through Manhattan this morning, sit above him next to Dora in the front pocket of his shirt. They can wait there until Germany surrenders for all he cares, as long as she sleeps in peace. There’s no use in running around the city if she can’t wake up with a lighter heart tomorrow.

He’s not blaming anyone – there’s a war on – but he likes to think that if he were home, he wouldn’t have let her work herself into the ground. Surely someone had noticed the shadows growing under her eyes, her smile fading as the days went. How could they live without it?

And selfishly, he wanted one last look. Dora had circled the numbers in the papers; twelve bombers lost, fifteen, seventeen, twenty. Whatever that meant for him, a homecoming or a gold star in his mother’s window, he wants to remember what he’s fighting for. His older sister’s incessant teasing; the joy in Mrs. Schuman’s voice when he enters her bagel shop – her son Robert, also a lieutenant, didn’t make it off Guadalcanal; and the way Dora’s little brother protests that he doesn’t need her to adjust his hair and his tie before he goes to lunch at his sweetheart’s place but still lets her kiss his cheek on her way out the door. He’s fighting so that Darren doesn’t have to, so that Jews and Poles and the French get to kiss their little brothers’ cheeks, too, out from under the boot of authoritarianism.

A pair of gloves fall from a high shelf and hit him in the forehead. The Benny Goodman record has ended, and he places the gloves in a box marked WINTER before heading back out into the apartment. One of Dora’s shirts snaps in the breeze through the kitchen window. Laundry, right.

Dora rouses gradually, laying with her eyes closed for a few moments before she notices the quiet, no more children laughing or the radio playing. Rolling over, she opens her eyes. The sun is further across the sky than she’d thought it’d be, and she sits up with a start as she checks her watch – 4:30. Shit, shit, shit. She hops to her feet and sees that Robert isn’t beside her, a note left atop his shirt in his neat, even hand. Be right back. She’ll meet him downstairs; she needs to get out of the heat and get to work.

A cool wind blows, making her shiver and she throws Robert’s shirt on, which matches the light blue of her bathing suit, and her stomach does a funny wiggle. They used to show up to the office in the same colors weekly – it’s nice to know that some things don’t change.

The fabric is soft, well-loved, and as she runs her hands down it, her fingers catch on something in the breast pocket. Looking down, she sees two thin strips tucked in the fabric, and fishing them out, she rubs the sleep out of her eyes to read the print.

Broadhurst Theatre. 44th St. Evening - Sunday. E 19.

Robert Rosenthal, you didn’t.

She yanks the blanket from the ground, grabs the lemonade pitcher, and throws on her shoes – interior soles burning after hours baking in the heat – before leaping down the ladder and taking the stairs two at a time. He’s wide-eyed at her sudden entrance, holding one of her work blouses as she pushes through the window, slightly woozy at the green tinge everything takes coming out of the sun. They’re both frozen for a moment.

“Did you buy these?”

“Are you wearing my shirt?”

“I asked first,” she says, holding out the tickets.

There goes that damn dimple as he smiles softly, not helping slow her heart hammering in her chest. “I, uh, I got us a dinner reservation at Rosetti’s, too.” He folds her blouse over a bare forearm and she’s hit with so many thoughts at once – she doesn’t have anything to wear to the theater; he’s not wearing a shirt and she can see the firm muscle of his stomach and the arch of his hip bones; he’s doing her laundry, brassieres included; she still has to do her readings; he’s not wearing a shirt – that she starts to laugh, heaving, side-splitting guffaws. Of course he did.

This is what he does – waltzes into her life, shows her just how good it can be, just how kind the world can get, then leaves and she’s a better, lonelier person for it. Here he is, in her dead parents’ home, doing her laundry because she couldn’t manage, telling her he planned a night for them, that he chose her over a Yankees’ game or a show at Minton’s or simply an evening in with his darling mother, and he’ll be gone in three days, off to be a shield against evil, off to save the world after watching her nearly fall asleep on her feet in a dirty kitchen and still deciding to come back for her.

She laughs until she wheezes, until she’s folded over and her abdomen cramps, until there are tears in her eyes and she doesn’t know if she’s happy or heartbroken.

“Dora.” He’s in front of her now, smelling of heat and leather and chlorine like he got the Bab-O out from under her sink.

“What have you done?” she asks as she stands and wipes her eyes. And here she was thinking they might get dinner at Cal’s.

His face falls, eyes turning big and sad like a kicked puppy, his dark brows furrow, and it nearly sends her into another fit but she manages to stay upright. “We don’t have to go if—I thought that—”

She shakes her head vigorously and reaches up to hold his cheeks, his stupid, perfect cheeks. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

His smile is so bright that it beats the sun outside and she gets lucky with where her fingertips have landed because those glorious laugh lines find themselves where she can touch them. He turns his head just so and squints as if he’s listening to a good song and steps into her, setting his hands on her hips.

This is where they kiss in the pictures, and the thought is so laughable that she chuckles aloud before throwing her arms around his shoulders as his slip around her waist. It’s warm, not sunbathing warm, but good all the same.

“Thank you,” she murmurs in his ear. Tears bite at her eyes.

“You deserve it,” he says.

They stay in an embrace until she realizes that she still doesn’t have anything to wear and they have to get all the way to Midtown in traffic. She stands back with a sniff. “I need to borrow a dress from Jeannie.”

#mail call #poet tag #rosie rosenthal x oc #rosie rosenthal x reader #isadora montgomery #isadora x rosie #straighten up and fly right #my writing #this took so long because i did too much research. i have 30 tabs open #dividers from user saradika!!!

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