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yesimwriting · 7 months ago

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Stawp!

Louis and bestie reader are so cute

They would be so satc coded and go out for drinks and vacays

Also i think reader would introduce him and call him "my beautiful louis" to other people

But imagine louis getting home and texting her with a smile on his face all cute 🥰

I like the idea of the person who makes vampirism good being her, a platonic relationship, in contrast of a romantic companion.

Also i imagine this convo:

Armand: do you have to go over to her apartment every other day?

Louis: first of, we have our movie night fridays together and you know this!

Armand: its 4 a.m

Louis: duh? I got to get there while the sun is down, besides we need to pick up thai food because she does not cook and she will starve herself before turning on the stove

AND ARMAND WITH HER

I feel like after he knows her, he would be jealous of any relationships/ one night stands she might have (louis knows about them obvi! She calls him all the time 💅🏻)

Im obsessed with this concept 😭

everything about this is so perfect!! i'm so happy you got the vibe! i feel like he just needs someone to pull him out of his (slightly subconscious) angst and something about that happening through a platonic relationship is so endearing to me

they're so satc coded too, just besties drinking and vacationing and having (slightly) delusional conversations <3

also bestie reader calling him "my beautiful louis" to others is everything to me 😭 they for sure love each other so much omg

armand is definitely so messy with this 😭 he's like a cat trying to gaslight their owner into thinking they don't want attention

bc i love this sm here's an actual drabble/fic:

pls be nice writing for new characters for the first few times is so daunting for no reason 😭, also armand is a bit messy here <3

----

Not unlike daylight's earliest hours seeping through shut curtains, the haziness--the easiness--you offer him is persistent.

Louis has grown accustomed to the feeling, to the consistent warmth of your friendship, but every once in awhile the sentimentality of it all digs at him.

"This is..." You trail off, legs crossed beneath you and television remote still loosely held between your fingers. "Complex."

Louis's focus flits between you and the screen you're intently staring at. The two of you hadn't set out to watch a documentary on some nature channel, but this is far from the first time you've gotten distracted by some default program while attempting to put on a movie. "Very."

His sarcasm is enough to break the spell. You turn your head, frowning, "Don't make fun of me."

The documentary cuts to a well lit, sparsely wooded forest. The camera focuses on a deer patiently grazing on the surrounding foliage.

"I’d never," he mumbles, suppressing a smile in an attempt at seeming as serious as he needs to be for the joke to work.

You let out a sound that's too gentle to be a laugh before straightening your shoulders and returning your attention to the television screen. There's something ironically pointed about the way the peaceful background melody fades into something more sinister. Looming Danger.

The deer, alerted by some sixth sense, stiffens, its body stretching to its full, insignificant height. The camera zooms in, focusing on the deer's wide eyes and unmenacing features. "That kind of reminds me of you."

This time, your laugh is full, sharpened by a partial scoff that's as amused as it is offended. "That's the weirdest thing you've ever said to me."

The comment is almost enough to ease him. The camera pans out, allowing the audience to see the other surrounding deer. "Maybe the deer from that one animated movie."

You're quiet for a moment, thinking through the implication of the words before turning your head towards him again. "You mean Bambi?"

He had been much too old to be interested in the film by the time it came out, but the name is vaguely familiar enough. "I think so."

You blink at that, tilting your head slightly. "How do you know Bambi?"

"I don't know Bambi," the argument is a relatively flat one. Louis turns to better face you, resting his arm against the back of your couch. "I've just seen some commercials."

That only seems to confuse you further. You straighten, pulling your legs towards your chest. "Where would you have seen Bambi commercials?"

"They were everywhere when it came out in the 40's."

You don't respond right away, your attention shifting away from Louis and towards your bent legs. As far as references that remind you of his lack of humanity, this is far from a drastic one. The 40’s weren’t long enough ago to be inconceivable to you.

Still, you’re quiet, as if thinking through the potential outcomes of your reaction. You nod once. “Right."

When you look up at him again, there's a hesitant sort of curiosity behind your eyes. It's an expression Louis's more accustomed to than he wants to be, it's the way you look at him when you're reminded of the reality of the differences between the two of you.

You tap your nails against your knee. "Does it feel weird?" The question comes out with a suddenness that doesn't suit you, the stiffness of the words sharp and uncertain. "All that time--carrying it inside your head?"

For a moment, all he can bring himself to do is sit with the question. Your question. It's a simple enough thing to ask, but not a exactly a straightforward thing to answer. Especially not to you, who has yet to experience a significant passage of time even by human standards.

"Well," he starts, "You know about the way that time has impacted aspects of my memory." You watch him patiently, saying nothing to prompt or rush him as he thinks through his response. "It does make things feel different--years spent with someone can feel like moments, and moments with others can feel like eternity."

You nod once, allowing his answer to sink in. "Which one am I?"

He knows his answer before he knows how to put it into words. You’re too familiar for either.

“You’re more like a memory.”

Your eyebrows briefly pinch together at that. You part your lips, but before you can respond the documentary’s music swells.

You turn your head in time to see the coyote lunge at a deer. You sigh, screwing your eyes shut before leaning forward, You press your forehead against his arm. “That’s depressing.”

Louis could have anticipated the reaction, you’re usually more bothered by animals dying in movies than people. Still, though, your ability to find comfort in him of all things will never not perplex him.

Instead of pointing out that you’re the one that chose to watch this, he gently reaches for the remote. “Fine, I’ll put on the movie.”

----

The familiar ringing is so muted, so low, Armand's certain that if it wasn't for his enhanced senses, he wouldn't have been able to hear anything at all. By the time he's turned his head, Louis is already reaching for his coat's pocket.

Armand frowns. If the late hour and limited number of people Louis talks to weren't enough to let Armand know who the message is from, Louis's smile as he unlocks his cell phone would be evidence enough. You--it's always you.

He continues forward, allowing Louis to type out a response without interruption. Once he's certain the message has been sent, Armand begins, "It's her again."

Louis's attention shifts away from the screen. "She's my friend."

"I know," he says, voice flat, "Your best friend."

"Stop it." There's nothing aggressive about Louis's response, but there's an underlying warning pressed into the syllables, the same almost-sharpness that Louis relies on whenever Armand implies a lack of fondness for Louis's latest source of entertainment. "It's not like that."

No, it really isn't. When you first began to weave yourself into Louis's life, Armand had almost convinced himself that this was a blatant betrayal that defied Louis's usual preferences. After about five minutes of assessment, Armand realized that the two of you really are as affectionately platonic as you claim to be.

"No," it's an easy enough concession. Armand continues forward, the coolness of the night's air sharp against his skin. Their walk hasn't exactly been the most exciting night of their companionship, but it has been non-contentious in a needed way after their latest session with Daniel. "You do spend a lot of time with her."

Louis's quiet for a moment, thinking through his response in a way that Armand finds unusual. "You could spend time with us, too."

The sentiment isn't as true as Louis intends it to be. While Armand's been around you regularly enough to consider you familiar, there are a few things that the two of you want to do on your own. Your weekly movie nights, casual drinking at bars, the surprise trip to Milan. And during the evenings in which Armand is there, Louis regards him with a subtle uneasiness that if you've noticed, you know better than to mention.

In your presence, what they are may only be portrayed in the softest of lights. The facets of vampirism must only ever be suggested, alluded to so faintly that they're rendered incapable of tarnishing that darling soul of yours Louis is so determined to preserve.

"And subject the poor, little fawn to an evening with two vampires?"

Armand keeps his gaze focused on what's ahead of them, but he can practically feel the lack of amusement radiating off of Louis. "Come on," he tries again, "She's not like that."

Although he'd love nothing more than to solely resent your existence, Armand does have to give you credit for that. You hadn't so much as missed a single step when Louis revealed the truth to you, never once treating him differently. You also barely flinched when Armand appeared in your home with no warning as a way of hurting Louis during a particularly lively argument. Armand's yet to determine if your bravery is a sign of idiocy or a testament to how certain you are in your connection to Louis.

It's far from rare for Louis to feel the need to defend you, but there's a determination there that seems urging. "She asked you to come over."

Louis's hesitation, though brief, is confirmation enough. He almost stills but seems to think better of it, placing his phone back into his pocket as if that will be enough to make Armand forget that you're the source of this. "She just ended things with the boy she's been seeing."

Hm. Not exactly an interesting update, but intriguing...more intriguing than why you usually call Louis, if nothing else.

"Alright," Armand agrees, "Let's visit your puppy."

----

The apartment building you live in is far from run down. You've slowly but surely transformed yourself into one of those rare artists with a curated following so obsessed with being able to credit themselves as the discoverer of the next big thing that they go out of their way to purchase anything that you've labeled as yours. Existing at the cusp of fame has allowed you to afford a decent apartment in the city, but it's nowhere near as nice as where you could be if you'd accept Louis's offer to get you a place closer to them.

Louis knocks on your door twice. In less than a second, you're clicking the lock out of place. You're beaming as you pull the door open, "Louis."

Armand watches Louis's expression melt into one of total warmth. There's a definiteness to your friendship that Armand might envy if he understood it any better. What's so special, so interesting about you that your presence is always desireable?

Louis extends an arm, offering you the bouquet of flowers he insisted on purchasing before visiting you.

Your smile widens even further at the arrangement. If it wasn't for the information that Louis gave him earlier, Armand would have no reason to think anything remotely upsetting happened to you tonight. "I love peonies. Thank you."

You lift a hand, your pointer finger gently brushing a thin petal as you examine the flowers. After a moment, you straighten, turning your head enough to acknowledge him. "Armand, hi." The greeting is cordial yet far from cold, the way you often are with him.

"Hello," he replies. You step back, pulling your front door open as a way of inviting them in. "I'm sorry about your boyfriend."

You pause at that, parting your lips as you look back at him. Louis speaks before you get the chance to, "I told you to look sad when we got here."

It's a playful chastising at best, but you react as if Louis had really meant it. In some ways, Armand believes he did. "Oh," the sound falls flat. You walk further into your home's entryway, giving them the space needed to enter. "Give me a second, I can do better." You turn slightly, holding onto the flowers a little tighter as you bring your free hand to your chest. "I'm distraught."

Your performance isn't worthy of a standing ovation, but there's a humor there that might have been charming if Armand's disinterest in you was less inherit.

"Nice try," Louis mumbles as he wanders towards your couch. He sits down with a casualness that highlights how used to existing in your space Louis really is. "Armand wasn't up for visiting anyone and I wanted you to at least look sympathetic."

You walk past your living room. Armand watches you for a moment before following, if for no other reason than to feel something resembling Louis's familiarity. He keeps his steps even, making a point of remaining a few paces behind you.

You stop in front of a cupboard. After opening the cabinet, you have to extend your arm so fully to reach a vase Armand's surprised when you manage to grab it without knocking it off its shelf.

"Trust me," you say, exaggerating the syllables as you approach the sink, "I'm very sympathetic." You place the vase beneath the sink before turning on the faucet.

Armand steps forward, setting a palm against the granite that makes up the island attached to your sink. "I'm sure." The words are spoken so lowly they're nearly drowned out by the sound of running water.

"What did he do?" Louis asks from his spot on the couch.

You lift the vase out of the sink's basin, shutting off the faucet as you move to set the glass onto the counter. "Broke up with me because he thought he had a chance with his ex-girlfriend."

"What?" Louis turns fully at that, craning his neck to look at you.

You nod sharply, completely validated by Louis's shock. "I know." You remove the plastic binding your bouquet together. "Men are the worst." You carefully pull a flower away from its bundle before placing it in the vase. The process of arranging the flowers must remind you who brought them to you, because after a second, you amend your statement, "Except you guys. Obviously."

"Obviously," Louis repeats in a way that only feels somewhat sarcastic. "So are you...upset? Angry?"

You pause, giving yourself a moment to really think about your response. "A little of everything, I guess." You pick up two smaller flowers by their long stems before placing them in the vase. "But not crushed." You reach for a filler flower. "I don't know...it's not like I was in love with him."

Louis rests an elbow against the back of your couch, propping his head up as he watches you continue to adjust your flowers. "I'm glad you weren't." You raise your eyebrows at that. "He wasn't the right person."

"You always say that."

"And I haven't been wrong yet."

You give him another look that would be threatening if it wasn't for the underlying fondness there. "Don't start." You don't wait for Louis's reaction before returning your attention to the flowers.

Armand watches you for a moment before allowing himself to take in your apartment. This place is a known entity, but it's not exactly familiar. He's never seen anything beyond the living but he has heard you talk about a room that you've converted into a studio space.

It's not as easy as it should be to imagine a space solely dedicated to your work when touches of it seem to cover your entire apartment. Two canvases too uniquely you to be purchased are hanging behind your couch, there's a ceramic vase on your dining table that reminds him of the way you paint, and then there's the abandoned palette and partially finished canvas still on its easel.

Armand walks forward slowly, approaching the painting as you and Louis begin discussing your least favorite things about the boy that ended things with you.

Even unfinished, the project is strong in its certainty, in its style. Your brush strokes are sharp, unafraid. Next to your well loved palette, there's a small photograph that parallels but doesn't exactly fully match the partially completed house on the canvas.

"That's an idea for a new collection--the repurposing of abandoned things, places..." Your explanation is abrupt in a way that borders on shy. "It's not meant to be as pretentious as it sounds."

There's a self deprecating quality to the disclaimer that doesn't fit you. Perhaps he's stumbled onto an actual insecurity. "Does someone seeing it like this make you uncomfortable?"

"Uh," you start, confused by his own suddenness, "No, not really. As long as you know to look it as a work in progress." You tap your nails against the counter. "I--I have a room down the hall that's full of half-finished stuff if you want to look at those, too."

The offer feels more like an attempt to convince yourself that you're okay with his analysis of your work before it's been polished than anything else. The concept of your uncertainty makes Armand curious enough for him to actively reach for your thoughts.

Armand's concentration shifts onto your mind, and he's immediately thrown by the vaguest implication of resistance. Your mental defense is so feeble it might as well not exist, but the fact that it does...that you're trying to at all is almost endearing enough to convince Armand to leave you be. Almost. "Are you attempting to block me out of your thoughts?"

You blink, the blood beneath your skin rushing its way up your neck at your embarrassment. "Are you trying to read them?" When your counter question doesn't impact him at all, you sheepishly offer an explanation, "Louis taught me."

Of course he'd teach his pet a new trick.

Louis lets out a small laugh at that. "The fact that he felt it at all tells me you're better at it than I'd thought you be."

Armand's gaze returns to your painting. You've managed to find a warmth, a beauty in the forgotten. "The implication of resistance isn't the same as resistance itself."

The criticism stings, but you don't let it impact your expression. You let out an exaggerated sigh, your shoulders slumping slightly to add to your point. "Be nice, I was just broken up with. Over text."

He continues to study the painting, his mind attempting to break the piece down by individual brush strokes. "That doesn't matter to you. Not really." Armand can almost imagine the creation of the house's boarders, of the formation of each individual stone and the heavy ivy covering them. "You're not 'crushed' because you're interesting and he's not, and a part of you knows that."

The sentiment behind the words leaves you desperate to push him away. Blood settles itself beneath your chest. Your feeble mental shield returns, this time determined enough for Armand to feel its desire to push him out.

"You don't know if I'm interesting," the response is too soft, too curious to reflect your unease.

You tap your nails against the counter, the gentle clicks of them hitting the granite echoing throughout the space. Armand refocuses on the canvas. "Louis wouldn't like you if you weren't."

Something about the statement seems to ease you. Armand's reminded of how almost overly genuine your friendship is. "Thanks."

Louis lets out an almost-scoff at that, his eyebrows briefly drawing together in a display of mock offense. "Don't make me sound so shallow."

"It's less about your shallowness and more about my winning personality."

"Uh-huh," Louis mumbles, pressing a synthetic lack of interest into syllables, "Well, as long as its about you."

----

a/n this is lowkey way longer than i expected it to be but i loved this dynamic so much so if you want to see more of them pls let me know <3

#iwtv x reader #iwtv x fem!reader #itwv x reader #interview with the vampire x reader #louis de pointe du lac x reader #armand x reader #fem!reader #x reader

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osctwink · 2 months ago

Text

i. You and me, we got big reputations.

based on the prompt / landoscar.

part one, start:

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

“This collaboration will run for the next six months. There’s going to be a photoshoot this Saturday for the sponsorship deal with Polo Ralph Lauren.”

Lando wasn’t entirely sure if he should be doing this or not, but truthfully, he never really paid full attention to what his PR manager was saying anyway. For the past half hour, the man had just been twirling a pen between his fingers, occasionally setting it down on the desk, only to pick it up again a few seconds later. It was like watching someone try to fight off boredom with the only weapon they had—office supplies.

Lando had stopped counting how long he’d been sitting in the meeting room. Two hours? Three? Who knew. All he gathered was that there was going to be a shoot—which wasn’t exactly groundbreaking news. He’d done more than enough of them to know the drill by now. Except this one… this one would include a model. And not the kind of model who also happened to be his teammate, Daniel Ricciardo.

“The concept’s a little different this time, huh?” Lando asked, lifting his gaze from the glossy table to the team standing across from him.

Charlotte nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I know, Lando. It’s a bit unusual since you’re not doing the shoot with DaniRic like you normally do. But honestly? I don’t think it’s going to be a bad thing.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. There was a quiet sort of stir in his chest—the kind that only comes from not knowing something you really want to know. Who was this model? A Vogue cover girl type? Maybe he was getting ahead of himself, but he was caught off guard, mid-sip of his orange juice, when he heard the name. The name that made him choke just a little on the citrus burning down his throat.

