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Fateful Beginnings
XXXVII. “Luminol”
parts: previous / next
plot: the Batman investigates a string of murders. Bruce gets protective attending the first rally for Gotham’s mayoral election.
pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader
cw: 18+, blood, description of injury (crime scene stuff), anxiety, rumination, sexual content
words: 14k
a/n: a chapter entirely Bruce’s perspective 🤭 y’all are gonna like this one 👀 getting to dive into his mind was so fun 🦇
His body lit up like a string of lights. His body, your hands. Up his stomach to his chest, down his shoulder and arm…
He couldn’t shake the look in your eyes when you’d grabbed his hand, panicked, searching him for comfort. God, he was used to people seeking him out for solace, safety; he was used to being made into a symbol of reassurance, even hope. But when you looked at him that same way, it was different. Like somehow the weight of the world rested in it.
You texted him a picture of frozen carrots, joking about the additional vitamins. He responded with a joke about peas being more effective, before blinking back into his environment and staring at his phone in disbelief. This was what was taking up his time? He was still on patrol. Not only that, but he was half in the suit, in public.
He clicked his armor back in and donned the cowl. The rest of the night was spent in near-total isolation, with Gordon unable to be contacted besides the brief run-in at the subway station. He wondered how he had time to respond to a call like that, but not to return his messages. Must’ve already been in the area.
All he had to do was drive in the area near vandalists for them to buckle. He never found much joy in things like that—it felt routine. Droplets of rain peppered his windshield, giving him more attention than anyone in Gotham the entire night. It was like the city was asleep. Not right. He drove, and drove, and tried to contact anyone on the GCPD to no avail. Something really wasn’t right; they hated to hear from Batman, that was evident, but they never declined a late-night call, just as desperate to get their hands dirty.
What started as a usual patrol dissolved into a hunt for any officer. Just as the first streams of dawn were peeking behind the clouds, he spotted a patrol car in front of a diner. An officer was fishing something out of their vehicle, and he squinted at the incoming headlights, throwing a hand over his eyes. He didn’t recognize the man; he looked young, a new hire. GCPD hadn’t hired anyone new in ages. The last time had been right after the flooding.
Once he realized the Batman was approaching, the man choked on something, knocking his chest to catch his breath. He made his voice gravelly, a movement so instinctual he never thought about it; when he entered the suit, he entered the voice—until you came around, apparently.
“Where’s Gordon?”
The man’s eyes flashed, and he swallowed back the last of his spit. His eyes were red, strained. He’d been up all night. Not unusual for new hires, a sort of hazing. He shook his head, his shoulders slumping. He wouldn’t make eye contact, staring at the bat’s leather boots.
“Haven’t met him yet, I don’t know. I can ca—”
He growled under his breath, turning on his heel to return to his car. He slammed into the driver’s side and jammed on the gas, ripping past the officer. He’d already cleared the area near the subway, trying to uncover any cleverly disguised patrol cars, had the scanner blasting through the speakers, but nothing revealed itself. It didn’t track, leaving him drowning in an unsettled, ruffled headspace. Were they intentionally hiding something from him?
When he arrived back at Wayne Tower, he was wired and unsatisfied. He worked through the morning, searching every index, newspaper, and engine for leads. Whatever this was, it was under wraps.
But if it was big, why wouldn’t he be clued in? Gordon never failed to elicit his support for a gruesome, intense, or mysterious case. It had to be one of those, because menial crimes didn’t have all hands on deck like this.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
He got up to put on his hoodie and jacket again, head to the station, bike around town, but Alfred had a sixth sense; already walking out of the elevator with a mug of tea that spread the scent of lavender about the basement. Bruce smelt him before hearing the clip of his cane.
“You need some shuteye.” The soft slurp of the drink eviscerated his eardrums, irritability coating him like flaking skin.
“I’m fine.”
“You’ll focus better.”
Bruce pressed on, the pit in his stomach sinking deeper. His brain was crowded, but empty. Filled with nothing real, nothing tangible. Exhausted from scrolling, searching, driving, looking, with no information to chew on. He wouldn’t rest until he got an answer on why the GCPD was freezing him out.
“You need to take care of yourself.”
Need this, need that. He hid his balled fists in the baggy clumps of his jacket, grabbing the scarf from the bench with a snap. He wasn’t halfway through wrapping it when Alfred cleared his throat. Bruce wasn’t looking back, instead rolling his eyes to the ceiling. They’d have another argument if the old man kept this up. He wasn’t a child, and the events of the past week hadn’t changed that.
“Bruce.”
He still refused to look, tying the scarf at the back and flipping up his hood. The weather today would be cloudy, the cloudiest it’d been in months. He finally had the backdrop to get work done during the day. Something to busy him—shit. He cast his eyes down and slammed past Alfred, all but punching the button to the foyer. Trying hard not to think about it, he rushed to the cabinet closest to the sink and took his meds, lowering his head to drink straight from the spout. As the water glided the olanzapine into his stomach, he thought how the only reason he was taking it was to alleviate your suffering. It hadn’t been pleasant having the hallucinations, but every pill taken felt like a deeper acceptance of his decaying mind. He did his best to force dissociation.
He grabbed an apple off the table and was met with Alfred blocking the elevator doors.
“If you don’t let me go, I’ll take the stairs.”
“Look at yourself, boy. You’re worn thin.” Bruce’s frame was turned in, shoulders slumped, bags under his eyes. His voice was thick with exhaustion, frayed. Red flag after red flag. Alfred wouldn’t let the boy be so careless without a fight, if that was what this came to.
He needed to keep moving; every moment of stillness, of silence, felt like nails scraping his skull. He took a hard right and walked through the kitchen hallway, frustrated to hear footsteps following. “Alfred, that’s enough.” He tried to keep his tone leveled, not tip off just how frustrated he was, how close he was to turning and ripping Alfred a new one, or breaking down into tears. The feeling of grief hadn’t left him since the cemetery, save the fleeting blip of time where you’d careened into the alley, panicked. He wanted to stop thinking about that, too.
Alfred called after him. The man was fast when he wanted to be, and he heard him pick up speed. He said something else Bruce ignored, shoving through the door to the staircase, rushing down flight after flight, his chest starting to burn as he got closer to the ground, dozens of stairs slipping under the sole of his boots every few seconds. He tripped on the last stair and fell out the door, grating his palms against the cement. The stairs led to a side exit not viewable from the front or back, with a cloak of trees lining his escape.
Thankfully, he thought ahead for circumstances like these. In case the tunnels ever flooded, or the ceiling collapsed, or Alfred was being particularly obtrusive, he kept a car and motorbike stowed a quarter mile away. Every step made the tower less loud, creating space for him to prioritize, hone in on the mission. Figure out what the hell’s going on. What’s keeping the GCPD locked up.
The bike took a second to start, requiring some finicky tinkering before it would do more than rev up and die. Soon enough he was speeding into downtown, wanting to stake out the station in the central city. Gordon’s office resided there, though he often vacillated between there and the east side. If his personal car wasn’t parked in the garage, he’d ride east.
And there it was. Good as gold. A beat-up old Honda. Ice had crusted over the windshield from the chill the night before. Pulled an all-nighter. He rarely did that on weekends, opting to spend it with his family unless… Christ, what the hell was going on?
He didn’t expect Gordon to walk out right then, and cursed himself for not having the suit. Gordon got in the police car closest to the building doors, Martinez trailing behind looking beat. He held a lidless paper cup of black coffee in his left hand, his badge stretching out the pocket on his jacket. Might’ve even been the second, or third day on patrol. Running on fumes. The lip on Martinez’s coffee was worn and soaked, the paper uncurling and soggy. Far from his first cup.
Waiting a few seconds after they pulled out, Bruce dallied in front of the police doors on his bike, pretending it wouldn’t start to take a quick peek through the windows. It was empty, save the security and receptionist. He sped off a few seconds later, following the glow of the taillights through the fog.
Tailing cops was easy, tailing Gordon wasn’t. He had to stay further back than he wanted, take turns only to turn back, cut the lights, either far enough removed to turn a street before, or close enough to their bumper he had to keep on past when they stopped. This drive was quick and dirty. Not long, very specific. Turns he didn’t think he would take, every time.