“Oscar Piastri. Model from Australia.”

He knew, even before he looked up, that his reaction would end up as a meme somewhere. For at least a week. Maybe longer, considering the way Daniel—sitting beside him—was barely holding back a laugh. But Lando wasn’t faking it. Not even a little. It had nothing to do with the model being a guy. Gender was never the issue.

It was the name.

There was something about the name that struck something in him. Something distant, like a half-forgotten melody he couldn’t quite place. No matter how far back he dove into his memory—digging through twenty-five years of moments and half-lost days—Oscar Piastri felt like a name that mattered.

And that alone… was enough.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

“Lando Norris. Have you heard of him before?”

Oscar lifted his eyes from his phone, blinking at the sound of his manager’s voice. His back ached from sitting in the same awkward position for too long, and his feet were killing him. The catwalk training had been brutal—heels or not. Even if the sole wasn’t that high, it was still enough to make every step feel like a calculated risk. And then there was the posture. The upright, perfectly aligned posture that they insisted he keep for hours on end.

Oscar chose modeling. No one forced him into it. But sometimes—just sometimes—he wondered if it was worth the physical torture.

“I think I’ve heard the name,” he answered calmly, adjusting the way he sat. “Formula 1 driver, right?”

Mark Webber, his manager, nodded. “He’s the one you’ll be shooting with for Polo Ralph Lauren this Saturday.”

Oscar hummed a soft acknowledgment. The shoot was still days away. He had time.

“His face looks familiar, doesn’t it?” Mark added, scrolling through his phone. The man wasn’t quite old enough to be that old, but the wrinkles etched across his skin certainly said otherwise—though Oscar was self-aware enough to know he was probably just being dramatic about it.

“He looks like one of your classmates from high school. Do you remember?”

Mark turned his phone around and showed Oscar a picture. Lando Norris. The guy he’d be shooting with.

And Oscar had to admit—the man was not a disappointment.

The curls, styled into a soft mullet. The jawline, sharp and masculine. The entire face just had that effortlessly cool, dangerously attractive vibe. Honestly, Lando could’ve passed as a model if he wasn’t already driving at 300 km/h for a living. His face definitely felt familiar… but Oscar’s mind hesitated to latch onto the memory.

“I don’t really remember him,” he said, cheeks heating slightly as he glanced away. He didn’t want Mark reading too much into it. The man had a habit of jumping to conclusions.

“Wow, you’re ancient,” Mark teased with a laugh. “For someone who can’t remember their own classmates.”

Oscar only rolled his eyes and gave a sarcastic sigh, unlocking his phone to open Subway Surfers. His thumbs moved on instinct, tapping in rhythm with the running character on screen.

Still, in the background of his thoughts, a single question echoed again and again: Who the hell is Lando Norris? And why does his name feel like something he should remember?

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

“Mate, he’s actually kinda hot.”

“I know, Lan. He’s your type, right?”

“Wow. Since when do you know my type, mate?”

Laughter echoed through the apartment, bouncing off the kitchen walls and into the dining room, where Lando sat trying not to overthink things. Dinner with Max F and a couple of other friends had turned into something of a deep dive session on his upcoming modeling partner.

Thanks to Max and his impressive internet sleuthing skills, Lando finally had a face to match the name Oscar Piastri.

And honestly? He got it now. Why the guy was a model.

Oscar was tall, with that perfect balance of soft masculinity and delicate charm. His features were a little pretty, his waist was slim, and his hands—Lando noticed—were small. Almost fragile-looking. It wasn’t a weird thought, just… an observation. Probably.

“I guess I’ll wait till I meet him in person,” Lando mumbled, placing Max’s phone back on the table and focusing on his food.

Maybe—just maybe—that photoshoot on Saturday would be a little more… interesting than he’d expected.

#landoscar #lando norris #oscar piastri #ln4 #op81 #f1 #481 #formula1 #mclaren #enemies to lovers #model! oscar #f1 driver! lando #twinklaren #was hesitated to post this but whatever

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ohtobeleah · 2 months ago

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I bet chameleon!reader gives Abbot the biggest glares whenever they pass each other. Its a true “Are you sure she doesn't hate him?” conversation starter.

Chameleon //

Previous Concept

The biggest. But it goes against every fibre of your being. You try your best to convey a sense of disdain for your husb–ex, ex-husband. But its hard to give off that vibe when you really, really fucking love the shit out of him.

“Hi.” Jack coos. He knows he shouldn't be bothering you. He has no reason to be talking to you right now. But when he saw you down in the Emergency Room, body encapsulated with those bright pink scrubs you so desperately defended, he couldn't help but naturally gravitate towards you. “How’re you today?”

“Small talk?” You reply over your shoulder with a sigh, and not a second passes where you take your eyes off the screen in front of you. “Least you recognised me this time.” The dig struck a nerve inside Jack. If he had rolled his eyes any harder at you, he might have fallen over. Which didn't bode well for him in his old age.

“Ouch.” Jack looks over at Shen, he's already looking away from the car wreck that was any interaction between the two of you. No one wanted a bar of your relationship problems, but everyone wanted the winning pool of cash that had been piling up since August. “You’re gonna make me do some serious damage control over that, aren't you?”

“Because you aren't doing damage control already?” It was another low blow, but a blow Jack Abbot deserved. He’d been missing in action inside your marriage for far too long. You knew what you deserved. So did he. Something had to give. “Do you have something you wanna talk about, or are you gonna suck the joy out of one of my free time too?” You hissed. It was like venom against Jack's skin.

There are a lot of complex things and nuances that make Jack Abbot, well, Jack Abbot. Ex-Military trauma surgeon turned Pittsburgh Emergency room attending physician. He carried a lot of weight on his shoulders. Night often scares him. So much so, he prefers to work the night shift.

Love never came easy. It was hard to love when you didn't know how to. It's made even more perplexing when you believe you aren't worthy of love. Jack was that classic, rugged, ‘I’m fine, it's everyone else who has a problem.’ He never knew how to ask for help when he needed it.

But through all the therapy, through all the work he’s done to get back to a place where he could have you in his life again, he was still scared to admit you scared the ever living crap put of him. It was your eyes. They were the entrance to the soul.

Seeing what Jack had done to your soul. How he watched the light fade from your normally bright, bubbly personality. He hated himself for killing a part of you that just wanted to love him. A part that still loved him. A part that entertained his gestures in a way that still made him work for you, every day.

“I was just wondering if you maybe wanted to get breakfast with me sometime soon?” He said nervously. You knew asking that would have been something he was thinking about doing for his entire shift.

“Define soon?” You couldn't say no straight away. You also couldn't laugh at how silly this was. Jack was still your husband at the end of the day. By law. On paper. In any court of law. Jack Abbot was your husband…Yet here the two of you were. You’d let your marriage crumble into a wasteland of hopes of dreams.

“When you get off?” Jack added quickly. He shrugged it off nonchalantly like it was just another day for him. Like his heart wasn't beating inside his chest cavity. If you took his blood pressure right now? He’d be heading right for cardiac arrest.

“You’re asking me, your ex-wife, out for breakfast?” You were starting to forget what you were doing on the screen before you. You had been writing up some patient notes. Now? You were just pressing the ‘P’ button over and over again.

“Would you rather me ask one of the residents?” Jack teased. He knew that would get you going. Put a little heat under your seat. Even though you were standing.

“You wouldn't do that, the residents don't like you, and they would probably say no too.” For a split second, Jack’s heart sank. You were turning him down. You were really over him. Maybe divorce was on the cards? Maybe you were ready to move on from him and his inability to express his love and thankfulness.

“Is that your way of turning me down?” Jack asked softly, like he was begging you not to. It was a different octave than you were used to. There was a worry evident in his tone. An expression of sadness was written in the lines on his face. Suddenly? Jack wasn’t feeling all too confident about this date idea Robby had put in his head at changeover last night.

You let him sit in it a bit. Tried to make Jack squirm under his own company. Then, over the left shoulder of your ex-husband, you saw Dr. Ellis…

“Fuck him!” She mouthed. It was your turn to roll your eyes.

“Suppose we get breakfast,” You entertained the idea for a split second. You finally paused what you were doing as you turned into Jack. The two of you were probably standing a little too close for two people who didn't even live together right now. “Then what? Do I end up back at your apartment?”

Jack caught the subtle glint in your eye. Were you flirting with him? Or was he reading into this too much? Did you just say yes to breakfast? Or were you patronising him?

“Only if you can stand to be around me for more than twenty minutes.” He replied. Looking down at you as he raised his chin slightly. The pink scrubs did look fucking good on you. But Jack had an idea, perhaps they would look better on the floor in the bathroom?

“Last time I checked, you only needed five.” You smiled wickedly. It felt good. This felt good. But you still had your walls up. You weren’t stupid…

“Now, who's flirting with who?” Jack raised his eyebrows in shock. This was new. This was good. This was more like it. You actually gave him the time of day.

“What can I say, old and deprate and slightly geriatric, looks good on you.”

#jack abott #jack abbot #jack abbot fanfiction #jack abbot fluff #jack abbot imagine #jack abbot fanfic #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader

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bonnie-the-butcher · 4 months ago

Text

Rip Tide | Chapter XIII

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 11.247 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

My boss is a nepo man-baby who has not a lick of self-awareness in him so I'll apologize in advance if the rich people hate is stronger in this one. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

A part of you never fully understood moral crises as a concept.

Though you were no stranger to self-hatred, it always seemed foreign that something fair could feel wrong enough to unravel a person, to send them spiraling into existential dread so profound that they began to question their entire moral compass —the parameter by which they defined their worth as a human being.

So when you woke up that morning, the sun still far from rising, your head splitting from the remnants of last night’s drinking, and your chest squeezed tight with something you couldn’t yet name, you were confused, to say the least.

You moved, attempting to stand, only to be pulled back by the weight of an arm draped over your waist.

Barry’s arm.

Around your naked waist.

You look down, moving slowly as the mattress beneath you moulds to the shape of your body, and realize that you’re on his bed.

Again.

The weight in your chest solidifies into something heavier, something you recognize all too well —Guilt.

It wasn’t the first time you felt like this.

You’d been sleeping with your brother’s best friend for months before this moment, and every time, you found yourself wondering whether your lapses in judgment were signs of an unraveling mind or just the consequence of grief you hadn’t even begun to process.

But this time, it was different.

This wasn’t just you —avoidant attacher you, your mother’s daughter you— breaking down in self-loathing after having sex, like you did, every time it happened. This time, your conscience hit you like a ton of bricks.

Because this wasn't just some drunken mistake.

You remember last night.

You were conscious.

You remember kissing Barry, already guilty, already knowing you were using him to distract yourself from the things you weren’t ready to face —that whatever fractured thing you once called family was now gone, irreversibly lost to you.

You remember hiding your face in the crook of his neck, swallowing tears as you got on top of him, desperate for something, anything, to make you forget the night before. You remember his hands on you, grounding, steady, something close to safe—but even that memory sours when you let yourself recall why you’re there in the first place.

Because you also remember before that.

You look down to see new bruises forming around your arms, remembering the iron grip JJ had around you, his unchecked anger, his recklessness almost getting you killed. You remember the bike ride, the raw terror, your nails digging into the mattress just as they’d dug into his skin, the aftershocks of a brush with death still rumbling through you.

You remember John—John B— and realizing just how little you matter to him.

And you remember Barry.

The way he drove you to that bar, even after he explicitly told you he was taking you home, so you wouldn’t be breaking your own heart over and over until it killed you, so you wouldn’t self-destruct.

And yet—here you were.

You swallow hard, staring at the ceiling, at the peeling paint, at the cracks running along the plaster like veins, trying to steady the breath rattling in your chest. The weight of last night settled over you in layers—guilt, exhaustion, something darker beneath it all, something that felt too much like mourning.

Because this was mourning, wasn’t it?

Even if you couldn’t name it, even if you refused to.

You had lost something. A version of your life that—however much an illusion, a lie you told yourself again and again to make that draining existence bearable—was still yours. And now it wasn’t. Now, you were outside of it, looking in, knowing you could never go back.

You press your palms against your eyes, willing yourself to stop thinking, to stop feeling. But your mind betrays you, conjuring up everything you had left behind in that house. Your clothes, your books, your pictures, your past, your whole life. Everything you had fought to hold together, however precariously, was still there, still waiting for you, lingering in the rooms you had once called home.

And here you were. In Barry’s bed. Having to search through the lost-and-found drawer of clothes his past hookups left behind just to find something to wear to work.

The thought makes something twist in your stomach, sharp and bitter.

You shouldn’t be the one going through this.

You did things right.

You worked. You sacrificed. You held everything together when no one else would. When John was too fractured to understand the weight of your father’s absence, you carried it for him, even though you’re the younger sibling, even though he should be the one taking care of you. You bent over backwards, strung yourself thin, barely balanced work and school and the endless responsibility of making sure he was okay, while he disregarded that all, not working, already graduated, uncaring of your grief, as you made sure that he had something stable to hold onto. And now?

Now, you’re the one in exile.

You’re the one sleeping in someone else’s bed, shaking with grief and guilt, scrounging through clothes that don’t belong to you, wondering how the hell you ended up here.

How is that fair?

John has done everything you’ve done and worse. He’s lied, he’s stolen, he’s run off without a second thought, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces. And yet he is still there. He still gets to call that house his home. Like JJ, who has left a trail of destruction wider than the island itself, and still has people who will defend him, who will fight for him, who will let him back in.

While you are the one forced to shrink, to leave, to suffer, while they get to sit in the ruins of the life you built for them, unscathed. While they convince themselves that you are the problem.

Like you were never meant to matter.

And now they’ve taken everything from you.

And they still think they are the ones who have been wronged.

You sigh, sitting up carefully, already fighting tears as you peel the sheets back and move. Barry shifts beside you, exhaling something low and unintelligible, but he doesn't wake. You glance at him briefly, at the mess of his hair, at the bruised knuckles resting against the pillow, at the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest —You want to be thankful, and you are, but there’s something that doesn’t sit quite right about him taking you to a bar and plying you with alcohol at the lowest moment of your life. You know it wasn’t right to let him kiss you, let him reward himself for comforting you, for helping you, by taking you again. And maybe it’s the resentment in you speaking, but you almost feel taken advantage of.

Your eyes shift away from him as if the sight had burned you, and you stand up, feeling the full scope of your bad decisions —the drinking, the fighting, the sleeping with someone who has heavy enough hands as it is— take form in an ache that permeates your entire body, almost sending you back down.

You catch yourself on the nightstand, picking up your jeans, forgotten on the ground beside the marina shirt Barry had been wearing. You search for your underwear, avoiding the pieces of your dignity that are scattered across the ground as you retrieve them.

– A little early for clean-up duty, don’t you think? – The hum startles you, husky, still riddled with sleep, and you clutch your clothes to your chest as he leans his head on his hand, covering himself with the sheets. – Tryna get some brownie points now that I’m your new roommate, sweetheart?

You hate that about him.

That he has it in him to be charming even while half-asleep. That he always smiles like the world is devoid of problems even when everything is falling apart. That he manages to make you not hate him even when you really should.

It's infuriating.

– Are you that unfamiliar with cleaning up that just the sound of it wakes you up? – You sigh, and he chuckles, low and careless, looking at you from the cloud of sleep that still floats over his head.

– Shit, maybe. Gonna have to get a grip on that now that I’m living with a neat-freak, huh?

– Oh yeah, Barry. Your days of peace are over.

He grins, not even registering your tone. – It’s early, though. Even for you. – He looks between you and the empty space beside him, a silent request. – C’mon. The mess can wait.

– It's fine, Bee. I have to get ready anyway.

A quiet scoff leaves his lips. – For what? The six AM shift?

– I have to be there at seven today. – He makes a noise of disapproval, expression shifting into something like outrage. – Mr. Cameron has this laundry list of requests for breakfast. And it’s Kareem’s day off, so I have to do the prep.

– Kareem’s the other cook? – You nod, folding his clothes and leaving them on the chair as he stands up, reaching for the wardrobe behind you. – Two whole ass chefs just to make three meals a day. And here I was thinking these people couldn’t get any more ridiculous.

– I'd be out of a job if they weren't. – You mumble, and he hands you a fresh towel. – Kooks are gonna Kook, I guess.

– You betcha. – Barry gets a hold of your arm before you can go to the bathroom, a strange sympathy in his eyes. – You sure you don’t wanna sleep another while? You need the rest, especially since…

You don’t know what’s worse, him trailing off without actually saying it or making it clear just how horrible of a situation you were in. – Since I’ve been disowned?

– Since your birthday is coming up. – He corrects, laughing easily. It takes you a moment to process his words, and the doubt must have been clear on your face, since he nods over to a calendar glued to the back of his door. – Only a week from now, sweetheart. Feel any wiser yet?

You blink at the date, staring at the numbers like they belong to someone else.

Your birthday.

Your eighteenth birthday.

It doesn’t feel like it’s in a week. It doesn’t feel like anything at all.

You never had the chance to expect much from birthdays. Most years, it passed like any other day, save for a half-hearted “oh, yeah” from John if someone else reminded him. But at least it was still yours. Even if it went unnoticed. Even if it meant nothing to anyone else.

Now, it doesn’t even belong to you.

It feels like another thing lost in the wreckage.

You’d convinced yourself that it was supposed to mean something this time around. That since you were finally gonna be an adult, this one should mark the start of something new, something bigger, something better. You’d talked about it with JJ, and Pope, and Kie. Going to Charlotte, having a roadtrip, maybe buying cigarettes with your real ID for the first time around.