They landed at a house that looked like it was still recovering from the flood—the beige paint had faded into a peely pink, shingles broken off the roof, windows patched together with duct tape. He watched as Gordon and Martinez entered, the door opening off only one hinge. A small child was in the doorway holding a raggedy stuffed bear, and someone who looked like their sibling stood above them, holding their shoulders. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pair of binoculars, seeing on the zoom that their faces were blotchy and red, eyes puffy. Someone had died there.
That was when he noticed a flash of yellow tape in the kitchen, before the older child pulled the door shut. Unable to see through the taped-up front windows and no more being visible on the bottom floor, he pulled out his phone and searched the residence. Current renter was Raina Altruss, who appeared to be a lunch lady at the elementary school nearby. No arrest records, not even a speeding ticket. It couldn’t have been anyone else, unless she was so moved by grief that she’d let her small children open the door for the officers. Why weren’t they being taken to the station? Was a social worker already on the way, or were they letting that slip, too?
Murders took a decent chunk of time to investigate, even in the acute phase. Especially so if she’d had an abusive partner, less if it was a suicide, but that wasn’t typical for single mothers here; too attached to their children and desperate to protect in a city so dangerous, but who knew. Certainly he didn’t.
There wasn’t much he could get done outside of the suit, and he couldn’t very well get into it during the day… and he didn’t know how much longer Gordon would be on shift. His gait was dragging across the mangled porch, eyelids heavy. She was listed as having two children, now orphaned. He hated the thought of going back home so soon, but saw no way around it. He needed to get working on the emergency planning, nap, and have a bite before heading out tonight. Days that were this uneventful meant trouble would soon follow, and going to a murder scene in broad daylight wasn’t an option. Restless, kinetic energy climbed through the trees on his drive home.
He slept down in the basement, not wanting Alfred to know he’d arrived. He kept a makeshift cot tucked under the desk; whenever Alfred noticed it was out, he complained that Bruce would ‘break his back’ on it, but he was tired enough between patrols to not notice. This time was no different, drifting off the second he’d set his alarm.
He slept hard, without dreams.
Only a few hours of sleep later, he was back to prepping. No more info came up about Altruss, or much else for that matter. He was left staring at the emergency planning document with weary, tired eyes, mind blank. He tackled what he assumed was the easiest one first, but he couldn’t come up with an orienting item. He looked around the basement, felt the weightiness of different tools, pens, and other miscellaneous items, but nothing felt tethering. Only after working through the dusty bottoms of old cardboard boxes did he find one: his old cufflinks, the W loud and proud. The surface just smooth enough, just rough enough. It felt significant in his fingers, cold, heavy, hollow.
As he rolled it between his finger and thumb, heat pricked his eyelids, and his breathing shallowed before he could register it. Memories of his father’s first campaign rally, the bend of his knee as he crouched to hand Bruce a small package with a blue velvet bow. His mom was putting in earrings by the door with one hand, the other wrestling on her heels. She always had trouble getting them over the heel of her left foot, and he never knew why. His dad helped him attach the cuffs to the wrist of his jacket, and ruffled his hair as he stood. He clinked Bruce’s wrist with his own pair, and Bruce grinned, pulling his smile into the one he’d rehearsed in the mirror that morning. “Your father’s going to be on TV, honey. We all have to look our best.” She’d pulled a tight smile in the mirror, and he mimicked it.
As he was pulled back to the gray concrete around him, he thought miserably that his orienting item could be the throbbing ache in his chest. His eyes swept around the room, and he swore he could hear the echo of his breathing in the emptiness. His stomach began to clench and twist, the sensation that never failed to precede a guttural cry and blurry, fragmented vision. He pocketed the cufflinks and walked back to the computer to check it off the list. His mouse squeaked against the metal as his fingers slipped to the edge of the desk, head hung as he winced, feeling like he was breathing through a straw.
In a tinny blur, he shoved his weight into his elbows to push him upright. Ignoring the cues in his body to slow down, to sit, to feel, he grabbed the ear of his cowl.
It was still light, so he found refuge in the watchtower. He sent a message to Gordon about being available, and needing to discuss something urgent, intentionally keeping it vague. The suit felt heavier tonight, as the wind whizzed around the edges of his towering frame, staring down the interweaving streets. Every time a thought threatened to form, he focused on another pedestrian, another street. In secret, trying to hide from the parts of him with a screaming conscience, he begged for violence. Someone to throw a punch at someone smaller, someone vulnerable. An arsonist to light a house so he could run inside, grab the kids, usher out the parents, feel the weight of the held door on his hip, let his mind quiet.
His prayer was answered with the rattle of the elevator’s ascent. Gordon walked through with a rush, his shoulders slumped more than before, his footing unsteady. “Hey man, sorry. Had to book it from the subway last night. Been swamped.”
“Too swamped to return a call?”
Gordon sighed, the end of it hoarse, depleted. “I only have a minute, thought to tip you off.” His glasses were smudged and fogged. “String of murders, same as the John Doe. Strung up by knives.” He made a face and pulled his glasses off, cleaning them on the bottom of his jacket. When he put them on, they weren’t much better.
Batman had to clench his fists, slam his tongue to the roof of his mouth, as his thoughts flew to the handles. Gordon motioned for him to come over, pulling a folded packet out of his breast pocket. He held his gaze at the ground a second longer, thoughts spiraling over if they’d have the owl insignia. Gordon was already beginning to fold them up as quickly as he took them out, so he was forced to glance over—
—empty, undisturbed handles on the same knives. He let out a breath as Gordon walked over to the elevator, motioning for him to follow. “Headed to another right now, last stop for the night. Only a few blocks.”
Consumed by more crushing confirmation that he’d lost his mind, he was grateful Gordon was barely standing, without reserve to perceive him. There’d never been marks on the knives. His mind had put them there. The creature hadn’t attacked him, he’d been alone. He stared at some graffiti by the CALL button, ruminating on its outline to create more distance between him and his thoughts.
He paid attention to the puddles of light from the streetlights on the short drive. Would’ve counted the cracks in the windows he passed if he’d been going any slower. This house wasn’t as dilapidated as the last one, but still disheveled. Another vehicle had already arrived with the officer from the diner. He felt the weight of his cape tugging on his neck with each thudding step.
Walking into the scene, the first thing he noticed was the victim strung up in the same fashion as the John Doe. Knives peppering the outer edges of the body, outlining the frame with throwing knives. The handles were smooth and unaffected. The Batman stepped closer, moving his breathing from his nose to his mouth. He sidestepped the forensics team beginning to work across the kitchen, moving to see the areas of impact on the victim’s body.
Everything was clean but the puncture areas, and their blood fallout. On immediate notice, his eyes followed the passive pattern of the stains across the victim’s body–whoever had done this had done it fast enough that the stains were strictly linear, undisturbed. He overheard Gordon talking to the lead, murmuring something about the victim ‘strung up like a dartboard’. “If it weren’t for the blood stain in the corner, it’s almost like the assailant stuck him there in space.”
His gaze analyzed the drip pattern in the stains down the victim’s body–they fell behind the woman toward the wall, though she was upright. She was on her back when it happened. Blood in a steady, linear stream. On the ground long enough for it to dry. His eyes trailed down to her ankles, where the blood was moving backwards, curved and zigzagged against her brown skin. She was lifted up by her ankles. The blood was darker and more clotted than the stains on her shoulders. Those wounds happened first. He leaned his head down to peek at her fingernails–clean, manicured. Hadn’t put up a fight–at least hadn’t gotten a hand on them, or anything else.
His eyes caught next on a hoodie placed on the dining table to her right. The table was clean, at least without visible stains. His gloved fingers picked up the hoodie. Static stain. Even, circular edges. He flipped the hoodie over–no transfer to the textile. Whoever did this stuck around a while.
A soft movement of air from his left side, an analyst approached with a ruler, donned in a white coverall and mask. After she snapped a few photos with her camera, her gloved hands lined the ruler through the brown dots on the glass countertop. Long axis. He squinted. Four millimeters. He waited for her to move to the width. Two millimeters. She grabbed her pencil beside her and jotted the measurements down. Four over two: point five. Arcsin of point five is thirty. “Thirty degrees.” He kept his voice low, but she still startled. He repeated himself. “Convergence is thirty.”
He stared down at the ruled lines as she double-checked his work herself. His eyes roughly mapped the distance from the edge of the stain to the convergence. Twenty-two. Tangent of twenty-two… “Origin’s fourteen point four two.” Whoever the perp was, they wanted to experience it. Close to the victim. Possibly personal. Possible bludgeoning.
Just below the tabletop, he noted a small cluster of droplets pooled on the wood floor. Spiny outer ring, pooled closest to dining room door. Drag marks faint toward the wall. She’d been dragged up to it after being attacked by the dining table. The analyst finished writing down the same number as he had, stowing her calculator in the front pocket of the coverall.
He stepped a few feet back from the body to see if any stains dripped to the floor, but found nothing. A tingle shot up his spine. Numerous knives jammed through the perimeter of victim’s flesh. Some blood trailed down around the punctures. Nothing on the ground underneath. On the quick sweep of the room, he didn’t notice anyone else calculating splatters. Nothing appeared on the ceiling, either.
Not enough blood for the stabbings to have finished it.
Gordon wandered over with his notebook, noticing the rapid movement of Batman’s eyes across the room, waiting until it lingered on the floor in front of him before speaking. “What do you think?” Gordon noticed the sweatshirt placed alongside the blood splatter, having watched him remove it a minute earlier. “Not very smart. Thinking someone wouldn’t check underneath the hoodie.”
He grunted. “It’s no amateur.” Gordon followed as he did a sweep around the room, nothing catching his naked eye. He wondered if they’d do Luminol on this one, or if they didn’t think a layperson important enough. The only discernible bloodstains were on the table, just underneath, and painting the skin of the victim. Strange. “Killer knew just where to hit. Avoided major vessels. That many knives, it’s purposeful.” He walked to the victim and the table again, keeping his eyes wide with slow, sweeping looks to further analyze once he got home. He paused with Gordon on his way to the rest of the house. “Wanted us to discount them. Cheapened their work.”
“You think they placed the sweatshirt there on purpose?”
“Look at the blood patterns on the victim. Stains on the ground. She was dragged by her feet, strung up after. Shoulder wounds happened on the ground. No signs of struggle or aspiration. Tell the team to use Luminol. Swab and test it.”
The lead had heard Batman, looking at him apprehensively before rustling through a bag at the entryway. He followed Gordon’s step back for the analyst to compute the convergence and origin of the ground stain, and another assistant to snap photos, grab samples. A few minutes later the liquid was being sprayed, the analyst moving to dim the lights.
Absolutely nothing.
He felt a chill underneath his suit, his heart rate quickening. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck, excitement stretching from his core to the tips of his fingers. Interesting. Either they’d died from blood loss and the killer was a professional, or they’d died from less visible, traceable means, and this was some kind of performance art. Whatever it was, it was intentional, and they knew what they were doing.
“Victim needs a full internal exam. Not enough blood loss, likely killed by something else.” He looked to see a window cracked in the far corner of the adjoining living area. Open floor plan. Carbon monoxide? But a cracked window would give the method away. He looked to the oven, seeing no brown or yellow stains. Likely coming from a water heater, furnace, or dryer. He walked through the living room to the window, his gaze lingering at the sill, the same analyst following in tow. She pulled out a duster and black powder, and started searching for prints.
He walked through the hallway to the laundry room, where he found nothing. He followed the door it went through to the garage, but there was no car. He checked the heater, but nothing was out of order. Clean, well-maintained, no scent anywhere in the house besides the copper sting of blood around the victim. If it was poisoning, must’ve brought in a generator.
He passed through to the windowsill again, the black powder picking up a single half-print on the left-corner of the sill. Unusual gripping point to lift. Half, but clear–left like a gift for even the most novice crime-scene investigator. Suspicious.
A remote was placed underneath the sill; after the assistant came to photograph the analyst’s work, the Batman grabbed the remote, flicking on the television.
Channel 5 news. Looked live. Nothing of note, talking about the weather. Nothing on the chyron at the bottom of the screen. Volume set to five. The five on the keypad was worn-in. Could be coincidence. Popular news channel, especially living on the east side. Volume kept low. Or maybe they heard an intruder coming and lowered the volume. He held the remote out to look for any marks, and sure enough, there were faint oils from a fingerprint on the VOLUME DOWN arrow. He handed the analyst the remote, gesturing with his eyeline to her duster, and made his way out the front door.
Walking the perimeter of the house gave nothing away. No tracks outside the window where anything was laid or rolled, and no visible impressions in the front, sides, or back yard grass to establish any sort of intrusion. The killer entered through the front, and left the same. Everything itched all the right–and wrong–spots in his brain, feeling the gears in his head begin to turn. It could take days for the print’s results to come back, the same for the coroner’s report.
He walked back in and surveyed the living area again. Nothing out of the ordinary outside of the haphazardly placed remote, placed just so that it could have fallen off the arm of the couch—if the investigators were idealists. Batman wasn’t.
He did a last look around the kitchen, noting everything in place. Not a single item or square foot in the house glared back at him. The killer didn’t mess around. In and out, but long enough for the blood to dry. Disturbing nothing save what they wanted to—the window, the table, and the body.
As the forensics team cleaned up, a medical examiner walked in with trainees in tow. Their eyes were wide and bright, and they fiddled with their gloves and masks like they were worried they weren’t on correctly. Lot of newbies today. Didn’t sit right, not at all.
He followed Gordon out, and stood between their respective vehicles to give report. “Same as the last three.”
Three? “Why wasn’t I called to them?”
“It’s been a long night, man. It was either call you, or eat.” He flipped through his spiral again, flipping past the front pages where Bruce had given his statement earlier. He wanted to push him harder, make it known he needed to be called into these crimes. Did they not realize he’d pieced together more for the GCPD in the past year than the decade they’d been left to their own devices? Gordon didn’t leave space for him to push. “Same situation. Victims strung up by knives, little evidence otherwise. First time we recovered a print, though.”
“None on the knife handle?”
Gordon shook his head. “We’ll get the print looked at ASAP. Should only be a coupla hours, but don’t get your hopes up.”
Batman tucked into an adjacent street and accessed his computer via phone. The hum of the police scanner in the background tugged at the outskirts of his attention as he pored over the victim’s names of the past few days. Gordon had given him the names of the victims, in order.
Ulysses Ecuatorro
Bradley Yates
Raina Altruss
Elizabeth Weiss
Hours of searching later, he couldn’t pin a golden thread between them. None in related fields, no glaring convictions. Yates had a speeding ticket, Ecuatorro a DUII three years earlier. They spanned age groups, and were scattered across town in a way he couldn’t find a pattern in. That in and of itself was a pattern. An observation.
Altruss was a lunch lady; looking at her social media, news of her death had already reached friends and family. Messages of love poured in, with varying other Altruss’ family members commenting on how great they would take care of her children, ‘in her honor’. He moved away from Altruss quickly.