The thought feels foreign, muddled. As if it’d belonged to someone else.

Because there won’t be any candles, no off-key singing, no cheap gas station cupcakes hastily picked up at the last second.

Just you. And Barry. And a room that isn’t yours, in a life you didn’t choose, putting on someone else’s clothes to go to a job that also doesn’t belong to you.

You exhale sharply, shaking it off before it can settle.

Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe now you don’t have to pretend it ever mattered.

Barry watches you carefully, waiting for a reaction, but you don’t give him one. You just reach for the towel in his hand, force a smirk, and roll your eyes. – Oh yeah. I bet I look much wiser too, hungover and all.

Barry laughs, eyes lingering on the calendar as if he’s looking at something special. – We should do something, y’know. I still remember the party you threw for me when I turned eighteen.

The thought of it makes you wince.

You’d saved money for months. One of Barry’s other friends came through with the drugs, you bought a couple of kegs, made him a cake and had everybody he knew write the stupidest things on it with frosting. What you remembered of it was fine, but you don’t remember much of it at all, only that the two of you had slept together that night as well. – If I drink that much ever again liver failure will be the least of my problems. – You chuckle. – It’s fine, Bee. There’s no family to invite, it’s gonna be a day like any other.

– Hey, I’m family. Ain’t that what I’m here for?

– What kind of family is family you fuck?

He grins, pretending to ponder for a second. – The good kind?

– And yet you called JJ “Alabama”. – You laugh. – I’m gonna shower, you go back to sleep, okay?

– You don’t want company? – You can hear the smile on his face as you turn around.

– No thanks, I plan on leaving the bathroom some time within the next three hours. – His laughter accompanies you down the hall, still lingering lowly as you close the door behind you.

You don’t bother looking in the mirror.

It’s not just the hangover, or the exhaustion, or the bruises that make your body ache in ways it shouldn’t. It’s the feeling that if you do—if you really look at yourself—you won’t see you anymore. Just the wreckage. Just the aftermath of another night spent unraveling.

So you don’t.

You step into the shower before the weight of your own reflection can settle. The water is hot, almost scalding, and for once, you’re grateful. The heater at home had been broken for months because John never cared enough to actually follow through with his promise to fix it. You’d gotten used to cold showers, to bracing yourself against the chill, to starting every morning with a shiver.

Now, the heat seeps into your skin, loosens the tension in your shoulders, makes it feel—just for a second—like something is being undone. Like something is melting.

But it doesn’t wash the bruises away.

It doesn’t erase the fingerprints around your wrists, the darkened smudges along your arms, the imprint of hands around your hips. It doesn’t stop your mind from conjuring the feeling of JJ’s grip, Barry’s hands, the weight of it all pressing down, sinking in, refusing to leave.

You press your forehead against the tile, eyes shut, letting the water drown out the noise in your head.

It’s fine. It’s just another day.

When the heat becomes too much, you shut the water off and step out, wrapping yourself in the towel before reaching for the pile of clothes. Your jeans, your underwear, the borrowed top.

The fabric feels unfamiliar—worn-in but not yours, carrying traces of someone else’s perfume, someone else’s presence.

It’s simple, but nice, a little more 2000s-y than what you would usually wear, with a low neckline, that isn’t low enough to be scandalous and a little too camisole-y to actually look like a going out top. The powder blue fabric looks pretty enough against your skin that you don’t even have it in you to be annoyed at the fact it leaves your bra straps showing.

You’re gonna be cooking all day, you shouldn’t be worried about what you’re wearing.

You sigh, pulling the top over your head.

By the time you make it to the kitchen Barry is standing at the counter, attempting to make coffee. The scene is almost comical—him, squinting at the ancient coffee maker like it’s personally offended him, a bag of grounds torn open beside his hand.

You lean against the doorway, crossing your arms.

– Please tell me you didn’t just set the coffee pot on fire.

Barry turns, eyebrows raised, entirely unbothered. – It’s fine.

You glance pointedly at the plume of smoke curling up from the machine. – Bee.

He waves a hand, grinning. – Okay, mostly fine.

You shake your head, stepping forward to rescue whatever’s left of the coffee. – Jesus Christ. – You chuckle, looking through the cupboards. – You have a moka pot in here somewhere, don— Here. I’ll make us some coffee.

– I was trying to be nice, – He sighs, but doesn’t argue. – You like coffee, right? You always make it when I’m hungover.

You pause for half a second, hands hovering over the powder – Yeah. Thanks, Bee. – You say, voice softer than you meant it to be. – But you don’t need to do that, you’re already my landlord, you don’t have to be a brewist too. – Barry just smirks, sitting down and watching you, sleep still clear on his face. – You take yours with milk right? I’ll warm that up—

– No, there uhm, there’s no milk. – He says, almost bashful. – I haven’t gone grocery shopping yet.

– It’s fine. Add that to the list too. You can text me what you need, I’ll go grocery shopping this afternoon.

Barry makes a face, shifting in his seat as he leans a hand on your arm. – Don’t— Don’t spend your money on this, okay? It’s fine.

– Yeah it is, cause it’s not my money. It’s Cameron money. They leave us a card for food shopping, we can sneak in some essentials, free of charge. Don’t worry about it.

He laughs, standing to get the cups as you take the pot from the fire. – Thank God for these rich fucks. You milk ‘em as much as you can, sweetheart. – His eyes linger on you for a moment as he sips from his mug. – That’s a nice shirt. – You smile, sipping from your own coffee. – Ain’t that a little too dressy for work though?

– Dressy? It’s just a top.

– I’m just saying. – He takes your arm, looking at the watch. – We should be going already.

– Oh, I’ll take the bus. And don’t argue. Your bike’s still at the bar, and the bus station is much, much closer.

Barry grabs his keys from the counter, tossing them once in his hand – You sure? We’l walk to the River Styx together, it’ll take half the time it takes the bus.

– I’m fine, Bee. You drink your coffee. – You roll your eyes, grabbing your bag from the floor. – Plus, how will I enjoy your services as a chauffeur later if someone crashes against you because you’re driving half-asleep?

He exhales through his nose, unconvinced, but doesn’t argue. Just steps in front of you as you reach for the door, close enough that you catch the familiar scent of his cigarettes, the faint trace of you still on his skin, on his shirt —your shirt.

His hand brushes your shoulder as he reaches past you, fingers ghosting over the strap of your top. The keys in his grip skim lightly against your collarbone as he adjusts the fabric.

He presses the house keys into your hand, mumbling something about making copies later as he takes the empty coffee cup from your other hand, moving through the motions with the same absentminded ease he does everything else.

You mumble a quick thanks before stepping outside, but when you glance back, just to say see you later, his eyes are already on you.

Steady. Lingering.

There’s something on his mind, something you can’t quite get a read on, but it vanishes the second he raises his hand to wave you goodbye, the careless ease of his smile taking over that flicker of something else, but not erasing it.

The door shuts, and whatever it was—if it was anything at all—disappears with it.

You think about it all the way to the Cameron House. You’re still thinking about it as you push the door open to meet the empty, hollow kitchen, still bathed in the half-light of the early morning.

You go through the motions: put away your things, wash your hands, check the list of reminders Kareem left for you. But you feel hollow yourself, a husk of what you once were in the daylight, just like the house you stand in.

The kitchen hums with silence, still untouched by the chaos that will inevitably unfold later in the day. You let the quiet settle over you like a second skin, trying to sink into it, to focus.

You check the list again. Hollandaise. Eggs Benedict. Toast golden, but not crunchy. Bacon, one side only—the fat can’t be too wrinkled.

Your hands move on autopilot, reaching for the ingredients, setting the pan on the stove, measuring out the butter, the egg yolks, the lemon juice. You fall into the rhythm, but your body still feels off, still feels like it’s moving at half-speed, like some part of you is lagging behind, still standing at Barry’s doorway, still thinking about—

You shake it off, glancing at the clock. 7:12.

You whisk the hollandaise, slow and careful, watching the sauce thicken with each pass of the spoon. The water for the poached eggs bubbles, waiting. You butter the toast, flipping it at just the right moment to get that perfect golden shade—light, delicate, nothing too crisp. The bacon sizzles on one side, untouched on the other.

Everything has to be exact. —You can’t afford any mistakes with Mr. Cameron. Not now.

Your mind keeps racing —Your things, back at home. Your bedroom, still a mess. The laundry you were supposed to do today, sitting untouched in the baskets. Your hands itch, lost in the movement, yet still restless— all the things you didn’t do coming back to haunt you.

You exhale sharply, pushing the thoughts aside. Focus. 7:36.

You plate the eggs, layering them neatly over the toast, pouring the hollandaise in a careful stream. The espresso machine hisses to life, filling the air with something warm, something bitter.

The coffee drips slow. You tap your fingers against the counter, eyes flicking back to the watch. 7:41.

You press your lips together, shaking your head. It’s fine. It’s just another part of the routine.

7:59.

The house is still quiet, still asleep. But from behind Ward’s office door, you hear the hum of the fan, the scrape of his chair against the wooden floor, the slow exhale of breath through his nose—measured, thoughtful. You wait there, the tray heavy in your hands, feeling as though you’re knocking on Satan’s door.

A chill creeps up your spine as his voice comes through the wood, low and indifferent. – Come in.

You step inside, unease settling in your bones as you set the tray down on the edge of his desk with careful hands. He almost seems surprised to see you.

– Good morning, Mr. Cameron.

He hums, setting his papers aside, leaning back in his chair. His eyes don’t leave you.

– Good to know you remembered to bring it up, Miss Routledge.

– You asked me to, sir.

A low laugh escapes him, but it's cold and hollow, like that first warning movement a rattlesnake makes when you step on the wrong spot.

– That’s not enough for most people. – Your eyes meet the ice of his as he lifts the coffee from the tray, something dark flickering at the corners of his expression. – It’s not enough for my son, that’s for sure.

His eyes move towards you again, expectant.

Ward’s hand ghosts over the edge of the tray, back and forth, as he watches you plate the food.

– I don’t have any kids of my own, sir, – You say, keeping your voice level. You don’t know why he wants you to say something, but he keeps looking at you, almost inquisitively, measuring every little expression that crosses your face. – But I’ve been babysitting since I was old enough to walk. The cleverest kids are always the ones that seem to do everything they can to disobey you.

Something shifts in his face as he tilts his head. The movement cold and cryptic, like every expression he’s ever worn.

– It’s hard to think of a child disobeying you, Routledge. – His voice is even. Almost idle. But there’s something beneath it, something pointed. You’re not sure you want to know. – Tell me, – He continues, – how did you handle these ‘clever kids’?

You hesitate, but the answer comes quickly, instinctively.

– The bad thing about being clever is that you want everybody around you to think you’re clever, too. That’s why they don’t follow orders—they think it means you see them as stupid, and they can’t handle that.

He chuckles, crossing his arms, considering.

– Interesting take.

– With kids, everything is about validation, – You continue. – If you make them believe they’re the ones choosing to do what you want, and they think you’re only praising them because you’re impressed, they’ll do it. Even when you don’t ask.

– The praise here being the important part?

You nod, unable to hold his gaze for too long—yet still feeling it on you.

– Rafe's right when he says that everybody likes a little flattery. It's just that everyone likes it in a different way.

Ward leans in on his chair and takes a bite of the toast, eyes finally closing—just for a second, the only moment where he isn’t watching you. But you don't have time to feel relief, as his gaze finds you just as soon as his eyes open again.

He’s still chewing when he leans back. – Very well then, Miss Routledge. – You search the weight of his tone, trying to read between the lines. But you can’t, he doesn’t give you the time. – Off you go.

You take the empty tray from the desk, nodding.

– Enjoy your breakfast, sir.

– Oh, I will. – The laugh that follows is quiet. Not like a warning rattle this time, but like the sound a snake makes after it’s struck. – I will.

You don’t realize how tightly you’ve been gripping the tray until you step into the hallway, until the door to Ward’s office clicks shut behind you and your fingers finally loosen. The weight of it shifts, pressing against your palms in a way that makes your skin prickle.

His voice still echoes in your mind.

"It’s hard to think of a child disobeying you, Routledge."

You still don’t know what he meant.

Flattery? Mockery? Knowing? Something else entirely?

You exhale through your nose, forcing your shoulders to roll back, to shake off the feeling creeping up your spine.

It’s fine.

It was just breakfast. Just another interaction with a man who enjoys making people squirm, who speaks in riddles because he likes watching you try to solve them.

And yet—

"Oh, I will."

The way he said it. The way his voice dipped just slightly, there was something else beneath the words.

You step into the kitchen, setting the tray down with a little more force than necessary, the sound sharp against the silence. You press your hands against the counter, reaching for the cigarettes in your pocket, for the lighter you took from Barry's place.

– Rough morning?

The lighter clatters to the floor.

The voice startles you.

Sarah is perched on the kitchen counter, legs crossed, picking at the hem of a shirt that definitely does not belong to her.

Your stomach tightens, a flutter of irritation rising from your chest.

– An ambush, huh? Classy. What can I do for you, Sarah?

– You can talk to him. – The scoff leaves your lips before you can think to stop it. And you keep laughing, a bitter taste in your mouth as you turn away, grab the lighter, turn your back. – I don’t know why you think this is so funny, Y/n.

– Oh, I bet you don’t. – Your hands move without thinking. Too caught up in the audacity of it all, you move from the fridge, to the counter to the pantry, grabbing all the things you know Sarah has for breakfast. The things you used to make for her, before she threw it all away. – I just bet that you’re completely unaware of just how hilarious it is that you are the one asking me to talk.

– You’re being ridiculous, okay? – She thunders, hopping off the counter, her sandals whistling against the marble floor as she nears you, all but shouting, an inch away from your face. – Both of you are! You know that you went too far working here, and he knows that he went too far letting JJ kick you out, so why don’t you just say it already and apologize?!

– Apologize?! I should apologize because he kicked me out of my own fucking house?!

– He didn’t kick you—

– You’re right Sarah, there’s a world of difference: For him to kick me out he’d actually have to grow a pair of balls and be a fucking adult about it. Which he isn’t! Point taken!

– You are so immature! Just talk to him!

– TALK TO HIM ABOUT WHAT?! I’ve said it all! On my knees, in tears, and he still didn’t fucking listen to me! He doesn’t care about me, he never did! And neither do you!

– Oh yeah! Shift the blame to distract from your mistakes. That’s so much easier than actually being accountable for the things you did and saying sorry.

–And exactly what should I be sorry about?! Huh? – She looks at you, completely still, rolling her eyes, knowing she has no argument to counter. – About working to support him? About wanting to hang out with my friends?

– Rafe isn’t your friend.

Yiu laugh before you can stop yourself.– You could’ve fooled me.

Sarah’s face falls. – Excuse me?!

– I said “could’ve fooled me”. Rafe’s been nothing but good to me since we met. He comforted me when I got fired, he got me this job so I wouldn’t starve. He’s helped me out every day since that one, and he keeps doing it. Shit, he treats me much better than any of you!

– You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Y/n.

– And you don’t know anything about me, Sarah. You don’t know anything about John. You don’t know anything about this life you’re pretending to live.

– What did you just say to—

- I mean, interrupting me at work? Trying to strongarm me into talking to a grown ass man who clearly doesn’t wanna hear shit from me? Exactly what do you want me to say?! Should I go up to the guy that’s bullied me my whole life, that used my money to pay for his stupid little parties in the boneyard and the even stupider illegal shit he does all the time, and tell him what?! “Oh, hey! I’m so sorry that I needed to get a different job to pay our bills! My bad! Next time your friend Kie is bored enough with her suburban life that she actually feels the need to get me fired, I’ll be sure to warn you in advance!”

– Oh, woe is you! You know very well you didn’t need to come here to work again! You could've gotten a job literally anywhere else! – She screams at your face, her breath fanning against your skin, close, too close, but your hands don’t falter. You keep working without looking at her, your voice not even wavering anymore.

– Oh! Yeah, right! Because that’s so easy, right Sarah? I could just bound down the street, knock on the first door I saw and get a job on a silver platter! It’s not like getting a job that pays a decent wage and contributes to the career I want is hard! It’s not like it takes time, sometimes months, months in which the bills that are already late would pile on because John never bothers to pay them. It’s not like John, the only adult in this situation, could get in trouble with the law for not paying those bills. Because you know what? Money isn’t real. Money doesn’t matter to me. Money is just this magical little thing that drops on my lap every month free of charge like your daddy’s allowance!

She all but gasps, as if what you said was some outrage. – Are you really gonna bring this back to “pogues and kooks”? Really? You’re so predictable!

– You’re right! I should’ve just been born in a family that actually gives a fuck about me, maybe then I could look down upon them and pretend I’m on some high moral ground because I’m sleeping with the lower class. That’d be unpredictable, huh?

– You did not just—

– You’re right. I'm misinterpreting the situation. How rude of me. You actually don't just look down upon your entire family while you're slumming it at my place, you also waste all the things that I spend my hard-earned money on, and then come back here to tell everyone how much better than them you are. My bad, Sarah.

– I can’t believe you.

– Well, tough fucking luck. You want something to believe in? Attend a church. I don’t have the time to sit here and twist my words until they’re out of touch enough to make sense in your privileged little mind, okay? I can’t lounge in a house I don’t pay for, eating food I didn’t buy and pretending to be something I’m not—

– Unlike me?

– Exactly. – The word leaves your mouth like a bullet. Her lips part, like she might have something to say, but you don’t give her the chance. You step back, just slightly, the food you've been making for her done and plated before you, the hierarchy of this argument more than clear.

But you've let yourself be walked all over way too many times to let this go.

It doesn't matter to you that she's your boss’ daughter. That she's a rich kid, that she thinks she owns you even if she pretends she does not— None of it matters.

Because your eyes meet hers again, and for the first time since you two fell out, you're not letting her off with a slap on the wrist.

– You think you’re standing on solid ground, Sarah, you think you get to tell me what’s right and wrong because you’ve convinced yourself that you’re better than the other kooks just because you hang around a couple pogues? You're not one of us. And this— Your fingers brush over the fabric of her shirt, John's shirt, over the bracelet around her arm you know that John gave her, over all the things she uses as a costume to pretend she isn't exactly the thing she so hypocritically pretends she isn't. – This act? This jungle fever thing? Whatever the fuck it is that you think you’re doing, it doesn’t make you a pogue. It's an insult. To me. To John. To your family. To you.

Sarah’s jaw tightens.

– You wanna sit here and pretend? Get on your high horse and ignore the fact that you're part of the problem? Fine. You can do whatever you want, Sarah. You always did. But don't expect me to give you any brownie points for using the proletariat costume, because you know damn well that you could live just fine without having to work a day in your life.

The words land like a strike.

Not loud. Not shouted. But harsh all the same.

– I’m tired of you and Kie pretending you know anything about this life. You wanna know this life? You wanna have the right to talk shit about rich people? Here’s an idea: get a job. Get a job in which people like you can come into your place of work, interfering with the single thing keeping you from living on the streets, demanding explanations for things that don’t concern them, and then come back to me. But you won’t do that, will you? Because what you like is being able to cosplay poverty and then come back to your million dollar mansion at the end of the day. Your lifestyle is a fraud, Sarah. Don’t make this my problem.

She stares at you the same way she used to do back when you were friends.

When she needed your help with homework, when she needed you to lie to a teacher as to why she wasn’t in class, when she needed you to put her name at the end of a seminar she didn’t write so that she wouldn’t be stuck with an F —The “poor me, I’m so irresponsible” look. Sarah and John were masters at it, but people have been looking at you like that your entire life. Asking you to take responsibilities you shouldn’t have to handle because they were too busy doing things they knew they shouldn’t do.

You’re at your wit’s end.

You have been for a long time now. – Ooh, what’s that? Is it the seventh grade again? You think you can bat your little eyes at me and I’ll be the one apologizing for the shit you’ve put me through, again? – The words filter through your lips like straight venom, sickly sweet and double-edged. A trick you’ve learned from her. – I’m not your lap dog anymore, Sarah. You can’t lead me on and then screw me over, like you used to. You’ve got John B for that. So take your breakfast, go eat it in any of the thousand dining rooms you have in this house, and leave me alone.

You’re holding the plate up to her, waiting for her to do right by you for once in her life. But she doesn’t. Sarah keeps looking at you like you’re the bad guy. Because people like her cannot conceive of the idea of not being in the right.

Her lips part, pursed with the sour taste of whatever it is that's waltzing through her mind.

– I'm your boss, too. – She says, bitterly, childishly. – I can fire you if I want. You can’t talk to me like that, Y/n.

You don’t even get the chance to scoff.

– She can, actually. – The voice comes from the other side of the kitchen. Rafe, of course, is leaning against the doorway, half-dressed, arms crossed, with the smuggest look on his face. – And you’re not gonna fire her, Sarah. Not unless you want me to tell dad about you John B fucking on his boat.

Rafe’s eyes meet yours right then, a boyish smile flashing across his face before he looks back at his sister, thoroughly amused.

Sarah’s face twists, anger flaring in the way her lips part, in the way her breath stutters—caught between disbelief and pure, boiling rage.

– You’re disgusting.

Rafe laughs.

Not a chuckle. Not a scoff. A full-bodied laugh, like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

– Oh, come on, – He drawls, shifting against the doorframe, arms still crossed, that smug grin widening. – You’re just mad cause I beat you to it. You wanted to play the ‘I can ruin your life’ card, and turns out? I’m holding a better hand.

– Fuck you, Rafe.

His laughter is loud, genuine. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him enjoy himself so much. – Clearly you're the only one here who's not fucking, Sarah.

Sarah looks like she might actually lunge at him.

Her fists clench at her sides, her shoulders heaving, her jaw tight enough that it looks like she physically has to stop herself from swinging at him.

– You're fucking disgusting.

– Says the person threatening someone's job just because she told you some truths about yourself. Get off your high horse.

– You don’t even care about her, – She spits, shaking her head. – You’re just doing this to fuck with me. Like you always do.

Rafe exhales a sharp, amused breath, tilting his head. His gaze flickers toward you for half a second—just long enough to see that you’re still not stopping him.

And when he gathers you aren’t, he grins.

– That what you think? – His voice is all mockery, slow-burning cruelty, his eyes flicking back to Sarah with something sharper in them now. – That’s so typical, Sarah. You think the world revolves around you.

Sarah’s glare deepens.

– Oh, fuck off, Rafe.

– Nah, let’s talk about it, – He continues, stepping closer, voice going low, venomous. – Let’s talk about how you’re nothing but a stupid little spoiled girl who throws a tantrum every time someone doesn’t kiss your ass.

Sarah’s hands ball to fists.

But Rafe is thriving. He barely stutters.

– You think you’re different? – He scoffs. – You think you’re better than every other rich bitch in this town? You think slumming it with your little Pogue boyfriend makes you special? – His laugh is sharp, mean, cutting through the tension like a blade. – You’re just like dad, Sarah.

Sarah flinches.

Actually flinches.

But Rafe isn’t done.

– You're always on this high and mighty act, pretending you're better than everyone. But as soon as someone doesn't bend over backwards to do what you want, you jump right back to threatening people's jobs, like the spoiled little girl you are. – He leans in, eyes flashing. – You’re not a pogue, Sarah. Dad might have worked his way up, but you? All you do is leech off of people. Just like John B.

Sarah moves before she thinks.

Her nails dig into his shirt as she lunges, knocking him back a step, swinging at him, snarling, completely losing control—

But you are already there.

You don’t hesitate. You don’t even think.

Your hands clamp onto Sarah’s arms, pulling her back before she can actually land a hit, dragging her away from him, holding her back.

– Stop it! – You snap, grip tightening as she thrashes against you, her breath ragged, furious. But you don’t let go. – Get out already. Here, take your plate and fuck off! You’ve done enough.

Rafe watches it all happen, eyes gleaming, completely and utterly pleased.

Sarah is seething. Shaking.

– Tsk, tsk, – He murmurs, straightening his shirt, brushing off absolutely nothing. His smirk is slow, smug, thrilled. – So violent, Sarah. Are you gonna try to bruise her too? You and John B really are a match made in hell, huh?

Sarah jerks forward, still trying to get to him, but your hold doesn’t budge.

– Get out, Sarah. I'm not playing with you.

– You two deserve each other. – She spits, pushing the plate off your hand. It shatters on the ground, food splattering all over.

Rafe actually giggles at that. – Aww, someone’s getting grumpy! – He shouts as she storms off, slamming the door behind her like a petulant child.

He’s still smiling when he looks back at you.

You lean down, reaching for the shards of a porcelain plate that probably cost you half of your monthly salary, but Rafe moves to stop you, and you have to stop him in turn. – Don’t— Don’t! You’re barefoot, Rafe. You’re gonna cut yourself.

He laughs again, that same boyish look flashing bright and easy through his eyes.

Your hands barely brush his chest, trying to guide him away from the mess of razor-sharp edges and microscopic shards, but he only takes your hand, pulling you closer, smiling so damn bright as he pulls you into him, arms wrapping around your waist like it was meant to be. – You're so worried about me, huh?

– Rafe.

– It's fine, baby. – He kisses your cheek, that toothy grin peeking through as he presses his lips against your skin once, then again, and again. – I like it. I like you. God, I really like you.

– That's really lovely, Rafe, but I—

– Kiss me, c'mon. – He leans in before you can even answer, humming lowly. – C’mon, baby. I know you want it.

You push at his chest, glad for his unusual joy, yet unable to feel it for him. – Let me clean this up first, okay? Sit on the counter. Can you do that for me?

He obeys immediately, chuckling lowly, his fingers brushing the fabric of your top slowly as he watches you pick up the pieces and wipe the floor clean. – That was really hot, y'know?

Your laughter comes out a scoff, and you exhale sharply, shoving what's left of your breakfast prep on the sink, scrubbing at it harder than necessary.

Rafe hums behind you, completely unbothered, naked feet slapping against the now dangerless ground as if you didn’t just pull his sister off of him minutes ago.

He’s leaning against the counter beside you, watching you, grinning like a fool, arms crossed loosely over his chest—his entire body language so easy, so relaxed it’s almost irritating.

– Come on, baby, – He murmurs, stepping closer, fingers ghosting over your spine. – You’re just gonna ignore me after that?

– Rafe.

His hands find your waist, thumbs pressing in slightly, a touch so possessive, so natural it nearly knocks the air out of your lungs.

– No, seriously, – He continues, grinning against the side of your head, like he can’t help himself, like just being near you is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. – That was, like, the hottest thing anyone has ever done for me. You wanna do it again? Maybe next time you can hit her for me. Fuck, I'd love it if you could do that.

You sigh, twisting in his grip to look at him, raising a brow. – You’re insufferable.

– Oh yeah.

He’s so close.

Too close.

His fingers trail down, brushing lightly over the curve of your hip, lingering at the hem of your shirt, like he’s considering slipping under.

– Don’t even think about it.

– Shh, – He smiles, brushing his nose against your cheek, so soft, so devastatingly sweet. His hands tighten slightly on your waist, pulling you closer, pressing against you in a way that should be overwhelming, but the warmth of his palms comforts you, even as it wanders aimlessly. – Just a minute, – He whispers, pleading, cloying, clingy, burying his face in your neck. – Perfect Sarah was just knocked down a peg by my newbie, okay? Let me enjoy this one.

– ‘Your newbie’, Rafe? You talk about me like I'm a dog.

He laughs, hands heavy around you, around the fabric of your top, the sides of his hands brushing the naked skin beneath. – You were like a pitbull, though. My faithful little pitbull named cupcake.

– That's not funny.

– It is a little. – He hums. – C’mon, I'll let you bite me if you want.

You laugh, and he does too, holding you so close, so close, you can feel his heartbeat on your back.

You should push him away.

But you don’t.

You keep washing dishes as he pulls you even closer, clinging thoughtlessly like it's only natural, like it’s only right. – They do that, huh? – You hum, and it's bitter, but Rafe's hold tightens around you like it's the sweetest thing in the world. – The golden children. You tell them something they don't like one damn time and suddenly it's like the end of the world.

– Fuck them, baby. – He whispers. Lips moving against the crook of your neck, the ghost of a smile still lingering there. – Fuck them. Family disappointments like us are much fucking better.

You don’t answer.

You don’t laugh this time.

Because the words sink into you —You are the trouble child, the family disappointment. But you don’t know that Rafe is. Yeah, he's reckless, he's troubled. He's the black sheep. But disappointment implies that he's been given up on, and though Ward doesn’t understand him, he's certainly still trying.

You set the last dish on the rack, wipe your hands on a towel, and pull away from him.

Rafe makes a small noise of protest, his grip tightening instinctively, like he’s not ready to let you go yet—but you slip free anyway, your hand in his, even as you turn your back on him, reaching for the pack of cigarettes you left on the counter.

– Gonna take a break, – You mumble. – Be right back.

You don’t wait for his response.

You just push open the back door, and step outside. Your fingers stutter slightly as you light the cigarette, the flame flickering in your unsteady hands as you hold the tobacco to it, watching the edge burn.

You take a long drag, tilting your head back, staring at the sky, at the shifting clouds, at nothing in particular—

But the feeling doesn’t go away.

You think about Ward, about how he mentions Rafe at every chance he gets, and you're almost envious of how large a space he takes up in his father's mind.

The weight lingers.

It always does.

Because Rafe can say fuck them, like it’s easy, like being the family disappointment is almost a compliment, even if it's not.

It’s never been.

And no matter how much you tell yourself you’re fine with it, that you’re past it, that you’re not still that kid trying to be enough for a father who never wanted you and a brother who never saw you—

The feeling still settles deep in your chest.

Still claws at the back of your throat.

Still hurts in the same place where the nicotine warms you. It still weighs despite the numbness that rises with the smoke.

You take another slow drag, exhaling through your nose, closing your eyes.

And then the door creaks open behind you.

You don’t turn.

You don’t have to.

You already know who it is.

Footsteps. A pause. The shift of fabric as he leans against the doorframe, watching you.

– You’re mad at me.

Rafe’s voice is soft, almost hesitant, like he doesn’t quite know how to navigate this version of you.

You don’t blame him. You don’t know either.

You let out a short breath, shaking your head. – How could I ever be mad at you? – You say, and your voice is lighter. You reach for his hand and he holds it up to you as if you’re offering a lifeline. – You’re a peach, Rafe. Sweet.

A beat of silence.

He steps closer.

– You’re mad at something, – He presses, voice quieter now, watching the way your hands move over his as you do the same.

You don’t answer at first. And his words mix up with the smoke, light and gray, warm and cold at the same time. – C’mere. – You tell him, pulling him closer, brushing the hair away from his face with the same hand he's holding.

He takes another step. You can see the hesitation fluttering away from his face. He leans in, his breath brushing your skin, but you hold him back before he can kiss you. – My lips are bitter right now.

He tilts his head and takes the cigarette from you with a smile, taking a quiet drag, his shoulders easing the slightest bit.

His pupils are larger when he looks at you again. – Mine too.

It's charming.

Enough that you don’t expect it.

Enough that it makes you smile.

You reach for him, fingers brushing along the side of his face, the curve of his jaw, soft, lingering, in a way that makes something flicker in his expression—something warm, something raw, something startled.

You laugh, leaning in before he has the time to do so, smiling into his lips as he melts over you.

The warmth of the cigarette in his hand brushes your leg, and you see it fall to the ground, half-smoked, as he pulls you into him.

Your hands tangle in his hair, around his neck, about his shoulders.

You know you shouldn’t. You know what you’re doing is wrong. That you've done the same thing just some hours before, and that using affection to distract from your problems has gotten no healthier in the span of a night.

But you don’t have it in you to care.

Because you've done what's right and it's gotten you nowhere —You’re always the one fixing things that others break, so what does it matter if it breaks now or later on? You'll be the one who has to do it regardless.

– Baby, – He whispers, dazed, reverent, like it’s the only word he knows anymore. His hands are pulling at you every time you slow down, every time you take a breath. Like you’re abandoning him every time you so much as shift in his hold.

You hum, tilting your head slightly, brushing your nose against his, soft, teasing. Rafe follows the movement like he’s chasing a fix. – What's wrong, Rafe?

– Pay attention to me. – He whines, and it's so clingy, so perfectly pathetic, that you pull him in again, laughing as you follow suit, mind clear of every other thought.

His lips find yours again, searching, impatient, his hands pressing into you, fingers flexing, tightening, like he’s afraid you might change your mind.

And for once—

You don’t.

You let him have it.

Let him pull you flush against him, his warmth seeping into your skin, his touch dragging along the curve of your waist, your ribs, the space between your shoulder blades. And even as he’s lost in you, his hand still covers the tattoo on your collarbone.

So you let him kiss you like he needs it to breathe, like he’s never been kissed quite like this before, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that you’re finally letting him in. Fully, completely, without hang-ups.

And when you sigh softly against his mouth, when your fingers slide into his hair, tugging, grounding him—

He groans.

Low, guttural, like the sound has been sitting in his chest for years, waiting to be pulled out of him.

His hands wander, cling, pull, searching you like he’ll die otherwise. Like he doesn’t know what he’ll do if you let go.

Like he doesn’t think you’ll stay.

But you do.

For now.

For just a little longer.

He has you pressed against the wall, hands traveling up and down your thighs, over your hips, around your ass.

– Fuck, – He mutters, nosing at your jaw, licking over the skin, sucking just slightly before letting up. His fingers tighten on your hips, dragging you closer, pressing you against the wall like he physically can’t handle how much he wants you. – You had to have known, baby, – He whispers, voice gravelly, raw, breaking at the edges.

– Huh?

His hands skim over your ribs, curl under the fabric, press against your stomach like he’s trying to feel every breath you take.

– This top, – He exhales, mouth trailing down, lips grazing the exposed skin of your neck, hand still lingering above your collarbone. – This fucking top, – He repeats, voice dark, feverish, wrecked. – You put this on for me.

It’s not a question.

You laugh, amused at the absurdity of it, at the way he says it like it's a fact.

– Don't pretend. – He laughs too, but it's darker. Still feverish. – You fucking knew blue was my favorite color.

His grin is sharp, smug, so pleased with himself—but his hands tell a different story.

Because they’re almost shaking.

They’re clinging.

They’re tracing your skin like he doesn’t know what he’ll do if you pull away.

– Wanted to drive me fucking insane, didn’t you? – He whispers, hot, breathless, desperate as he noses at your throat again. – Wanted me thinking about you all fucking day—

He laughs, hoarse, breathless, like he’s already lost his grip on himself completely.

– Well, guess what, baby? – His fingers tighten, dig in, press into bare skin like he needs something to hold onto. – You win. I’m already fucking gone for you.

It's almost sweet, but there’s something darker in his voice. Something lower, rougher, like it’s coming from the pit of his stomach.

His hands tighten on your waist.