Weiss had a kid too—he blinked, typing that into a different tab. Each person had children, that was a common thread. How had he overlooked that? Weiss was recently divorced, with a daughter who’d just celebrated her tenth birthday not two weeks earlier. One of the comments stuck out to him: Many blessings, Lizzie. Babygirl is in good hands. Could be a normal message, could not. According to her socials, the divorce process was speedy; in the span of two months, she’d filed, and it’d been completed. Her name had been changed the next day. Desperate to escape him? Most of her posts regarded ‘mental health awareness’. Gaslit her? Manipulated her? Abused her? Records showed joint custody. No big halts on either party’s end. Seemed to be in agreement. If it had been that easy to agree, why’d they get divorced at all? The man was an ex-cop. Propensity to violence. Marvin O’Lander. Graduate of GU. Degree in business. Failed business venture? Took it out on his family? Police work appeared to be a second-choice—such celebration at graduating, plans of a business, then… nothing. Bruised ego. Lots of opportunity in that. Then why the appreciative comment from his side of the family? Was it appreciative? Threatening? They were mutual friends on socials. An ally? Double-crosser? All of the kids were under the age of ten, but no further discernible pattern. Varied income levels. Varied neighborhoods. Varied cultural backgrounds. Varied ages at time of death. Varied relationship status. Varied interests. Varied social presence. Though… everyone was being mourned in droves. Ecuatorro, Yates, Altruss, Weiss. Valued community members. Engaged in their communities. Serving others in some fashion. His eyes fuzzed staring fixedly at the small screen, his shoulders, back, body tense. Where’s the tension stemming? Stomach? Chest? Throat? Stomach. Cinch in stomach. Tight, coiled, like a spring ready to bounce. Tingles again, up arm and shoulders. Altruss. Ecuatorro. Yates. Weiss. Yates, Ecuatorro, Altruss, Weiss. Weiss, Altruss, Ecuatorro, Yates. Any pattern in the names? Order of their deaths? Ecuatorro. Yates. Altruss. Weiss. Raina, Elizabeth, Bradley, Ulysses. Four victims so far. Channel five. Volume five. Five victims? One left to be found? Did the names—
Gordon rang. “Print’s back. Tech said it was one of the clearest they’ve ever run.” Prints never came back that fast, no matter how clear.
With calculated speed, he arrived to the residence of Cecilia Natividad, a woman who lived as far North as the city stretched. He got there before any officers, cutting through back streets and jamming the gas with what was perceived as reckless abandon; in reality, he noticed the color of every tree that passed, the name of every street corner, could re-identify each pedestrian that (rarely) appeared with a nearly photographic accuracy. He felt electric, alive.
The residence was quaint, single-story. A cat peeked up from the porch, blinking sleepily while they stretched. The door was already open. He pressed his back to it as he slunk in, the cat slipping behind him, making a beeline to a closed door to the left of the kitchen doorway. The TV was off, the house silent. He opened his palm, making sure the taser was accessible on a fast grab. He held his breath, his chest puffing, as he peered around the corner… to an empty kitchen. The house was smaller than it looked on the outside; one bedroom to the left, with a closed door, and one to the right, wide open. The cat was lingering by the closed one, going so far as to meow for him to pay attention. He ignored the animal, and crept into the open bedroom first.
Nothing. Undisturbed bedroom, undisturbed bathroom outside of it in the mini hallway. He felt his shoulders squeeze in as his eyes scanned the entirety of the space. Not much room to walk, low ceilings, stuffy carpet. The carpet held heavy track lines from the front door to the couch, the couch to the kitchen, and the kitchen to the far bedroom. The person who lived here liked routine; whatever child he assumed they had was either too small to walk.. no, no baby toys. No toys at all. The bedroom looked neutral, nondescript. The child was old enough to be done with fairytale and spontaneity. Old enough to be out of the house for the time being. Another divorcee? Joint custody? Full custody? His hand hovered above the doorknob; the putrid stench of thick, fresh blood revealed itself as a mural on the wall with two letters: C N, with an exclamation point. The C was separate to the N, which was almost flush to the exclamation. His eyes hung there, the sensation of dreadful realization washing over him before his mind caught up.
C _ _ _ _ _ N_!
The woman was stamped to the wall in the same way. No blood pooling beneath, blood spills across her skin in the same pattern. This was the same killer, beyond the shadow of a doubt. He walked closer to the mural, noting the indent in the blood on the dot of the punctuation mark. He spun around to the click of a gun, Martinez and Gordon the first to enter the house. He scowled, never failing to be frustrated at their attachment to lethal means. They tucked their guns into their holsters with a disheartened sigh, Martinez containing his eyes to the floor, swallowing back what he assumed was bile. His nose scrunched to confirm his evaluation.
“Jesus.” Gordon adjusted his glasses and drew a breath, his cheeks expanding as he held it to walk closer. “Same damn thing…”
”Prints in the exclamation point. Have the investigators pull there.” The Batman huffed, his mind suddenly foggy. Her initials, not a next victim… He mapped the spaces between the letters by the width of those already there, and judged the word’s length. C_ _ _ _ _ N_!
Martinez squinted as his eyes adjusted to the room’s bright lighting. “CN? Her name’s on the house. Identifiable.”
C……….N…….
A pattern. In the names. Cecilia Natividad. Bradley Yates. He envisioned a game of hangman, dropping letters into the air. BY. UE. RA. EW. CN.
Bruce Wayne. Fuck.
He bolted out to his car as forcefully as was possible without drawing too much attention. The letters were placed too transparently. It was too obvious. Writing the letters out like that. Too obvious when everything else wasn’t. Hiding in plain sight. The killer wanted to send a message to Bruce Wayne, an unmissable one. He careened back to Wayne Tower while he furiously rung Alfred. Miserable flashbacks hit him like bombs as he shouted for him to answer, voice going hoarse. He picked up, and Bruce had never been so grateful to not hear Dory’s voice.
“Bruce?—”
”Are you okay?” He couldn’t cover the strain in his voice, or the crack at the end of it, or the tears forming in his tear ducts in the milliseconds between his question and Alfred’s answer.
“Yes,”
“There’s another serial killer. I’m his next target. Don’t let anybody, or anything in or out. Tighten security.”
Alfred agreed, and the few minutes between hanging up and driving into the basement felt like purgatory. He resisted the urge to compulsively call Alfred every fifteen seconds, his counting never going past that. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Pulling onto the wide road into downtown from the industrial district, he fixed his attention to the top of Wayne Tower. Searching for fumes, fire, anything. At one point a cloud had moved to obscure the top levels, and he felt like he might faint.
He could’ve dry-heaved with relief when Alfred stood at his desk with another mug of tea in hand, moving out of the way as he parked the car at his work station. “Killer targeting you? I read your notes after alerting security.” Bruce pulled off his cowl and sank onto the bench, dragging a towel across his face and hair to soak up the sweat before it rendered him sightless. “Why?”
“There’s a theme. Everyone murdered was a single parent. Only victim with a partner on record is Weiss. Orphaned. Under the age of ten. Initials spell out my name. In full.”
“Do the police know about this?”
“Not yet. Unless someone put the pieces together.” And judging by the level of sheer exhaustion in every officer… unlikely. He got to work straightaway, sending a message first to Gordon about getting that print out of the blood as soon as possible. Would it be a print of his? Someone else? The number ‘five’ swirled in his head. If the killer was declaring another victim, wouldn’t it be six?
Second-guessing himself, feeling his gears turn but doubting his judgment more than ever, he wrote out the names and their initials, plugging in the contacts and pulling up the blood mural on the wall. He motioned for Alfred to come closer. “What do you make of it?”
“Appears to spell out your name. Pretty exactly.”
So he wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t paranoid. Not everything was in his head.
The electrum tab jolted back into view as he revved up his computer for the night ahead. He sent another message to Gordon, who hadn’t yet responded, about checking the victim’s mouth for metal. Alfred hummed behind, wanting to convince the boy to rest his mind while knowing it was a fruitless endeavor, a task that would only strain. Bruce didn’t even hear him leave.
He didn’t know how long it had been, but he knew the smell of Alfred’s afternoon tea. “You’ve been up all night? It’s midday, Bruce.”
Sunday. Midday. Almost time to ready the car, don the suit. He clicked around the various documents littering his screen, his mind on the same loop as before, with no new information. It was grating him. Gordon had responded an hour after the fact, letting him know he checked, and no such luck. No visible fillings or caps, nothing except dead mouth. The autopsy would be given priority due to the sheer scale of the situation and its ongoing nature, but not fast enough. If they were any less invasive, he’d learn how to do them himself and sneak into the coroner’s office to perform them. Couldn’t be that hard, right? At minimum he needed toxicology. What was in each of their systems? What had killed them? He had a few theories, none of which seemed particularly promising. He had such a feeling that this would become more unusual as time went on. How much could he trust that feeling? Could he trust any of his instincts now? How would the medication affect them? Was he useless? Could he attune to his intuition no longer? Was this threat empty, or was it dense, packed, full, stuffed, overflowing, waiting for the one lead that would take him there, the one thing he was overlooking, the piece that was the rug to pull; the diagram-exposing, secret-message encoded video before the bombs went off, that he was too late to catch, what if he was too late now, what if there were more being murdered as he thought this? He needed to call Gordon again, needed to get someone to patch him in—
“Bruce.”
His strained eyes felt like sandpaper with every blink, his eyelid sticking to his inflamed, bruised eyes. He’d made the text of the documents larger, easier to see. Still nothing on electrum. Really? Nothing? Must not be finding it. Looked in all the papers Alfred has, the entire archive of papers from the Gazette and the Times… but only searched until the hundredth page of results. Could search more. Haven’t seen them all. Need to. Three hours ‘til sundown. Might be able to get that done. Need to stake out the residences. Check on Weiss’ husband. Everyone’s so unusually normal. Nothing stands out. Only things that stand out are relevant to the Wayne family, to their murder. Everything had been so uniform. He blinked as he pulled up the images from his contacts and the faxed photos from Gordon of each of their bodies, right next to each other. Placed at the same height against the wall. Same placement on their bodies. Same dragging puncture wounds on their calves—up. Stains down everywhere else. No sign of aspiration. No sign of struggle. If only Gordon got better pictures of their hands. Had any of them struggled? No signs of it. No signs of anything now matter how long he looked at them, no matter how close he got to the screen, how much he zoomed in, out, left, right—
“Bruce!”
What the hell was it? What had killed them? Why hadn’t they hit a single artery? Why no signs of struggle? No fight? No one home at time of death. Able to stick around long enough to wait for blood to dry, just how they wanted it to. Luminol wasn’t foolproof though. Could’ve been a professional; again, which professional? He’d scoured the lists of forensic analysts in the state, students studying forensics, history of discharges at different government agencies around town. Who wanted to threaten him? They couldn’t know he was Batman, right? That thing that attacked, it felt so real… that was something adept at fighting. Knowing their enemy. But that wasn’t real. It wasn’t. Was it related to his parents? The Riddler? He’d already ruled that out. He was still in Arkham, rotting where he belonged. He’d checked. Everything was in place. Nothing had changed, but this. He’d had to confirm with Gordon that the letters had been correct. That the mural was there. Even confirming with Alfred, he was worried his infected mind was contagious, that Alfred and him were living in some sort of surreal state, that the walls of the, maybe the walls, the walls of the building, maybe they had mold. He needed to follow up on that. Mold poisoning, that fucks with people. That kills people. Maybe the appliances were leaking something. Alfred could check that. Would he check it well enough? He needed to check it himself, and pulled out a notepad to add to the to-do list.
His pen dragged a jagged line on the yellowed paper when Alfred placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. He jumped, cricking his neck with the turn toward him. “What?” He looked down at the list, thinking he might be able to get them all tidied up by tonight. Tonight’s patrol would be busy, and hopefully not boring. Hopefully there was something. Anything. A crumb. A whisper. Something fake to follow, even. No. That would distract from the real lead he needed to uncover; why couldn’t he see it? Why was every direction leading nowhere? He’d had more stuff on the Riddler, Joker, Penguin, even Annika and Selina. On the Falcones. Maronis. He always had somewhere to go. But this had absolutely fucking nothing.
“If you won’t sleep, eat. I made an early dinner.”
“I don’t have time for that.”
“You need rest, and you need food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten all weekend.”
“I had an apple.”
“It’s not funny. Come.”
As much as he didn’t want to follow him up, he needed to take his meds. He needed to bring them down to the basement, keep them handy on his desk. Replenish his snack drawer so he didn’t have to leave. Maybe he could install a toilet down there, or get an outhouse. His mind didn’t quiet down as the elevator rose, or he walked to the kitchen; not when he took his medication, or when he forced himself to sit in the chair for precisely one minute while he slammed a bowl of soup, or when it burnt the roof of his mouth, felt the heat sliding down his chest. Alfred had barely sat down before Bruce put his bowl in the sink and descended the elevator, going this time right to his suit.
He’d programmed a button on the hidden screen in his sleeve in bright yellow—bright red was already taken, the color of blood, impossible to miss. Yellow was annoying, much as he felt about needing to even do something like this. If he ever felt supremely distressed, he’d press it. If he was dizzy, he’d press it. If his heart was beating much too fast, he’d press it. He sent a message to Alfred about picking up those calls with urgency, programmed to be received as DISTRESS - CHECK IN, different from the DISTRESS call that let the man know he was in physical peril.
If anything was awry, he needed to press it. No ego. Ego could cost him this whole endeavor, the entire mission. In the message to Alfred, he’d let him know the protocol was shifted from the previous distress call: in this one, he’d answer the call, and triage if he needed support. He hoped, agonizingly aware of how naive it was, that most of the time he’d only need a breather. Alfred would see if he was oriented to person, place, and time, and decide from there if he needed to be rescued. That was all he was doing tonight, outside of pocketing the cufflinks in his tactical pants after pulling them on.
The first stop he made was to Ecuatorro. The house was surrounded in caution tape, but the door was clear. He slipped inside, getting a peek around. Living room’s normal. Kitchen. Bedrooms. Bathroom. He looked at the toilet paper roll—almost unused. Only a few squares removed. He hadn’t planned on dying. The same was true in the kitchen, where all the dirty dishes were in the wash, and a day-old smoothie was just starting to turn in the fridge. There was an outfit folded on the dresser of the man’s bedroom. Keycard beside it for a gym nearby. Who plans to go to the gym if they suspect they’re in trouble?
He couldn’t linger too long in one place. After doing the same across the next four houses, finding nothing, he swore he could feel the top layers of his teeth shedding from being ground so hard. Nothing tying them to him, nothing tying them to each other, no traces, nothing. His black light picked up nothing, he checked every corner, perimeters of each house and every room, what channel the televisions were on (all channel five; again, why not six?), but nothing besides. Channel five. What if that was a clue? His mom had worn it—it was still sitting on top of her dresser in their bedroom. Chanel number five. How would they know that? Couldn’t be related to the perfume. Nonsense. He was thinking nonsense, mind swirling, circling, full. His brain was looking at every thought that passed, inspecting it for a holy realization, some divine intervention. Nothing!
He had to wait for the results of the print to come back, or the autopsy. Waiting was miserable. While he was here, his mind was partially at home, panic treading just below the surface thinking about Alfred being blown to smithereens. Any second could be his last. Any minute, any breath he took, could be one breath more than Alfred. Between each house he circled back to a road with a view of the tower, searching for smoke again, for tendrils, for bright lights, even S.O.S. painted on a window. It never changed. Nothing.
He went back to the watchtower after staking out the houses of each of their known family members. He had a list stuck in his pocket with their names, affiliation, and addresses. No one was coming out at this hour; that was why he’d developed the drifter. He’d decided: at the end of the night, he was going back out. When daybreak hit, and the world shed Batman, he’d see what they were truly up to; he’d find something. Something existed, it had to. Murders didn’t happen without a trace. Or the only trace being a single print muddled with blood. God they were good.
Sunlight streamed through the clouds. It stung his eyes. His mouth matched them now, his saliva abandoning him as his body begged for water, yowling to be taken care of. He trudged back to the basement with bleary eyes, grabbing a stale bottle of water from weeks ago on his desk and wetting his mouth before passing out on his cot, his breathing ragged and deep. Only for an hour. Or less. Need to get back out there. They need help. The city needs help. City needs. Needs. Help. Saving…
“Finally got some rest. Good.”
Bruce gasped awake, springing to his feet. All the blood left his head and he staggered to his desk, his fingers cold on the metal. Alfred was in a new outfit again. He clicked on his monitor and could’ve collapsed; his tone was biting, sharp, almost a scream. “Eleven PM?!” He rushed to his suit, thankful he’d slept in his padding, desperate to get out. So much wasted time, could’ve been out for hours already—
“Slept all day and all night.”
Bruce’s face fell. What? What?!
Alfred watched him scramble along the desk, patting his pockets, likely looking for his phone. His face was contorted tight, scrunched. “Like I’ve told you. If you don’t let yourself rest, your body will force it. You’ve hardly slept in weeks.”