– You fucking love making me like this, don’t you? – He breathes, pressing you back against the counter, holding you there, eyes dark, unfocused, locked on you like he’s trying to burn the image into his brain. – You’re a tease.

– Rafe, – You sigh, pressing your hands against his chest, trying to push him away the slightest bit—but he doesn’t budge.

If anything, he presses closer.

– What? – He grins against your neck, nosing at the curve of it, his hands sliding up your sides, curling over your ribs, feeling every inch of you under the fabric of that stupid top he’s obsessed with.

– I've got things to do. – You mutter, but he barely lets you get a breath in. The words are almost lost against his lips.

– Yeah, you have me to do. – His voice is serious, completely deadpan, barely smiling even as you laugh. – You're always fucking working. – He whines, voice lower now, rougher, more impatient, like he’s getting frustrated with you, with himself, with how bad he fucking wants this. – I've got shit to do, too, y'know? I'm going out with Topper and Kelce right now.

You scoff. – Sounds really demanding.

– It is. God knows they don't get off my dick about it.

– How rude of them.

The irony flies over his head. – Mm-hmm. You could come.

You chuckle, pushing his hair back, content at how he melts into it. – Leave my job and go?

– You ain't gonna work much longer today. My dad's taking Sarah and Wheezie to the country club right now, and they’re gonna have dinner at the Wreck or something.

– Even so. I can’t really leave.

– C'mon. I'll be good. – He nods against your skin, hands sliding lower, squeezing at your waist, gripping at you like he’s trying to ground himself. – I’ll be so fucking good to you, baby. Just gimme a chance.

You laugh, tilting your head to glare at him, but his expression is so hungry now, so overwhelmed, so fucking consumed that it throws you off completely.

– You are so full of shit, Rafe.

– Yeah? – He grins, but his breathing is heavier now, his grip is tighter, his body is pressing closer.

– You did wear this for me, though, – He murmurs, mouth trailing down your jaw smiling smugly, teeth scraping lightly, breathing against your skin like he’s barely restraining himself. – You look so fucking hot in this, too. Don't you wanna show off a little? – His fingers press into your waist, fisting the fabric of your shirt, pulling slightly, like he wants to tear it off of you. – You wanna act all tough, but I know you, baby.

– Rafe—

– Nah, I know you. – His hands slide up, gripping at your ribs, brushing against the curve of your chest, like he’s memorizing you through the fabric.

– I told you blue was my favorite color, and now you’re walking around looking like this? – His laugh is dark, hoarse, almost wrecked. – You fucking knew what you were doing, didn’t you?

– Oh yeah. – You chuckle. – I live to drive you mad, Rafe.

The irony flies over his head again, his lips meeting yours with the same heat as he lifts you.

His mouth is back on your neck, his fingers curling tighter in your shirt, his entire body pressed up against yours like he needs to feel all of you at once.

– Baby, c’mon. – You mumble, and he sighs against your throat, pressing you closer to him. – I have to go back to work.

– Fuck, call me baby again. – Rafe’s voice is low, strained, muffled against your throat as he presses another open-mouthed kiss there, his breath shaky, uneven, like he needs this more than air itself.

– Rafe—

– No, say it. C'mon, baby please. – His grip tightens, pressing you higher against his waist, pinning you between him and the wall like he’s trying to keep you there forever. – Say it again.

You laugh, shoving at his chest, but he just grins, lazily nipping at your jaw, dragging his mouth along your skin, completely ignoring the fact that you’re trying to put distance between you.

– Rafe, baby. – He all but purrs against your skin. – I need to go back to work.

– And I need to keep touching you.

His hands grip tighter, curl under your thighs, drag up your sides, like he’s mapping you out, trying to commit every inch of you to memory.

– You can be as sweet as you want, Rafe— He raises his brow, pretending to glare at you. – Sorry. You can be as sweet as you want, baby. I still have to go. – You press your palm against his cheek, tilting his face up, forcing him to meet your eyes.

His pupils are blown, his lips swollen, his breathing is all over the place, and he looks at you like you just tore the world apart and handed it back to him in pieces.

And still—

He doesn’t let go.

– Don’t look at me like that. – You murmur, rolling your eyes, but softer now. Rafe smirks, tilting his head, watching your mouth like he’s still hungry for it. – You are impossible.

– And you, – He whispers, grinning, – Are so fucking hot in this top.

You shove at his face, laughing despite yourself, but he doesn’t move far, just grins wider, lips brushing against your jaw again, against your cheek, stealing another kiss before you can stop him. – Rafe—

– Okay, okay, – He laughs, finally setting you down, but his hands still linger on your waist, fingers squeezing slightly, like he still doesn’t want to let go. – But you’re coming with me next time.

– Sure I am.

– And you’re wearing that top.

– Whatever you say. – You turn toward the door, ready to shove him out before he can try anything else, but his hand curls around your wrist.

He pulls you back in, stealing one last kiss, slower this time, softer, deeper, like he’s savoring it. When he pulls away, he’s smirking, but his eyes are dark, hazy, still completely wrecked over you.

– I’m leaving now, – He mutters, but makes no move to actually do so.

– You better. – You warn, nudging him toward the door, shoving him toward it when he still doesn’t move.

And when he finally stumbles back, laughing, barely catching himself before hitting the doorway—

He grins at you, smug, flushed, completely, devastatingly gone.

– See you later, baby.

And God help you, you don’t correct him. You hear his steps echoing across the kitchen. You hear the door knock closed, and there’s still something light, tingly, lingering within your chest as you step in and get back to work.

The pain is gone, you don’t even wonder.

And you think about how distracting yourself might actually be good for you as you plan out a lunch and a dinner, despite what Rafe said.

He knocks on the back window as he leaves, giving you that same sharp smile as he waves goodbye, dressed up in a polo that’s the same blue as your top, car keys in hand.

The warmth is still there, lingering, buzzing under your skin, as you see him step away.

You don’t even question it.

You just exhale, shake your head, and turn back to the counter, back to cleaning up, back to work. Your hands move without thinking, pulling down ingredients, planning out the next meal.

A whole hour passes.

And you think Rafe might be right. Maybe the house will be empty for the rest of the day. Maybe you can actually relax for a while. You pull on the pen and paper at the counter, trying to think of something nice and simple to make for you and Barry when you get home.

– Taking a break, miss Routledge?

Your entire body locks up.

Your stomach drops.

Your hands are still over the counter, fingers tightening slightly around the pen.

You didn’t hear him come in.

You didn’t feel him.

But when you turn—

Ward is already there.

Standing by the entrance of the kitchen.

Watching you.

– Did I startle you? – He laughs, stepping closer. Holding the empty breakfast plates in his hand. – I didn’t mean to.

– I didn’t hear you coming at all. You could’ve rung for me, I’d bring the plates down for you, sir.

His posture is relaxed, casual, unreadable. But there’s something too deliberate, too patient, too careful in the way he’s standing, in the way his eyes flick over your face before settling on your hands. – It’s no bother. I wanted an excuse to see how you keep this kitchen. Much better than Kareem does, apparently. He leaves a mess all over the place, only starts cleaning up before he goes. It’s not a good habit. – His hands drift over the counter, and he stands beside you, looking between your eyes and the piece of paper in your hand. – Writing down a recipe?

– Shopping list. There’s some things missing for the lunch prep. Why, did you want anything specific?

He stops just short of the counter, eyes sharp, watching you with an interest that doesn’t feel casual at all. – No. Actually, you don’t have to make anything for lunch. Or dinner. I’m taking the girls to the Country Club. It’s a beautiful day for golfing.

– It sure is. Would you like me to prepare anything for when you return? A snack, maybe a dessert?

His eyes linger on you for a moment, but you’re really sure what he’s looking at. Whether he’s looking at your arms, at the faint, fading bruises; at the wrinkles Rafe left on your top as he grabbed and pulled at you like a toy; or at something else entirely, is unclear. But he gives you a smile at some point, and it just barely reaches his eyes. – Were you a disobedient child, Miss Routledge?

The question sends a chill down your spine.

– Sorry?

– You’re clever. – He says finally, but it doesn’t really sound like a compliment. – You anticipate my needs. I like that about you.

– Thank you sir, but I’m just doing my job.

– And you do it well. – He hums. – Indeed you do. You can go home if you want, Miss Routledge. I was going to tell you to clean up, but clearly, you’ve anticipated that as well.

– Yes, sir. – Your breath is caught. Your grip on the pen is too tight. You feel like he might jump on you if you say something wrong. – Any requests for tomorrow?

He smiles again, and this time the lines form around his eyes, deeper, more genuine, yet still all too cold. – No. I’m sure I’ll like whatever you have planned. – He gives you one last smile, standing at the door. Something else in his face, in his posture, that you can’t quite catch. – That’s a nice shirt you’re wearing. Blue looks very nice on you, Routledge.

He doesn’t even give you the time to say anything else before he goes, leaving you to your doubts, all alone in this kitchen that suddenly feels colder.

It takes you a moment to fully come back to your senses, and maybe the half-assed smoke break has left your nicotine cravings to haunt you, but you’re almost rushing to the door as you gather your things.

You don’t realize how fast you’re walking until the house has fully disappeared behind you. You don’t realize where you’re going until you look up and see the bus stop.

It’s muscle memory, instinct, a habit formed over years of just going—of putting one foot in front of the other and figuring it out later.

Your hands are cold.

You should’ve called Barry.

But you didn’t even think to.

You inhale sharply, rubbing your arms—

And your phone rings.

The sudden vibration makes you jump.

You fumble for it, barely sparing the screen a glance before swiping to answer.

– Hello?

There's a pause. A beat of silence that stretches just a second too long.

– Miss… Routledge? – The voice is steady. Firm. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach knot. – This is Sheriff Peterkin. We need you to come down to the station.

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvilliantrope @vampiriito @sassybearfire

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fuctacles · 5 months ago

Text

I was trying out a new grammarly alternative, prowritingaid, and it sucks even more. so if anyone has anything usable to recommend, I'm all ears.

<< fourteen | 😺 | sixteen >>

It's a baffling concept, underdressing to go to Steph's place. Not that he's been dressing up before, but he would change into a clean shirt from the folded pile on his desk. Now he's willingly digging through his old clothes, the ones buried deep in the wardrobe Wayne has been already putting his winter clothes in. (Eddie refuses to feel bad about it, he knows he will always have a place in Wayne's apartment, regardless of age.)

He finally finds a pair of dark sweatpants, ones he'd wear on chilly evenings while watching TV with Wayne. These days he'd stay in his jeans or pajama bottoms. When looking them over, he doesn't find any embarrassing stains, but what he does find, is a Looney Tunes logo on the left leg. Knowing he won't find any better options, he resigns himself to possible ridicule. It's this or the even older ones with Pikachu, which he's not sure would even fit. He should probably donate them, but he's got them from Wayne, so there's a bit of a sentiment left behind.

His uncle finds him twisting in front of the mirror, checking out his ass. They stare at each other for a few seconds, both frozen mid-movement.

"I don't want to know."

"Good choice."

"Going to Stephanie's, I assume?"

Eddie is an adult and will not blush like a teenage boy with a crush. He won't. And even if it happened, the bad lighting should hide it from Wayne. Like a Schrödinger's blush.

"Yeah, she..." He realizes he doesn't have an excuse anymore. There's no conditioner to pick up, or cookies to bring. It's just him in a questionable outfit. Hell, he doesn't even know what's the plan for today; he's still worried Steph wants him to exercise. Or maybe she needs him to do some housework, move some furniture around?

"I don't want to know," Wayne reminds him with a raise of his hand, before moving along to the kitchen.

"It's nothing weird!" Eddie protests, before realizing it might be something weird. He kind of hopes it's something weird.

"Just remember about the appointment tomorrow."

His uncle doesn't seem interested in his explanations anymore, which might be a pleasant change from his previous prying. Eddie's not sure why he feels the need to explain himself. He's an adult, doing adult things with another adult. He sighs.

"Yeah, I remember. I'll definitely be back before that," he says dryly. Despite everything, he's a good nephew, so he stops at the kitchen door. "You need anything before I go?"

"Nah," Wayne waves him away. He's slowly moving around the kitchen, preparing tea and grabbing snacks. "Good luck wooing your lady."

Eddie lets out a sigh so deep that for a second, he feels like a teenager again.

"Thanks," he says, because while he might still react like a teenager sometimes, now he knows better how to pick his battles. "I'll be back later."

"Don't rush on my account!"

Eddie puts on his shoes, grabs his keys, and goes out. The sweatpants, unfortunately, don't make walking the stairs any easier.

When Stephanie opens her door, the place looks the same as yesterday, which scratches off a gym makeover from his list of nightmare scenarios.

"You look cozy," she says after giving him a quick once over.

"Uh, thanks?" he's not sure if it counts as a compliment. "You too," and that definitely is as a compliment.

She's wearing gray sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, so nothing out of the ordinary when she's at home. It's Eddie who looks different, matching her.

Matching her home clothes.

He steps inside, imagining them hanging out at their home, winding down after work. Completely comfortable with each other in clothes nobody else sees. Unless they are very lazy and do a quick grocery run to the store on the other side of the street.

"So, what's the plan for today?" Eddie asks quickly, to stop himself from imagining a life with Steph.

"Nothing much," she shrugs, walking into the kitchen.

He follows her like he's just another one of her cats.

"Then why am I wearing sweatpants?" he asks, pulling on the fabric pointedly. It attracts Steph's eyes downward, and he feels himself heat up, not used to her looking there.

"Because I asked you to?" Her eyes linger, good gods, but when she finally looks up, she bats her eyelashes, and he doesn't question it anymore. Whatever she has planned for him, he'll find out soon enough, anyway.

She serves them both pasta, and they sit on the couch. It's becoming so familiar that Eddie will undoubtedly miss it when he goes back to Indianapolis. Smoking weed with Gareth over pizza has a completely different vibe.

They pick something less engaging than last night, another game show Eddie's only vaguely familiar with. When the food is gone, Steph cozies up to his side without any hesitation, so he follows her lead and throws his arm around her shoulders.

He wonders if she's just sleepy again, using him like a warm pillow to rest on, until her hand lands on his knee.

Oh. Oh.

Any coherent thought immediately flees his brain, and his face floods with blood. But her hand just rests there, almost like an afterthought, like Eddie is a convenient arm rest. Is it an upgrade from being a pillow? He's probably going to find out soon enough.

He almost manages to settle down under the touch, when Steph's fingers start moving. Eddie watches them tap against his own knee like it's some kind of foreign film, without subtitles. That he's watching through a window.

The tapping turns to tracing shapes, turns to dragging her nails against the soft fabric. It sends goosebumps up his leg and towards places he'd rather not think about right now. When Steph's hand dips to the inside of his thigh, tracing the seam of his sweatpants, he grabs it to stop further movement.

"Hey—" He turns, not sure what he wants to say, if he's going to beg for more or to stop torturing him. But what he gets, instead, is Steph's lips.

She digs her nails harder into his thigh, making him gasp against her mouth. It gives her an opening to slide her tongue inside, gentle but determined. Steph turns more towards him, and he quickly discards his almost empty beer bottle to give her his full attention. It's like she's been waiting to feel his hands on her, because as soon as he touches her knee, she's swinging her leg over his thighs.

In a blink of an eye, he has a lap full of Stephanie Harrington, her thick thighs under his palms, and his face squeezed between her hands. They're making out like teenagers, and she was the one to initiate it. Eddie's on cloud nine and wonders when would be appropriate to slide his palms up her thighs and feel her butt, something he's been thinking about for quite some time. For now, he focuses on kissing back and willing his dick not to ruin the moment with its eagerness.

Steph doesn't seem to have such reservations.

He feels it when he wraps his hands around her waist to pull her closer, feel her body flush against him. And feel he does, a hardness prodding near the line of his boxers. His heart stutters, and without thought, he presses against Steph's lower back and bucks his hips up.

Steph's contented sigh reverberates down his spine, and she starts grinding her hips down on him. With a little adjustment of the angle, their dicks finally brush against each other through the soft fabric of their sweatpants.

They pull apart on a gasp, and Eddie might have an idea why she made him get rid of the denim.

She keeps moving, eyes hooded while she's looking at him. It almost looks like she's riding him, and what a thought that is. Eddie just rests his hands on her waist and lets her do whatever she wants.

Which, unfortunately, seems to involve stopping. Steph blinks, her eyes looking a little clearer.

"Can you come like this?"

It's a miracle he doesn't just at this question.

"With you? Yes."

"Good." She resumes her movement, now with more purpose. "Because it's all you're getting."

"Okay, thank you," he agrees quickly, because it's more than he dared to wish for.

He lets his imagination run wild, then. Steph naked, her breasts right in his face, riding his dick. Her pussy is hot and tight around him, and he can feel her raw, no condom between them. Her skin against his, their eyes locked, nails digging painfully into his shoulders.

She leans down for a kiss, breathless and messy.

"Wanna see your face," Eddie manages between bites and licks. She keeps kissing him for a moment longer, but as her hips start losing rhythm, she pulls away, letting him watch the climax on her face.

It's her slack jaw, the sound she makes deep in her throat, and the small, jerking motions of her hips, that make him come too, right into his boxers. Knowing he's enough to get her there feels like a win in a campaign, endorphins flowing freely through his body in little tremors.

So, he might not know the rules of the game they're playing, but he must have done something right to get this far.

When he comes back from his high, he finds himself wrapped tightly around Steph, face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in.

"You smell so good," he says without much thought, lips brushing her skin.

Her nails scratch at his scalp and he'd purr if he could.