He found his phone, nearly dead, his heart slamming into the ground below his feet. Tuesday. Fucking TUESDAY? “You didn’t wake me—”
“If you’re too exhausted to set an alarm, I won’t interrupt it. Your body needs to recover.”
Bruce struggled to ignore the implications of that, feeling like he’d unknowingly been sentenced to time-out for twenty-seven hours. Twenty-seven hours? TWENTY-SEVEN HOURS? He turned to berate Alfred more, but he’d already zipped up the elevator by the time he formed a thought callous enough to get his point across, but not unnecessarily cruel. He checked his messages for any updates but was rendered empty handed.
Until one popped up right under his thumb.
Report back on the prints. Suspect in custody, just left interrogation. Lookout tonight, nine.
Shit. Already? With those muddied prints? How sure were they?
Alfred sent him a text.
Lieutenant’s here. Says it’s related to the murders.
So they had figured out the letters spelled ‘Bruce Wayne’. He didn’t like sitting across the table from Gordon, but it was easier with his crowded head. Left no space for unrelated thoughts to form. Left no space for him to be passive aggressive over what had happened the last time they’d sat there—the nights, the days, they all rolled together when things got heated. When they didn’t, too. Martinez looked more awake. They both did. He assumed he did, too. The goddamn coma-level nap needed to be worth something. Fuck, how had he let that slip? Why couldn’t Alfred ever see the importance of sharing his priorities? Someone could’ve been killed. Maybe Gordon was about to say so. Maybe he was about to say that the entire city was in flames, Martial Law was put into effect, FEMA was back. Maybe another flood had happened. Maybe—
“Mr. Wayne.” Gordon cleared his throat. Martinez stifled a yawn. He fiddled with papers sliding on the tabletop. “It has come to our attention that a credible threat was made against your life. Last week, a string of murders occurred across the city, details of which we don’t need to engage with at this time. Fingerprints found at the scene matched the profile of Matthew Risou. Does that name ring any bells?”
Risou. Matthew. “None.” MR. Did that stand for anything? Could that shift the meaning of the others? Was that a pseudonym, like the Riddler had gone by? Hidden meaning? He’d scramble up the letters later and dig into it the second Gordon left.
“It appears he was a big fan of yours.”
Martinez laughed under his breath, rolling his eyes. His hand tightened on his belt loop. “Had whole social pages dedicated to you.”
Gordon continued, giving a sideways glance to Martinez. “Yes. Very preoccupied, disturbed. Found a letter at his residence detailing the plans. Thought if he killed people with your initials,” he peered out over his glasses, and Bruce kept his face concerned enough, cloaking the confusion soaring through him. The killer admitted it? Admitted the initials? Thought what? “You might ‘manifest’ into his life.” He shrugged, his pen clicking to the table with a clink.
“Where’d he get that idea?”
“Risou underwent a psychological evaluation after intake. Psychiatrist believes he was hallucinating. He’s enroute to Arkham Asylum as we speak.”
Arkham. So many roads leading there—need to answer them. Can’t be suspicious. Need to be scared, but not too scared. Need to think Bruce Wayne is untouchable. That Risou is below. “Wow…” He shook his head, performing a full sigh. He swallowed a glob of spit for good measure. “How long will he be there? Do I need to worry? I’ll be at a lot of public events the next few months.” Good. Focusing on public image, perception, some level of safety concern. So Gordon didn’t think he was even more suspicious.
The officers shook their heads in unison. “No need to worry about that, Mr. Wayne. Confession on file, prints at the scene, at minimum he’ll be inpatient. Long-term. At least a few months.”
“And you’ll be the first to know if anything changes.” Martinez nodded strongly at him. What is he gonna do next, salute? “Technically, the second, because we would, uh.” He trailed off, moving his hands to awkwardly adjust his hat. Gordon got up from his chair and pushed it flush to the table’s edge.
“Bottom line is: you’re safe. Wanted to let you know.” Gordon nodded at Bruce, then Alfred, then Martinez, and Alfred showed them to the door once more. Deja-vu.
He didn’t like how simple this was, how straightforward. Had the victims really been murdered due to their initials? Had that been the depth? Is that why when Bruce slammed into the deep end, scoured the internet, excavated his mind to poke and prod and measure each passing thought, he continuously came up empty?
Risou had worked in forensics in his youth, which explained why the scene was so clean. His social platforms were loosely related to Bruce, tweeting a few times a week about how much he wished Bruce would be his friend, tagging Wayne Enterprises in dinner invites, but outside of that—he retweeted extremely normal things; memes that were a half-decade expired, even he knew that much. Photos of animals, political content unrelated to Gotham and not otherwise fringe. Must’ve been a delusion.
He thought of how Martinez scoffed, laughing under his breath, all but outright mocking the man for being deluded. It felt like a bruise. The delusions weren’t the problem, the violence was. Nothing about the situation was laughable, or worth something as cheap and dismissive as an eye-roll. He needed help. He needed help before he became a murderer, before the parents were taken from their children, before he’d be subjected to a life sentence at Arkham, confined to the stale walls, harsh lighting, rehearsed smiles, cutting restraints, spoon-fed applesauce, having to request sips of water, have people staring at him through windows, assessing his risk, his safety, his body, his mind, what if he would eventually be a danger to people around him? What if he already was, but too deluded to know it?
He forced his eyes to the motorbike by the tunnel entrance. He wasn’t about to sympathize with a murderer. He wasn’t about to think about his time in Arkham. He hadn’t hurt anyone yet. He wouldn’t. This was the bullshit that started happening when he slept too much. He knew his thoughts tended toward the ruminative, and that it wasn’t a problem if he was working.
“Dory’s heading out for the evening.” Alfred startled Bruce again. “Wants to know if you need anything pressed for tonight.”
Tonight? His eyes widened. The rally. “Uh,” Didn’t even have time to research March. If Alfred hadn’t let him sleep so much, he could’ve gotten everything done. This falling through the cracks… unacceptable. What are the people of Gotham supposed to think if their vigilante can’t follow through on meager research? What was he even doing at the meeting tonight? He needed to work on the case. Who had declared Risou mentally unstable? The prints were ‘the clearest they’d ever run’? For someone likely unfit to stand trial? Sure, he was in forensics, but—
“Bruce?”
“Whatever, I’ll find something.” This was what happened when he didn’t have time for his responsibilities. This was what happened when he let his body get the better of him. Why hadn’t he set an alarm? Shake it off. Dory was leaving, meaning it was five. Rally started at six. He needed to get ready now so he could arrive with fifteen minutes to spare; he needed a shower. That would take five minutes if he hurried. Find an outfit, do his hair, find the watch. Warm up the sports car. Would Alfred have let him sleep right through the rally, too, if the prints hadn’t surfaced?
All Bruce could think about as he handed his keys to the valet was that he hoped the rally didn’t run long. He’d stowed his suit in the trunk, hidden behind a cleverly-placed bag of Alfred’s old golf clubs.
His clothes felt too tight on his body. The sweater was itchy round his neck, scraping on a scab on the small of his back. Sweat tickled the skin under his chest, creating a terrible grating feeling against the shirt. The cameras were too intrusive; flashing bright, white lights to disorient him, making him have to watch each step he took. The watch caught on the hair of his forearm, his cologne was giving him a headache, and god, he just wanted to go home.
March walked straight to him when he entered, though it wasn’t a far walk; he’d positioned himself far enough from the entryway to be polite, close enough to greet people on arrival with warmth. Bruce stomached a grimace as the chandeliers exacerbated the pounding in his skull. He had to blink a few times before he could read the politician’s face. March wasn’t… eager. Looks afraid. Nervous. No, sorrowful. Concerned? His eyes traced the slope of March’s, the downturned angle on his mouth, the way he held his hands clasped in front of him rather than going for another hug. “Bruce! Didn’t know if you’d show tonight.”
“I’ll be attending as many campaign events as possible.” Force a grin, force a grin…
March’s brow furrowed, then relaxed, and he laughed. Was he going to bring up the accident? Hadn’t he heard the speech he made at the beginning of the meeting last week? He was sure it made some paper somewhere; at the very least, people had gotten pictures of him arriving. March gave his arm a reassuring slap. What? “Trying to show the masses you won’t be bullied into submission?”