"Thank you. You smell okay."

He giggles against her skin, feeling high on his orgasm.

"I'll take that."

@wheneverfeasible @steddieinthesun @hattsy-likes-pretty-stuff @bumblebeecuttlefishes @phantomcat94 @tartarusknight @tinyplanet95 @steddiefication @estrellami-1 @disrespectedgoatman @madigoround @tartarusknight @blasvemous @cryptid-system @hiei-harringtonmunson @hellowhatthehellisgoingonhere @dreamercec @manliest-of-muppets @bookbinderbitch @marklee-blackmore @icecat @rootbeerandmusic @mollymawkwrites @milojames16 @ellietheasexylibrarian

#crazy cat lady stevie #steddie #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #mine #stevie harrington #steddie fanfiction #age gap steddie #transfem steve harrington #cw: age gap

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palesweetsdeer · 1 month ago

Note

If your taking filet requests maybe dew and perpetua being sweet and cuddly

Digging for Gold

“Papa?”

Perpetua flinches and nearly scatters his papers all over the floor as he whirls around to face the ghoul that had entered his office. His name is Dewdrop, if he remembers correctly. He’s a small, scrawny little thing with a tassel-less tail but Perpetua has been told he has quite the temperament. Not surprising, he’s fire affiliated after all.

”Yes?”, he answers, raising his chin, trying to appear a little more confident than he feels.

Taking over as the frontman of Project Ghost had turned out to be way more stressful and difficult than he had anticipated. If he was being honest, he’d imagined it as a smooth ride, sailing through the ups and downs of album and concert sales until he could retire after a few years. Now, he’d only been in office for a few weeks but he already had to plan a tour, an album concept and summon his own ghouls. It was tiring and frankly, he had no idea what he was doing.

Dewdrop flicks his tail and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“You have moment? I would like to show you something.”

Perpetua blinks. He’s never met a ghoul with a Slavic accent before. Ghouls, when being summoned from the Pits, didn’t speak a language at all. They learned over the course of a week, their brains accommodating to the new realm they had been born into. Usually, they spoke the same way their summoner did. Who in the Ministry spoke with a Slavic accent?

“Ah… sure. Of course!”

Dewdrop nods and moves to open the door.

“Good. Come. It’s bit of a walk”

Perpetua quickly discards his papers, tossing them somewhere onto his desk, as he follows the ghoul with swift steps, his heels clacking on the marble floor. They walk in silence and Perpetua can feel himself start to sweat nervously. He swallows and shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants, clearing his throat.

“So… you’re one of Copia’s ghouls, right?”

“Wrong. Terzo’s.”

”Oh.” Perpetua feels his ears twitch uncomfortably. “Sorry.”

Dewdrop shake his head and waves him off.

“No, it’s no problem. I know I don’t look that old”, he snickers and Perpetua gives an awkward chuckle, his shoulders relaxing a little.

“No you really don’t. I would’ve guessed you were one of the younger ones. Like… Phantom, was his name?”

“Buggy? Yeah, he’s a baby. But he’s learning a lot and growing stronger every day. Is remarkable! All Quintessence grow fast.”

Perpetua blinks, genuinely interested now.

“How old is he?”

Dewdrop puffs out a cloud of smoke and shrugs.

“Bwoah… I don’t know the correct numbers… but he showed up sometime ‘23.”

“Only a year? He’s holding up pretty well for that, huh?”

“Oh, yes he is. He’s gotten used to the swarm, found some hobbies and fucked around a few times already. Swiss’ bad influence though. Fucking asshole.”

Perpetua thinks for a moment. He’s still not mastered the art of differentiating the ghouls by their names.

“Swiss is.. the one that jerked you off during Copia’s shows, right?”

Dewdrop grimaces and his ears pin back.

“Uh-huh.”

“Cool.”

Again, they fall into silence. Sue him, Perpetua liked to watch fan recorded videos. They were his only way of knowing how to act as a Papa. Which had led to some very stupid instances of him directly copying some of his predecessors’ moves. He hadn’t been outright corrected, but Copia had given him a few nasty remarks for it.

They move further down into the heart of the Ministry and Perpetua begins to wonder where it is they’re actually headed.

“Dewdrop?”, he asks, tapping the small ghoul’s shoulder. “What exactly do you want to show me?”

Dewdrop shakes his head and descends another flight of stairs.

“No worries. You’ll see, just a moment”, he murmurs, flicking his tail. Maybe he’s trying to sound reassuring but Perpetua can’t help the tingly feeling of uncertainty in his belly.

Nevertheless, he decides to trust the ghoul and they continue walking until they stop in front of a large, wooden gate with a seal at the front. Perpetua has been here before. Many times, actually. He frowns.

“What are we doing at the den?”

Dewdrop doesn’t answer. He simply taps the seal with his claw and murmurs something, the door gliding open with a faint hiss.

“Come in. This is home”, the ghoul grins and flaunts his arms, motioning at the interior of the structure.

The ghoul den is large. Much larger than any of the upper halls. It’s part of the cellars and resembles a gigantic cave, chiseled into the stone the Ministry stands upon. The entire thing is one big dormitory with concrete walls and thin, wooden doors separating each ‘room’. Perpetua hasn’t really been to any of the smaller places like the kitchen or the bathrooms, but he does know what the sleeping area looks like. He’s always wondered, how ghouls could feel comfortable there. It consisted of nothing but a large, rounded cave, the floor covered in mattresses that vaguely resemble nests. Perpetua had never seen concave mattresses before in his life. He didn’t even know those existed.

He enters the den and casts a glance to the ceiling. The walls are a mix of blank stone and concrete, the floor marbled the same way the entire rest of the Ministry was. There are lamps, couches and armchairs all over the place and Perpetua has to admit that the den wasn’t as empty or cold as one would expect. It was rather welcoming, actually. The ghouls had a nice home, no doubt.

Dewdrop leads him to the kitchen, where he opens the fridge and gets out two bottles of beer, placing them on the rounded table at the back. Perpetua raises a brow.

“There’s no way all 26 of you fit around that table”, he states, pointing to the piece of furniture.

Dewdrop snorts and shakes his head.

“We don’t eat here. We have special feasting hall, two doors down”, he points in the vague direction, tail twitching, as he gathers the beer bottles into his arms and reaches one out for Perpetua to take. “Drink. You reek of stress. It’s a good one, trust me.”

Perpetua takes the small glass container, reading the label on the front. His brows draw together.

“This just says ‘Fuck you, I brewed this - Crust’ ??”

Dewdrop nods, raises his bottle for a toast and then gulps down a large swig of the stuff, wiping his beard afterwards.

“Ah! Yeah. Crust is good fucking brewer. Try it. You going to feel much better in a moment”, he chuckles, accent thickening.

Perpetua opens the bottle, takes a step back and pours the entire thing down the sink.

“Sorry, I don’t drink on work days.”

“Pussy.”

Perpetua gawks at him for a solid moment and then flicks his ears.

“That’s- are you allowed to talk to your Papa like that??”

Dewdrop shrugs and takes another swig, leaning his hip against the table.

“Not sure. Are you allowed to refuse Crust’s beer? He’ll be pissed for sure.”

They stare at each other and then start chuckling at the same time. Perpetua out of disbelief, Dewdrop because he’s tipsy as fuck.

“Hehee, you’re funny, Papa”, the ghoul saunters over and pats his forearm. “But you’re also a prude.”

Perpetua grimaces.

“I’m not a prude.”

“And a virgin.”

“I- I’m sorry??”

Dewdrop blinks and squints, looking him up and down.

“You look like a virgin.”

Perpetua follows his gaze, taking his own appearance in. He frowns and then gesticulates wildly.

“What- WHAT - about me makes me look like a virgin? I’m 54!”

Dewdrop’s brows shoot up so far they nearly disappear below his hairline.

“There’s no fucking way you’re 54.”

“Me and Copia are twins!”

The ghoul’s brows raise even higher, and Perpetua starts to fear they might fall off completely.

“That’s… Nah, there is no-“, he blinks as if to compose himself. “No wayyyy. Haha, you lie to me, Papa. Sly of you, but there’s no way…” He pauses and then tilts his head. “Actually there is way. Copia is a virgin too.”

“Fucking stop assuming everyone’s a virgin!”

Dewdrop points the neck of his bottle at Perpetua’s chest.

“Not assuming. Knowing.”

He then regards Perpetua with a look that seems to be genuine pity.

“Poor man… 45… 54 and still virgin”, he grimaces. “Must feel horrible. I mean, I can’t relate but still..”

Perpetua feels like he’s about to bust a vein. He’s not an angry man, never has been. And he’s certainly not insecure about being a virgin (which he isn’t!) but something about the way this asshole is talking to him really makes him feel like he’s about to lose it.

“Did you want anything else from me or did you just bring me here to drink beer and insult me?”, he grits out, teeth gnashed together so he doesn’t do something he might regret later.

Dewdrop stops in his tracks and furrows his brows as if trying to remember what he wanted to do. He then taps his bottle against his horns and nods.

“Yes! Right! You were stressed, that’s why I brought you here!”

Perpetua’s lips pull back in a snarl.

“To insult me? How is that going to help with my stress?”

“No, no no”, Dewdrop shakes his head and then walks over, taking his hand and leading him towards the living area. “Not insulting. Stating the truth. Anyways, I originally wanted to bring you down here so we could get drunk and relax a little. Talk shit out. You’re new and I’ve been here for…”, he squints as if he’s doing the math in his head, “uh… long, long time.”

He stops and points to the couch they’d arrived at. It’s one of five big couches in the living area, propped up directly in front of the flatscreen TV mounted on the wall. Perpetua blinks. He was aware the ghouls had technology but he hadn’t expected this kind of luxury.

“I didn’t know you-“

“Watch TV? I don’t usually, but some guys like watching stuff. Swiss likes Reality and the girls watch it with him”, he grimaces. “Humans are embarrassing.”

Perpetua nods.

“Yeah, I guess. Reality? Like what?”

Dewdrop shrugs and downs the rest of his beer.

“Shit if I know. Like… Kardashians?? Uh… some German shit too, ‘Love Island’ I think… You wanna watch?”

Perpetua shakes his head vehemently.

“No, Satan, no. I’m not into that whole.. uh.. scene.”

Dewdrop eyes him and then leads him around the couch before he pushes firmly against his chest, knocking him over to plop down on the cushion. Perpetua hisses briefly and moves to complain but shuts his mouth immediately when Dewdrop sits down next to him, pulls his knees to his chest and drapes his body all over his side. Perpetua freezes. The ghoul is warm. Of course he is, he’s a fire elemental. His skin is dry but cozy, like a freshly washed, dried towel. Perpetua feels his muscles relax and his body melt against the couch. He exhales and lets his eyes flutter shut, feeling like a heavy weight has disappeared from his chest.

Dewdrop rests his head on the Papa’s shoulder, his horns knocking against his cheek. His gills huff out small puffs of smoke which circle and float towards the ceiling where they disappear through the small holes into the air vents. He smells of cedar wood and bonfires, in a calming, serene way. Almost nostalgic.

“This… is why you wanted me to come down here?”, Perpetua asks, his voice thin. He opens his eyes again and looks down at Dewdrop, who keeps his cheek pressed against the Papa’s shoulder.

The ghoul grumbles.

“Would been better if you had got drunk too”, he slurs, accent thickening until his words are barely understandable.

Perpetua hums.

“I know. Sorry.”

“You don’t drink at all?”

“Not during the week. I tend to… get carried away.”

Dewdrop chuckles at that and then starts purring, a rusty, rumbling sound. Perpetua feels like he’s filled with molten jelly. His limbs feel lax and he exhales deeply.

They stay quiet for a while and then Dewdrop speaks again.

“Sorry for calling you a virgin.”

Perpetua sighs and feels his lips quirk up.

“It’s okay-“

“I can help with that if you’re embarrassed about it.”

“Ghoul!”

Dewdrop snickers and ducks his head, shielding it with his hands to little avail. He yelps as he feels a sharp tug at his horn and bats at Perpetua’s face with a clawed hand.

“OW! Not the horns! No touching-“, he yanks his head back and growls lowly, “No touching the horns!”

Perpetua chuckles and waits until the ghoul has calmed down and snuggled back against his side, continuing to purr.

“You’re not usually affectionate, I’ve heard”, Perpetua remarks and rubs at Dewdrop’s horns apologetically. “Why now?”

The ghoul remains quiet for a moment before he shrugs and curls his tail around his own thigh.

“I don’t know. You smell familiar. Copia does too. But not as strongly. Call it instinct, if you will.”

“Instinct? Are you guys… how prominent is ‘instinct’ in your life?”

Dewdrop shrugs once more, clearly not caring for this topic of conversation.

“Fuck if I know. I only know my own experience, don’t know how humans perceive the world. But belonging is a big part of being ghoul. That why we form swarms and packs and whatnot. In the Pits, lonely ghoul is dead ghoul.”

“Lonely ghoul is dead ghoul…”, Perpetua repeats and hums slightly, letting his fingers glide over Dewdrop’s horns absentmindedly. ”That sounds horrible.”

The guitarist hums a little.

“Eh, is not so bad. But earth life is easier.”

Perpetua nods and closes his eyes again, relishing in the warmth the ghoul radiates. He feels cozy. Better yet, he feels accepted. He feels home.

——————

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yowlthinks · 2 months ago

Text

One evening the doorbell rings and Crystal makes herself get up from the sofa anticipating the takeaway delivery, but instead it is Edwin standing at her door.

- Oh, hey! What are you doing here?

- Good evening. Might I come in?

- Sure... - she lets him pass her by in the narrow corridor and closes the door. - So, to what do I owe the pleasure? I thought we were done for the evening. Weren't you and Charles going to the park or something? Where is he, by the way?

Edwin is standing in the living room, and this is probably the first time Crystal has seen him look at her in a somewhat timid, nearly embarrassed way.

- Everything is fine, Charles did indeed go to the park, but I said I needed to do some research, so would not join this time. I, uh, was rather hoping to ask you for a favour.

- You lied to Charles?! What's going on?!

- I didn't lie to him. I just didn't say where I would be doing my research, or what the subject of it would be. Had he asked, I would have told him, but given that he didn't, I left it at that.

- Right, so...

- I was wondering if you could teach me about the Internet. Maybe also help me get one of those portable computers or phones everyone seems to have these days.

- That is... not what I expected.

- Well, what did you expect?

- Not sure, but certainly not this.

- So, um, will you teach me?

- Sure, let me just dig out my old phone, it should still work...

It took them a couple of hours to go through the basics of internet search, the concept of websites, forums, e-mail correspondence and finally Wikipedia, which Crystal could see has captured Edwin's heart.

- Well, these are all the basics. You just need to remember that just because it is online doesn't mean it's true. You have to verify your sources, you know? Cross-reference and all that...

-Yes, perfectly clear, thank you.

- We can tackle social media next time, they are useful for detective work, but I am honestly too tired to explain them right now.

- Oh, I am sorry to have taken away your evening of rest, and truly grateful for your help. And the phone.

- I have to say, you are a quick study, well done Edwin!

- Thank you.

- I still can't get my head round one thing though: why are you doing this? Don't get me wrong, I am glad you decided to join the rest of us peasants using the modern technology, I am just surprised it's you and not Charles initiating it. Given that he... well, he probably saw at least some of it appearing when he was alive.

- That is precisely why it has to be me.

- Huh?

- When I met Charles I was somewhat freshly back from Hell and... and he showed me the modern world, got me to explore and see it, made me figure all those new things out.

- I bet you were kicking and screaming!

- Well, maybe a little - Edwin scoffed and gave Crystal an unexpected rueful smile - he was so full of life, so happy to show me things and so curious to see things he did not get to see in life, but always wanted to... it was infectious.

- Yeah, I can imagine that!

- And now he has been dead for over thirty years and... and the world moved on, and he thinks he knows it all, but...

- But he doesn't as much any more.

- Yes, and that's not his fault! We have been so busy solving cases, we... well, maybe we missed some crucial points about the modern living. And it is a little hard to keep up without a proper connection to it all.

- You think me teaching him will make him feel...

- Old, yes. But also, it would again raise the painful feeelling of not having had a chance to grow up. It is like he is both old and young at the same time, you see. Had he lived, he would have been...

- 52! Holy shit!

- Well, yes, but more importantly, using all this every day.

- But you're -, you would be-

- I would be 125 years old, yes. Proper old and most certainly long dead, so... so I hoped that if it is me who learns it first, I might just... well, it will be easier for him to learn it from me, emotionally, I mean.

Crystal looked at him silently.

- You are a really good friend, Edwin. Charles is lucky to have you.

- Thank you. And we both are... we both are lucky to have you too.

#dbda #dead boy detectives #one shot #edwin payne #crystal palace #charles rowland

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scribesoflex · 2 years ago

Text

older miguel x younger fem!reader pt.2 (smut 17+) pt.1 here

age gap! dark concept!

𖦹꙳࡛࣪⋕ ˚.✦ ⵢ₊˚.

It all spirals from that day. The day he’d finally got you, and you’d finally gotten him.

It’s endless moments together. Miguel volunteering to do anything that involves being alone with you. Getting you in his back seat, in his pool, in the batroom, in the locker room after volleyball practice. He’s part of you, permanently forged into your skin. He lingers all day, everyday – even if you only speak to hin through knowing glances or naughty texts.

One night in particular, things get kind of out of control.

You’d called him, whining and crying about how you wanted to see him, how you’d do anything to have him. To feel him.