“I’m unsure what you’re referring to.” Seriously, what? He glanced over March’s shoulder and noticed everyone was looking at him, occasionally shuffling closer. Some looked away when he noticed them staring, some waved, but regardless, his presence was noticed beyond anticipation.
He laughed like Bruce was making a joke. “That’s an informed angle to take. Serial killers like to be known, heralded. Not giving them power.”
Christ, it went public? He remained measured, hyperaware of all the eyes on him, and how illuminated he was in this obscenely well-lit room. The meetings weren’t this well-lit, were they? At this point, people might’ve started thinking he was cursed. The accident, then the ‘scandalous’ interview, now a superfan-turned-serial killer was attached to his name. Speak—he needed to respond. He needed to get it through his head that this was his life now. Of course it went public. “I feel tremendously sorry for the victims.” He didn’t have to act saying that, as he felt the guilt seep into his bones, gnawing him to gummy shreds. A thought pierced through him, one that was familiar, but sharp as ever; the guilt of being alive. If he hadn’t survived the attempt, Risou would’ve had no one to manifest. Ecuatorro, Yates, Altruss, Weiss, Natividad… they could be at a park with their children right now. Part of him knew his mind was simply running with anything it could get, that it wasn’t true that X followed Y; he knew that things happened without purpose, unfolded without special fanfare, but it didn’t make his nausea any more palatable. Just gave it a different shape.
March nodded. “Glad he’s getting the support he needs. Support he needed before.” He sighed. “Donating a portion of the funds tonight to the victim’s families.”
In truth, Bruce had forgotten that was an option, and wrote a mental note. Send a check to each of the families. He hoped it would stick in the middle of the spirally muck that was his crowded, guilt-laden mind. Had that guy truly been the killer? Said he worked in forensics, but his name hadn’t come up in any of the databases, past or present, for the entire state of New Jersey. Forensics was one of the few careers people moved to Gotham to pursue—did he commute out of state? Why? Did he move here after his career ended? Why? Would Gordon have anything new to add tonight? If crime was slow, he needed to check if there were other Risous, people so obsessed with celebrity they’d be driven to violence. Was he a celebrity? Was this what celebrity felt like? Like ants crawling over his skin? Like the entire world was analyzing him, staring at him, poking, prodding, pushing… could he get out of this room? Pretend the GCPD were wanting him down at the station? If he would’ve known he’d had an out…
“Welcome! Press are clustered left of the stage, but feel free to break from the herd if you so please.”
He spun around at the tenor of your voice before he was consciously aware of it. Your hair was down tonight, and you had on pants and a sweater rather than your usual dress. Shockingly fitting. Your eyes flit to his for a brief moment, but didn’t linger. In the mess of the weekend, he’d forgotten you’d be here. Thank god for the prints.
“Reminds me: need to make an announcement to the press. I won’t be accepting press questions until the last half hour. I want to give priority to people who aren’t paid to be here.” March winked at you before striding across the room, and Bruce’s gut tightened.
“I hope you and Alfred were able to stay safe this weekend.”
When he looked at you next, he saw your eyes skimming his exposed skin. Looking for injury. Each time it felt less and less painful. Swore he could feel a touch in every glance. Whatever eye makeup you were wearing had the slightest shimmer, the light hitting it in such a way his eyes kept coming back to it. Oh, SPEAK! He opened his mouth to reassure you they’d been fine, but he had no air in his lungs. He’d forgotten to breathe; when he did, your perfume took up all the space, and his thoughts left him again. Completely, entirely empty.
Your waiting is so patient. He managed a nod only when he looked to the ground, the words tumbling out without particular attention paid to them, or even awareness of which ones his lips might form. “Never got in contact. Wish I would’ve known sooner, maybe some of them could’ve been saved. Probably would’ve.”
You shook your head with such seriousness it consumed him, gave him no leeway to berate himself. “It’s not your fault, if that’s what you’re taking from it.” He held a strange feeling in his body, like talking to you was going to confession. Like you had the authority to release him.
His eyes caught on the glimmer again. It made your eyes brighter than they already were. Your hair framed your face so softly. His stomach lurched when he noticed a glint by your ear, but it was just earrings. Matched the necklace hanging down your sweater, and the ring on the pointer finger of your left hand. The fingers that dragged along his torso were being fiddled with hard enough they left a blush of lightness whenever you shifted your touch. He put his hand in his pocket to keep it from grabbing yours.
March tapped on the mic, causing a bleating sound to screech from the speakers. An interesting choice to hold it in the foyer—until he looked away from you and noticed a sizeable crowd had formed. The occupancy had tripled in just the few minutes he stood with you. At least he thought it’d only been a few minutes. Could’ve been an hour, or only a second. He followed your eyes over to the throng of press, and nodded. As if you needed permission from him to do anything. “I’m good. Join ‘em.”
You grinned, and he felt a bubble of air expand in his chest. “Trying to get rid of me?”
It popped, immediately. “No, I didn’t mean—no.” He felt himself turn scarlet. He swallowed hard, and almost choked on his spit, now taking up far too much space in his mouth. “I meant I’m fine, I’m,”
“I’m teasing.” Your grin spread to the other side, revealing your teeth. His limbs felt tingly. You looked… you looked so…
“Welcome, everyone. It’s about five minutes to six, and there’s lots to cover tonight, so we’ll be starting on the dot. Feel free to take a quick trip to the restroom, or check out our caterers: Mr. and Mrs. Lindel from Lindel’s Bakery on the east side. Thank you.” March gave a small wave, then stepped back from the podium.
“I’d better get situated.” You sighed. Your breath smelled minty. “Skating on pretty thin ice.” You pulled out the recorder from the small bag on your hip. “Glad you’re good.” With that as your salutation, you walked through the crowd toward the stage side.
All the air left his lungs in one enormous huff. He’d been holding his breath, and hadn’t even known it. In the same fashion, he felt a decayed throb from his stomach, suddenly screaming at him. He was starving.
The ham and cheese croissant was stunning, and a needed distraction from the incessant pull he felt to engage you, but it wasn’t enough. He scooped up a plate of rolls and doughnuts to tide him over, but by the time he’d walked to the gathering area of the stage, he’d finished it all. He was hungry, a bit exhausted, and his brain felt like it’d gone through the wash. None of which he’d been the least aware of prior to your conversation. Hmm. You felt grounding. Tethering.
When he walked to the trash he was intercepted by Gavenstein, accompanied by all his cronies. Ugh. “Wayne!” God, his voice is aggravating. “Couldn’t help but notice you playing favorites.” The men around him snickered. Bruce had about two seconds to fix his face after discarding his plate. His voice was light with mischief, and a piss-poor attempt at humor. “Is she someone you’d recommend?”
Whatever cloud you’d left him on was gone in an instant. He straightened his spine and flexed his shoulders wide, his mind running away with what to say—more specifically what not to. He kept to the least of it, not wanting to put more heat on you. “Not a good look to talk about journalists that way.”
Gavenstein scoffed, a slick smile turning up his eyes. “I’m not talking about journalists, I’m talking about that one.” The man nearest to him, McKinley—a name he only knew from the first day’s introduction—thought he had any right to chime in, sneaking a comment under his breath to the men beside him. “The broad no one’d give a second glance if it weren’t for Wayne.”
Don’t react. Bruce’s throat caught on fire, he was sure of it. Goosebumps peppered his skin, his abdomen tensing, crunching down on the words he couldn’t say. Don’t react… but they kept chuckling. They think this is funny? Fuck. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
Gavenstein laughed again, performing a stage whisper to the gaggle of men strung to his hip. “Wants to keep it for himself.”
Oooh… he wanted to get you OUT of this room; away from the harassing, invasive, disgusting, FUCK! “Did you not hear my speech last week at city hall?” He didn’t hear any of the men’s responses, too busy imprinting the precise shade of Gavenstein’s rolling, dismissive eyes to memory. For later. “Or were you too busy flirting with every woman but your wife to notice?”