And it’s mostly miguels fault for being a lesser man. Slipping through your bedroom window like a teenager, blushing as you giggle and whisper between kisses. He feels almost ridiculous, but he also feels like he’s in heaven. Where he’s always supposed to have been.

You’re face is pressed into the cat shaped rug on your floor, the fluffy material soft against into your cheek, muffling you groans and whines. He’s pounding yoh frlm behind, cock completely sheathed, hole sucking him in everytime his hips jerk or roll.

He’s close, so close – and despite your pleads for him to finish inside, he begins to warm himself internally that as soon as you finish again — he needs to pullout.

Until your pushing your self up, forcing him to fall flat on your hardwood floor, twisting on his cock, tiny hands pressing to his pecks.

You’re soaking, dripping around the base of his cock, coating his balls and your ass. It’s obscene, the noises, and they’re loud.

“It’s too loud” he hisses behind clenched teeth, trimmed nails digging into the meat of your hips, strength doing nothing to stop you from bouncing on him like a mad woman.

You whimper from above him, fingers toying with your own nipple, eyes rolling up to the ceiling, oblivious to miguel struggling below you.

You don’t care, you never have, it’s been miguel that’s worried — conjuring plans that make sure nobody catches you.

He doesn’t even breathe when it happens, his mind goes completely blank, eyes screwing shut tightly, he thinks he even dies for a moment. The feeling is so overwhelming it’s numbing, like his cock isn’t even attached to his body anymore.

You’re milking him for all he’s worth, gummy walls molding to his every vein and ridge, sucking him in, squeeging every last bit of his seed out.

It’s gushing out around the base of his cock, your tiny pussy unable to contain a load so big, dripping down his bals, staining your rug.

It’s miguel who almost gets you caught, practically throwing you off with a worried scowl, prompting you to yelp out in surprise, stumbling over your words as you watch him get dressed with fevor.

The next moments are a blur.

You’re dad pounding your door, the hinges shuttering, knob shaking jerking as he tries to get in.

“Honey is something wrong!?” He shouts, voice dripping witch concern.

It makes miguel frown, nails digging into his palm, anxious as you get dressed, winking at him over your shoulder.

“Everythings fine dad i just tripped on something” you lie, peering at your father through a crack in your door, smiling weakly. Your legs shake with anxiety, miguels cum pouring from your cunt, lacey panties doing nothing to help stop a stain from forming through your shorts at your crotch.

Your father hums, and miguel can’t really hear the rest, untill he bids you goodnight and you close the door, waiting a few seconds before you twist the lock back into place.

“I’ll buy you the plan b pill tomorrow morning when we go for break-“

Your lips press to his sweetly, lashes fluttering, pretty feautures glowing as if you were an angel.

“Im on the pill mi amor, and besides don’t you think it’ll be hard for anything to happen – you are on old man remember?” You joke.

Miguel shrugs quietly, and you go about your night as you usually do, him staying just a bit to bid you goodbye after you shower – letting you know he’ll be by after your father leaves for work.

What miguel doesn’t know, is the way you craddle the soft skin of your tummy in your palms, gazing at yourself in the mirror, pondering.

What would it take to make miguel yours forever?

𖦹꙳࡛࣪⋕ ˚.✦ ⵢ₊˚. severely unedited!

tl; @whatthesprucedude @livingwithinyou @04oyaoyaoya01 @cheifqueef075 @gardentoolforcevans @valslays755 @namjooningera @scxrluxxie @xstormshadowx @xentualzzz @rubbersould1 @cavvedinn

#miguel o'hara smut #miguel spiderman #spiderman smut #seeing it bc of the smut!#miguel smut #across the spider verse spoilers #spidey #fanfic smut

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hallucinateonpaperspines · 5 months ago

Note

if Ashley's for some reasons ever mentions/explains some human torture methods what would the cons thing of it ? Like are we more brutal then them ?

Well... this get dark. FBI Agent, I'm a writer I promise! This is all hypothetical! There is worse out here in the internet wilds!!!

I think for the most part, it's a game of orange-and-blue morality for a bit. There are things the Decepticons pull (Shockwave just existing) that immediately make human prosecutors start prepping the war crime cases and some things that humans do make the cons pause for a minute. At the same time, certain things the cons do, while horrible, just make humans nod because of course they would do that, and most human torture techniques just don't translate well to Cybertronian biology.

Like, the Decepticons would do things that are definitely against the Geneva Convention (and I think they would find our concept of a Geneva Convention laughable) so they would shrug off a lot of similar precedents humans have. Removing limbs, sensory depravation, experimentation, and electrocution are all familiar concepts so it is just a shrug of shoulders and a "why not?" attitude.

And then they look deeper.

In my mind, Cybertronians above all are efficient. Unless it's personal, or you are with someone who has a truly skewed brain module (Yes, Airachnid I am looking at you) the point of torture is to get information as fast as possible. Tortured to death, unless it's an accident, isn't efficient.

Humans, unfortunately, don't always care about efficiency.

They see the Human Centipede and the Terrifier, and bots are praying to primus like they've never done it before. It's entertainment, its art to mankind and it is some of the most protective vomit-worthy levels of shit they've ever seen. They see the Jigsaw franchise and Shockwave is joining discords and emailing directors to get notes.

It's fictional. It's fake. It's an unhinged level of creativity completely separated from ethics and morals, or in some cases leveraging those ideas to better stamp in some emotional torment. It's not just physically taking apart a victim, or trying to manipulate them mentally; it's full-on destruction. Complete evisceration performed in the name of delusional curiosity, sadistic glee, or self-righteous theatrics.

But, again, it's all fake! So what does it matter? Soundwaves says to himself as he bans any vore content from the Nemesis' servers and scrubs his drives

And then someone brings up Vlad the Impaler.

Imagine the horror as it just clicks. While Cybertronains may not produce excrement, they do have scraplets, so the concept of leaving someone in a tub to slowly rot or forcing rats to dig through bodies just sings a song of pain they are vulnerable to. Of slowly dying in a painful, inevitable method that's meant to leave a lasting mark.

And then a human starts thinking.

Art isn't efficient, but a masterpiece is never meant to be so mere as efficient.

Why not remove t-cogs? the element that helps these creatures transform, a crucible of their identity and self-worth?

Wait, that's not meant to be torture, that's just containment.

No. Torture is using small limbs to unwind and peel back layers of wiring. Torture is leaving portions of a frame to decay and rust, poking at the open wound, and flinging acid inside. Torture is pulling limbs off and reattaching them only to do it again. Torture is removing optics and turning sensors to maximum sensitivity before turning them off again.

Torture is taking those old methods and being creative enough to apply them on a blank canvas with new rules and no precedents.

The issue is not our brutality, it is our cruelty and creativity. And that's something that even the most vile Decepticon can respect.

They might even help you find a new muse, or canvas, to practice with.

#ao3 author #ao3 #tfp #transformers prime #what if #writer rambles #what does this say about me?#I don't want to know #humans are terrifying #humans are space orcs #the end is giving decepticon x serial killer and I'm not mad #Lockdown x serial killer?#Shockwave x blacksite interrogator?#Shockwave x horror movie writer?#I could also see that with Megatron #love triangle?#Megatron way too interested in the thematic themes and drama behind this bloody poetry of a movie #Shockwave is impressed with how realistic it is #Pen pal love triangle as they help edit scripts?#Airachnid is having a rivalry with the twisted side humanity #move over silas #she wants a partnership with that vore writer #Soundwave and lazerbeak are never leaving the ship #JAMES wants off this planet #Ashlyn just wanted a little entertainment #now BD is having a panic attack and KO can't look away from the movie #sir is getting IDEAS #SHE DOESN"T EVEN LIKE HORROR

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zosin-ya · 9 months ago

Text

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 9 - ᴄʜᴀᴏᴛɪᴄ ɢᴀɴɢ

Summary: Spending a girls night with you friends, quickly turns into a spontaneous party, with Law being dragged along reluctantly.

tags.: part of the strawhat gang + bonney being your friends, Franky and Robin are married and Luffy not understanding the concept of labor.

a.n.: I love letting Law suffer c:

[ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ɪɴᴅᴇx]

“What do you mean they were together for a year?” Nami asked, raising an eyebrow as you sat behind her, fingers skillfully braiding her hair. She had been hounding you for some quality girl time lately, especially since you’d been too wrapped up in your new relationship…or whatever you wanted to call it. It felt like forever since you’d hung out with her or her flat mate Bonney.

You sighed, focusing on the steady rhythm of weaving Nami’s soft strands. Across from you, Bonney was lounging in an armchair, her face slathered with a green mask, chomping on crackers with the dedication of a pro athlete. She shot you a skeptical glance beneath her mask. “You at least stalked her, right?”

“She added me on Instagram already, no need,” you replied, still focused on braiding. Bonney’s eyes nearly popped out of her head, like you’d just admitted to committing the biggest faux pas. With a dramatic sigh, she grabbed her phone from the table beside her, unlocking it in one smooth motion.

“Girl, that’s rookie stuff. You gotta dig deeper. What’s her name again? Yuki something?”

“How is any of that gonna help me with this?” you groaned, feeling the heat of frustration rise in your chest.

Nami smirked as she painted her nails, not bothering to hide her amusement. “Oh, come on, don’t you want to know more about Law’s ex?”

“No!? Why would I?” you snapped, a little too quickly. The defensive tone in your voice only made Nami and Bonney exchange knowing glances before bursting into laughter.

“Yeah, right,” Nami teased, the grin on her face widening. “You’re telling me you don’t care at all about the girl your Loverboy was with for a year?”

You groaned again, knowing full well they had you there. Bonney, meanwhile, was scrolling through her phone with an expression that was far too mischievous for your liking. She definitely found something.

“Well,” she said slowly, her tone all too playful, “if you’re really not interested, I guess I won’t show you this adorable old pic of her and Law…”

Your hands froze mid-braid. Curiosity flared up like a warning bell, but you tried to play it cool. Bonney was definitely baiting you. But before you could decide what to do, Nami was already sliding off the couch, careful not to mess up her freshly painted nails. “Oh, Let me see!”

You watched as they giggled together, huddling over Bonney’s phone. The temptation gnawed at you, dragging you deeper into the spiral.

“…okay fuck it, show me,” you muttered, standing up and leaning over the back of the armchair to get a peek too, curiosity getting the better of you.

On Bonney’s screen was a cozy group photo, probably from a Christmas gathering. The usual holiday clichés were all there — tacky sweaters, a fireplace, Rosinante in the center, grinning like an absolute goofball, surrounded by two people you guessed were Law’s parents. You smiled despite yourself. But it faded when your gaze found Law, standing off to the side, his face its usual stoic mask. Next to him, unmistakably, was Yuki.

Your heart dropped suddenly.

Sure, you knew it was from his past, but something about seeing them together, in such a personal setting, hit you harder than you’d expected. It felt like peeking into a part of his life that was still off-limits to you.

Before you could fully process the flood of emotions, Bonney scrolled to another picture on Yukis Facebook, obviously not being used for ages. This time, it was just Law and Yuki, standing under a snowfall. They weren’t posing for the camera but caught in a candid moment, smiling at each other like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

That one hurt.

“Wow, how petty do you have to be to keep that stuff?” Nami mused, waving her hands to dry her nails faster. Bonney nodded, tossing another cracker into her mouth, treating it all like juicy gossip.

Their casual comments snapped you out of your daze. They were right — this was all in the past. Ancient history. You were the one dating Law now, and from what he’d told you, Yuki was nothing more than a chapter long closed.

Still, the pictures gnawed at you. Was it jealousy? Or just the realization that Law had once shared parts of himself with someone else, in ways you hadn’t yet?

“You okay?” Bonney asked, her teasing tone now replaced with concern. Her eyes studied your face, searching for a crack.

“Yeah,” you lied, trying to shake off the unease. “It’s just… weird, you know?”

“I get it,” Nami chimed in, her voice softer now, more understanding. “But that’s all it is — the past. And you’ve got the hot emo boy now.” She winked, throwing you one of her playful smiles that made you chuckle despite yourself.

“Besides, she’s ugly,” Bonney added with a smirk, tossing her phone onto the table. “And you know, insane.” Yea you couldn’t deny that. Especially after what Yuki had pulled on you.

Bonney stood up, feeling like switching the topic now after seeing how you your mood had dropped, heading toward the kitchen. She didn’t indent to sadden you after all. It was supposed to be a fun girls night. You should relax and have fun, not cry over a relationship that is long over.

Moments later, you heard the clinking of bottles, and soon enough, she returned with a bottle of wine and three glasses. “Let’s drink on that crazy bitch.”

“How did you know what I was thinking?” Nami laughed, extending her hands carefully so as not to ruin her nails.

You joined in, shaking off the last of your lingering doubts. This wasn’t supposed to be a night for wallowing in jealousy over Yuki. Fuck her anyway.

As the three of you clinked glasses, the weight in your chest finally lightened. You pulled up your legs on the couch and relaxed again. The cheap wine and the support from your friends really were what you needed right now. You took a sip, savoring the slight burn and letting out a satisfied sigh.

“So, what’s the real deal with him?” Nami asked, her eyes gleaming with curiosity as she leaned back next to you on the couch. “I mean, brooding bad boy, kind of a mystery. Are we talking about some serious feelings here?”

You felt your face flush at the question. Leave it to Nami to cut straight to the point. “I don’t know,” you admitted, swirling your wine glass a little. “I like him. A lot. But it’s… complicated.”

Bonney raised an eyebrow, taking a long sip of her wine before chiming in. “It’s always complicated with guys like him. Let me guess, he's got that whole ‘tragic backstory’ thing going on?” She said it with a smirk, but there was a knowing look in her eyes.

You laughed softly. “I have no idea.” You really didn't, barley knowing anything about his past, beside his Ex. Law's tempo at revealing sensitive topics to you were slow, even Yuki was only mentioned after what had happened.

Nami teased, raising her glass to her lips. “Because it sounds like you're still figuring him out.”

“Maybe,” you said, leaning back into the couch. “He just doesn’t talk much about his past, or his family...or anything personal.”

Nami and Bonney exchanged glances, and Bonney let out a dramatic sigh. “Girl, just don’t let him pull you into some dark mess without a lifeline. I swear, guys like him can be a black hole of emotional baggage.”

“Bonney’s right,” Nami said, giving a playful nudge with her foot. “You need to protect yourself too. But, if you think it’s worth it, we’ve got your back.”

You smiled, appreciating their concern. “Thanks. I mean it.”

Bonney, ever the practical one, stood up, stretching lazily as she glanced toward the window where the sun had long since set. “Alright, enough with the heavy stuff. We’re supposed to be relaxing! How about we find something trashy to watch and finish off this wine?”

And so you did, the bottle emptied quicker than any of you expected, and before you knew it, Bonney had already popped open another one. The mood had shifted into something light and easy, with laughter filling the room, nonsensical conversations flowing freely, fueled by the sweet, warm buzz of alcohol. The filter that usually kept things polite was long gone.

“Y/N, you gotta tell me something…” Nami leaned in closer, her cheeks flushed from the wine, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Is he good?”

“Good at wha’?” you replied, blinking in confusion.

Bonney groaned, rolling her eyes and helpfully making a rather crude hand gesture to spell it out. “You know.”

You snorted, trying to keep your composure but feeling the heat rise to your face. You couldn’t help but giggle at the sudden shift in conversation. “Oh my god.”

Nami was relentless though, scooting even closer, her eyes twinkling with playful intent. “Come onnn, spill! He has to be. You know what they say about tall guys…”

Bonney waved a hand dismissively. “Pfft, doesn’t mean any tall guy knows how to actually use it. Trust me, been there done that.”

“Don’t distract her, Bonney!” Nami scolded with mock seriousness, her focus laser-sharp. “I need to know, Y/N. And don’t worry, I’ll keep it to myself.” She shot you a look that made it clear she absolutely would not, but the alcohol in your system made you feel less guarded, and you found yourself grinning.

“I mean…”

“I need details!”

“I’m not giving you details!” you laughed, cheeks burning as you covered your face.

“Okay, fine,” Nami said, settling into her seat as if ready for a formal interrogation. “Just answer me with a yes or no. That’s fair, right?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help but play along. “Okay, fine.”

She gave you a mock-serious look. “He a top?”

“Yah, obviously.”

Bonney burst out laughing, nearly spilling her wine. “What do you mean obviously?!” she cackled, and you couldn’t help but laugh with her.

Nami waved her hand, shushing Bonney dramatically. “Okay, okay. Next question.” She paused for effect, leaning in like it was a life-or-death matter. “Is heeee… making sure you finish?”

“Sure.”

“Always?”

You hesitated for a split second before smirking. “Yup.”

Both Nami and Bonney exploded with laughter, raising their glasses in triumph. “Nice!” they shouted in unison, clinking their glasses together with a high-five, clearly way too pleased with the answer.

“Why are you two more excited about this than me?” you laughed, the weight of earlier worries completely gone.

“We’re living vicariously through you!” Nami teased, taking another sip of her wine. “Besides, it’s not every day we get juicy intel on a mysterious bad boy.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as the conversation drifted back to more ridiculous topics. The laughter, the teasing, the shared warmth of friendship — it was exactly what you needed. Whatever stress and insecurity had been gnawing at you earlier had been drowned in wine in the good time you were savoring. Right now, you were just grateful for your friends.

While you had your well-deserved girl’s night, Law was already on his way to pick you up, something you'd asked him to do earlier when you knew the night with your friends would go late and include a little too much wine. He walked up the stairs, playing with his keys absentmindedly, making them spin around his finger. Soon he found the right apartment by the sound of your laughter echoing through the hallway, along with music blasting in the background.

Just as he reached out to ring the bell, footsteps approached from behind. Turning slightly, Law saw a green-haired guy walking up to him with the same deadpan expression he usually wore. They locked eyes for a moment, the air thick with silence until the guy spoke up.

"And you are?" the stranger asked, clearly heading to the same apartment.

Law raised an eyebrow, a bit annoyed at the intrusion. "Picking someone up. You?"

"Alcohol.”

Law’s confusion deepened. What was this guy talking about?

Zoro, Bonney and Nami’s upstairs neighbor, never passed up the opportunity for free drinks. They were good friends, and he was bored enough to drop by whenever things got rowdy.

"Right..." Law said slowly, frowning as he turned to finally ring the bell, only to find the green-haired guy standing next to him like it was no big deal. Great.

A few moments later, the door flew open, revealing Bonney, now holding an entire bottle of wine instead of a glass. She blinked in surprise at the sight of two men standing at the door, then a mischievous grin spread across her face as she locked eyes with Law.

"Hey, Y/N! Your boy toy is here!" Bonney called out, her voice loud enough to carry inside.

Law's eyes widened, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He already regretted agreeing to come.

Nami appeared next, her curiosity piqued. She peeked out the door to get a look at this Lover of yours, but the moment she spotted Zoro, her expression shifted dramatically. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Free booze," Zoro replied with a casual shrug, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants like this was an everyday occurrence.

Nami groaned, clearly annoyed. "You gotta to stop mooching off us every time you hear wine bottles open. I swear, you owe me for every beer you’ve emptied." She tugged Zoro inside by the sleeve, muttering about making him pay her back later. He stepped inside with a satisfied grin, more than happy to partake in the free drinks.

Meanwhile, Law stood awkwardly in the doorway, observing the chaotic interaction. He felt like he’d just walked into a sitcom, unsure of what to do or say. Bonney’s eyes gleamed as she took him in, her mind clearly wandering to the things you’d revealed earlier about your sex life. The way Bonney stared a bit too long at his crotch made Law clearly uneasy. Especially with that grin of hers...was that how women felt?

"Is...Y/N coming?" Law asked, hoping to speed things along and escape the situation with you as quick as possible.

Bonney leaned casually against the doorframe, still holding her bottle of wine, an amused smirk on her lips. "I think she’s busy looking for the corkscrew... but you should totally come in and join us!" Her grin widened as she grabbed his arm, ignoring his attempts to protest.

“Wait—” Law began, but it was already too late. Bonney had pulled him inside with a strength that surely surprised him, as the door clicked shut.

You finally emerged from the kitchen, holding the corkscrew in one hand and a fresh bottle of wine in the other. When you spotted Law looking a bit out of place in the middle of your girls’ night, you had to chuckle a bit.

Zoro being already sprawled on the couch like he lived there rent free didn't seem to faze you.

“Oh, Law!” you beamed, walking over to greet him, blissfully unaware of the minor chaos swirling around him. With the alcohol warming your system, you impulsively stood on your tiptoes and pressed a quick kiss on his cheek, catching him completely off guard. His chest fluttered, though he tried to ignore the sensation. “Didn’t expect you so soon.”

“It’s past midnight,” he replied dryly, raising an eyebrow but failing to hide his slight surprise. The casual peck had thrown him off more than he cared to admit.

"Can we stay a little longer, please?" You looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes, the same look a child give their parents when begging to stay out late with friends. Law, ever the night owl, didn’t particularly mind, though the thought of spending even more time in the middle of this lively scene made him want to run for the door.

“I can pick you up later,” he offered, thinking you might take him up on it. Yet luck didn't seem to be on his side today.

“Nooo, you’ve gotta stay! C'mon!” you chuckled, grabbing his hand and pulling him into the living room before he could even process a proper response. He opened his mouth to protest, then quickly closed it, realizing he didn’t really have much of a choice. With a resigned sigh, he slumped down onto the couch next to Zoro, who was already sipping on his drink.

Zoro lifted his bottle and gave Law a questioning look. “Mh?”

Law stared at him for a moment, then sighed again. What kind of ape communication was this.

“Sure, whatever.”

Grinning, Zoro popped open another bottle and handed it to Law. They clinked their bottles together, though Zoro took an impressively large gulp, like he hadn’t had a drink in days. Law, glancing at him from the side, took a much smaller sip, eyeing the other man’s easygoing nature with mild confusion.

You returned with a freshly filled glass of wine, plopping down on the armrest next to Law, clearly pleased that he’d agreed to stay. Even though you forced him. Literally.

However, his discomfort kept getting worse, as the doorbell rang again continuously, signaling the arrival of even more people. The once quiet hangout was quickly turning into a full-blown party, something Law hadn’t remotely anticipated. First, a tall, elegant woman walked in, introducing herself as Robin, followed by her boisterous and overly enthusiastic husband, Franky, who instantly made his presence known with his loud voice and equally loud personality.

Then came a duo of chaos in the form of Luffy and Usopp, both bursting through the door with enough energy to fill the room three times over. Luffy immediately darted toward the snacks, while Usopp settled down on the floor comfortably, since the couch was already crowded.

Law, by now, had sunk even further into the couch, clutching his beer bottle like it was some sort of lifeline. He wasn’t one for big crowds, especially not when surrounded by people he barely knew. His eyes flicked around the room, trying to find something—anything—to anchor himself amidst the growing chaos.

Zoro, completely unfazed, leaned back casually, like he was used to this kind of scene. “Not a fan of big crowds, huh?”

Law shook his head, taking a small sip of his beer. “No, not really.”

Zoro grinned and gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Good luck, man. This is just getting started.”

As the room filled up with more people and the noise level rose, you noticed Law’s discomfort. Walking over to him, you leaned down with a soft smile. “You okay?” you asked, genuinely concerned.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, though you could tell he was far from comfortable.

You chuckled, brushing your fingers lightly across his arm. “You’ll survive. Promise.”

Law sighed, but a small smirk tugged at his lips. You always had a way of calming him down, even when everything around him was spiraling into chaos. At least he wasn’t completely on his own—

“Let’s play karaoke!”

"Oh, yes!" you practically squealed, leaping up from the armrest with a burst of energy. Without hesitation, you dashed over to help Bonney set up the console, your hands flying over the controls as you excitedly plugged in the microphones for a round of Let's Sing.

Law blinked, watching you leave him alone and dash to the game with that enthusiasm of yours. He leaned back on the couch, crossing his arms. Yep. He was on his own for this one.

As the singing began—not that Law would even call it singing—he sat there, watching you laugh and belt out lyrics with your friends. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but seeing you so happy with your friends was... nice. The buzz of conversation and laughter filled the room, but Law was content to observe from the sidelines.

Thankfully, Zoro wasn’t all that eager to join in either, providing Law with some much-needed silent company as the he nursed his drink. However, Zoro had also downed more than enough beer for the night. Without a word, he stood up and ambled toward the bathroom, leaving the spot beside Law empty. Law sighed, sliding further into the seat, hoping to stay out of the growing mayhem.

But of course, his peace was short-lived.

"Hey! You Y/N’s boyfriend?"

Oh god, no. Please.

Franky, all loud enthusiasm and booming presence, plopped down beside him, making Law almost jump from his seat. Among the group, Franky was arguably the loudest—but it was a tight race. Everyone besides Zoro and Robin seemed to have a default volume setting that hovered somewhere between “obnoxious” and “headache-inducing.”

Law shot Franky a grumpy side-eye, not bothering to hide his irritation.

"We're not together."

Franky looked genuinely perplexed, glancing between you and Law like he was trying to solve a puzzle. "What, you ain't?" He scratched his chin, then broke into a grin. "Ah, I see. Not official yet, huh? Haha, yeah, I get that. You know how long it took me to convince my lady to be mine? Two years! But look where we are now!" His laughter boomed across the room, drawing a wince from Law, who massaged his temples in an effort to stave off the growing headache.

"Aha," Law muttered, clearly uninterested, but Franky wasn’t bothered.

"So how long you been seeing each other then?" Franky leaned in, undeterred by Law’s obvious reluctance to chat. His curiosity was boundless, and his energy relentless. "C'mon, you can tell me. Y/N’s like a lill' sister to me. I gotta make sure she's doin' alright, y'know?"

Law exhaled, feeling the weight of the conversation shift. Franky wasn’t going to drop this, was he? As annoying as the guy could be, there was something sincere about the way he cared for you. Maybe Law should make more of an effort. After all, you had meshed well with his group, even handling Shachi and Penguin's relentless teasing and matching Rosinante’s high-energy friendliness. If he was serious about you—and he was—maybe it wouldn’t hurt to connect more with your friends.

"Few months, I guess," Law finally muttered, sounding almost disinterested. But Franky wasn’t buying it.

"Few months, huh?"

Law sighed, giving in with a little more honesty. "Eight and a half weeks, give or take."

Franky’s grin widened. "Now we're talkin'! I knew you had the details. That’s good, man. Real good." He clapped Law on the back with enough force to nearly knock him forward. "You’re a lucky guy, y’know that? Y/N’s special."

Law nodded slowly, his gaze drifting back to you as you yelled into your microphone with your friends, completely oblivious to the conversation happening on the sidelines. Yeah. He knew exactly how special you were. And for the first time in a long while, he found himself willing to let someone in—despite everything he'd been through. Even if he didn't said it openly, the seriousness of his feelings for you was undeniable.

He just wasn’t ready to share all that with the world quite yet…

As the next song blared through the speakers and the room erupted into more chaotic laughter, Law felt his patience wearing thin. The noise, the energy—it was all a bit too much for him. He scanned the room, watching you sing with your friends, your carefree joy almost contagious. Almost.

But Law had reached his limit for the night.

Silently, he stood up from the couch and slipped past Franky, making his way toward the door leading to the small balcony. He needed air, desperately. As he stepped out, the cool night breeze hit his face, soothing the tension that had been building in his temples.

He exhaled slowly, leaning against the balcony, gazing out on the night life on the streets below him. For a moment, he let the peaceful stillness wash over him.

The door behind him creaked open, and he didn't need to turn around to know it was you. Your presence was always unmistakable to him.

"Running away?" you teased lightly as you approached, your voice soft in contrast to the lively noise spilling out from the room behind you.

"Needed a break," Law muttered, not taking his eyes off the street. "Your friends are... a lot."

You laughed softly, coming to stand beside him, letting your shoulder touch his. "Yeah, I guess they can be. But you will get used to it.”

Law raised an eyebrow, glancing sideways at you. "I tolerate it. For your sake."

"Right, sure," you said, rolling your eyes but smiling as you did. The soft moonlight highlighted your features, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. The noise from inside was still faintly audible, but out here, it felt like a different world.

"You didn’t have to follow me," Law said after a while, his voice quieter now. “You can go and enjoy “singing” with the others.”

"I wanted to," you replied simply, still gazing at the sky. "Just checking if you’re doing okay."

He huffed, but there was no bite to it. “I’m fine on my own.”

“Yeah,” you said with a gentle smile, your eyes meeting his. “But you don’t always have to be.”

Law didn’t respond right away. He stared out, the familiar tension in his chest loosening just a little. You had a way of making things feel… easier. Less complicated. Even when you weren’t saying much, just standing there with him, it felt like enough.

“I don’t expect you to suddenly become best friends with everyone. But... you’re part of this now. Part of my world.” You smiled a bit drunk, your voice warm. “And I’m really glad you are.”

Law turned his head slightly, looking at you for a long moment. His expression softened in a way it rarely did around others. There was a weight to your words that he couldn’t ignore.

“I’m glad too,” he murmured, almost as if admitting it to himself.

You beamed at him, reaching out to take his hand, your fingers brushing his. He hesitated for a second before gently locking fingers together, the small gesture grounding him in the moment. You both stood there in comfortable silence, the distant sound of your friends' laughter fading into the background.

“Think you’re ready to head back in?” you asked after a while, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

Law let out a small, amused huff. “Not yet.”

You laughed softly, slightly leaning against him, while Law really appreciated you checking up on him, even if he seemed repelled at first. Sometimes he wondered how well you could read him, tell what he actually needed. Franky was right, you truly were someone special...

But your peaceful moment was quickly shattered—private time wasn’t exactly a concept the gang understood. The balcony door burst open, and in came Luffy, practically bouncing on his feet. Somehow, despite being the only one who hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol, he had more energy than everyone combined.

"Ah, fresh air!" he exclaimed, stretching his arms out wide.

Law groaned inwardly, letting his head hang for a moment. He should’ve known.

Before either of you could react, Luffy squeezed himself between the two of you, casually breaking the connection of your hand in Law’s. He leaned over the railing, staring down at the quiet street with a big grin plastered on his face, completely oblivious to the mood he had just bulldozed through.

Law’s eyebrow twitched dangerously, his patient running low. How dense can one person be?

"Hey, Luis—"

"My name is Law," he corrected flatly, already regretting it because—

"Anyway!" Luffy completely ignored the correction, plowing forward without missing a beat. He grinned brightly at you both, clearly unfazed by Law’s deadpan look. "We have this weekly movie night on Mondays. You should totally come and join us!"

"Pass," Law replied immediately, his voice clipped. "I’m busy during the week."

"Luffy, Law works," you chimed in with a chuckle, clearly amused by how little the concept of schedules seemed to exist in Luffy’s mind.

Luffy blinked, staring blankly as if the notion of work baffled him. “Can you... maybe not work?” he asked, tilting his head in that curious, innocent way of his, now casually picking at his nose as if the problem of work hours was one that could be solved by sheer willpower.

Law stared at him, completely dumbfounded. Did he just—

You were already laughing at the sheer absurdity of the exchange.

Luffy, unfazed by Law’s irritated silence, kept going. “Fine! How about Taco Tuesday then? I know you gotta be free for tacos!” His grin stretched ear to ear, as if he’d just come up with the most foolproof plan in the world.

Law groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I also work on Tuesday.”

“All day long?” Luffy asked, his expression serious, as if the thought of someone working all day was inconceivable to him. "That’s gotta be, like, illegal, right?"

You were practically doubled over in laughter at this point. Watching Luffy try to integrate Law into your friend group was like watching someone try to fit a square peg into a round hole—both characters were complete opposites, and it was hilarious to witness.

It wasn’t that Law didn’t want to make an effort. It was just... Luffy.

Sensing Law’s frustration, you stepped in to smooth things over. “Maybe we can arrange something, Luffy. On weekend instead?” you suggested, smiling at your overly enthusiastic friend.

Luffy’s face lit up like a lightbulb. “Awesome! That’s even better! Saturday or Sunday works. Or both! Oh, wait—what about Friday night? We could have burgers and movies!”

You shot a glance at Law, who was now staring out at the street again with a blank, resigned look on his face. He wasn’t saying anything, but you could practically hear the thoughts running through his head.

“Luffy, let’s… take it one step at a time, alright?” you said gently, still laughing as you patted his shoulder. “We’ll figure something out.”

Luffy’s grin somehow got even bigger. “Sweet! You guys are gonna love movie night. We always watch the best stuff. I mean, sometimes it’s just old kung fu movies or stuff with explosions, but who doesn’t love explosions, right?”

Law muttered something under his breath, too quiet for anyone to hear, but you knew he was nearing his limit.

“Luffy, maybe you should head back inside and check on the others,” you suggested, trying to throw Law a lifeline. “I think Usopp and Franky are starting another game.”

Luffy’s eyes widened with excitement. “Oh yeah! I almost forgot about that!” He turned on his heel, already halfway back to the door. “I’ll save you a spot for the next round!” he called over his shoulder, leaving just as quickly as he’d appeared.

The moment the door closed behind him, Law let out the deepest sigh of his life. “How do you deal with that?”

You grinned, slipping your hand back into his. “They mean well.”

Law let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Still exhausting.”

After the cold air had finally cooled you down enough to want to head back inside, Law followed close behind, settling into his usual spot on the couch. To his surprise, Zoro was back in his own seat as well, nursing yet another bottle of beer. Law couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. How many of those had he already gone through? He started to seriously wonder Zoro’s relationship to alcohol.

As Law moved his empty bottle aside and sat down, Zoro glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Mh?” he asked yet again, holding up his beer as if offering to grab another.

“Nah, pass. Gotta drive still,” Law replied, his tone flat.

Zoro gave a brief nod, content to let the silence settle back in. It wasn’t awkward, though—just two people comfortable in their own quiet. That was something Law appreciated about Zoro at least; he wasn’t one to fill the air with unnecessary chatter.

After a few minutes however, Zoro broke the silence. Clearly aware that Law was quite uncomfortable still. “You’ll get used to it. Don’t worry.”

Law raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. “Do I have to?” His voice carried the same uninterested energy as Zoro’s, though there was a hint of dry humor beneath the surface.

Zoro took a slow sip of his beer, then looked at Law with a lazy but knowing smirk. “Yup. Too late now.”

Law sighed, leaning back into the couch, his arms crossed as he stared at the chaotic scene unfolding around them—Luffy still bouncing off the walls, Usopp and Franky laughing hysterically at whatever ridiculous antics they were up to, and you, blending in perfectly with the madness, laughing and teasing Bonney as she tried to argue about the best way to combine pizza with pasta.

Law leaned back, feeling a strange sense of acceptance. He wasn’t entirely sure if he’d ever fully get used to this kind of madness, but looking around at your friends, and back at you, he started to think that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t mind trying for you.

>>ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 10 - ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀʀᴇ ᴡᴇ? (n.sfw)

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