His eyes flashed, and he released a short puff of air. “You’re pushing it, Wayne. Know your limits.”
Bruce was already tightening his hands into fists, choreographing how he’d slam him by the collar of his shirt into the edge of the wall. “I do. Do you?”
“Alright folks, it is six on the dot and we are ready to get started! Thank you all for showing up this evening.”
Bruce stepped forward in the crowd, knowing if he stayed back there he’d disrupt the entire event. The walls were closing in on him again. Too many people. Too many lights. Too many reporters. Everyone was touching him as he walked through; a tug on the shoulder, caress on the arm, a touch on his hip. Low, sultry whispers echoed on the same trail, but he couldn’t have cared less if he tried.
Maybe he wanted to disrupt it. Maybe he wanted to be the first to throw a punch, bring some pain to the lofty businessmen of the city. Maybe then they wouldn’t fuck with you. Keep their smartass comments to themselves. He could walk back there, and get him right in the jaw. Take a few hits so everyone just thought he was lucky. Yeah…
“Questions from the press will be saved until the end. I want to hear from all of you first, who took time out of your workweek to hear my campaign.”
Bruce glanced over heads and shoulders to see you in the middle of the pack of reporters; the only one without a flashy camera or tablet, your hair falling into your face as you wrote something on your notepad. His shoulders relaxed. You took care to be here. Probably spent the weekend researching. He wasn’t about to fuck that up for you.
He maintained that rhythm through the rally’s end. Each time he felt his thoughts melt toward vengeance, he’d peek your direction. The flames would dissipate to a gentle mist. Though for all your diligent notetaking, none of the press got a chance to speak, even going past the stated runtime. The people had come in hot, drilling March on topics from environmentalism to if he’d uphold the death penalty. The crowd seemed to lean progressive, with not a lot of naysayers. He wondered how that ratio might shift with Grange and Hady. He hoped you wouldn’t miss another rally, because he was barely staying afloat at this one; reminiscing how he used to stand on stage beside his parents, and how tightly he’d squeezed his mom’s hand. Crowds had always made him anxious.
He hung to the back and let people pass him, though many wanted to stop and chat. He pretended to be answering an email, keeping his eyes to the ground to—found you, and stepped in line with your footsteps. Though he’d tried to be inconspicuous, he did it for your sake; he didn’t give a shit what Gavenstein had to say, or how he wanted to spin it. Being in your orbit, safely, was all that mattered.
He spoke first, bursting with energy. “What are you thinking?” The crowd leading toward the exit was stalled, with a large group hogging the doorway. You and him were some of the last people in the pack… he glanced behind him to see if anyone was taking the back exit. So far, no one.
Jesus, your voice was like a salve. “It would be blasphemous for me to take sides,”
“But?” He liked how your cheeks went pink when he egged you on.
“But… he seems about as stellar as a politician can get.”
Bruce smirked. “Told you.”
“What did the billionaire think about all the taxes?”
He thought about how willing he’d been to hand over his card under alcohol’s haze. Oddly, he still felt that way. “Might take some of the funds away from our housing mission.”
“I thought I’d dreamt that.” You laughed, and it made his stomach flip. You liked it that much? It was a dream of yours? A flutter of blinks and you stared at the floor, biting your lip. Why hadn’t he wanted to come here, again?
The line still wasn’t moving, and he got a pit in his stomach thinking about you getting into another rideshare. Or worse, walking. He was certain your leg still hurt, maybe your head too. He was pretty sure Miller hadn’t escaped, but he hadn’t checked since the weekend. He lowered his voice, though he didn’t think the geriatric couple behind you were gossips. “C’mon, I’ll drive you home.”
He tried to not make it seem like he’d fall through the floor if you declined, and tried to stifle his relief when you accepted. After instructing you to wait five minutes before walking out back, he slipped through the line and snuck between the family holding everyone up. The steps were slippery, but he jogged down them well enough. The shouting and flashing barely resonated as he took his key from the valet and sped down the avenue. Paparazzi usually followed him until Orville, where he hung a right and took a half dozen more. Maybe one day they’d catch on, but it wasn’t today.
You’d just slipped out of the back door when he pulled up, lights cut. On approach he’d anxiously inspected the chair for dust, crumbs, or defects, none of which he found. The collar of his undershirt was choking him. Was the cabin too cold? Too warm? You slid into the passenger seat, and all was quiet again.
You were the first to break the silence, him being perfectly content to share the space. “You really want to do the housing thing? That wasn’t a binding contract.”
“I’d never thought of it before. Everyone talks so much about the housing crisis, I never thought there were enough empty apartments.”
“Be good to get it rolling before winter. Shit kills people.” Shit likely being the thick, hard blankets of ice and snow that coated every available surface in the city from November to February. He nodded in agreement, pinning the conversation for Thursday. It got him thinking…
“Does it snow much where you live?”
“I don’t know, downtown gets so much less than the rest of Gotham.”
Your sarcasm used to be so grating; now he felt lucky to receive it, his cheeks pained from squishing against endless grins. Is that all it took? One drink, once, and now he was talking to you like a friend? “Your hometown.”
“Have you been to the west coast?”
He shook his head, trying not to pay attention to the gong of nostalgia rattling through him. His parents had continuously put off travel until the campaign’s end. You looked out the passenger window, only able to see the slight reflection of your face in the glass. “The winter’s more mild there, for the most part. We live in a valley, so we don’t get much snow. Fall’s pretty there, though.”
“What do you like about it?”
“The trees are gorgeous. Like,” you shook your head, and he had to intentionally focus his eyes to the lanes of the road or his eyes would wander. “Seriously. Stunning. Used to bike there a lot, especially in October.” It was impossible to miss the wistfulness in your tone.
He was caught between two sides: pulling himself into the conversation, or keeping the focus on you. He gripped the steering wheel and took a chance. “You’ll have to send me some photos.” His brow furrowed. Why had that felt like taking a chance, exactly?
“I can pull some up right now.” The light blasted you in the face when you pulled out your phone. The streets were wide and empty, no one visiting the industrial district past sunset. He cut the lights again and pulled into an empty recycling plant’s compact parking. He unclicked his seatbelt and leaned toward you, and you did the same, transfixed by whatever was on your screen. Whatever it was had your pupils dilating, even in the bright light, and your smile huge. You held your phone between the two of you, your shoulder pressing into his to fill the gap.
Could you feel his heart pounding? The flush of his skin? Was his breathing too loud? He didn’t move away, didn’t react. You swiped to a photo of a cat playing in a bright red pile of leaves. He hoped you would speak, he didn’t trust his voice not to shake as his chest and arm pulsed everywhere you’d touched. He didn’t have padding now; you could feel his skin, he could feel your fingertips…
“This is Walter.”
Bruce’s lips parted in alarm when you spoke, his eyes moving from the fingers cradling your phone to the video of the leaping cat running around a side yard. “Walter. Is he yours?” Thank god his voice didn’t crack like he thought it would. He was coming back into his body, looking at the gray cat frolicking, focusing on the blue of the sky. You startled him when you turned to face him, so close he could see every pore on your cheeks, every line in your lips. Lips that had just asked him a question, one that he couldn’t recall over the glow in his chest. What were you doing to him?
“Do you like cats?”
He nodded, his body going on autopilot. You swiped again, showing another landscape with no building that wasn’t a barn. He drew a steadying breath. “Looks quiet.” Like the physical manifestation of being around you.
“It is. Too much sometimes, but, yeah.”
Whatever tension his body had become confused navigating, it was fading the more he focused on the images, and less on the you of it all. Getting this window into another life, life outside the city walls, was fascinating. “Is that your neighborhood?” You nodded and swiped again, showing an endless dirt road with vineyards and a disheveled barn in the distance. Some birds flew over you, your bike tires rumbling against the separated, dry dirt. It wasn’t just quiet, it was silent. Gotham had never been silent. What would it feel like to be somewhere like that?
He noticed the time just as his heart slowed to a light jog. 8:49. Gordon. He sighed, getting caught up in yet another startling amount of disappointment, and put the car in gear. “Need to be somewhere at nine. Sorry.” Sorry didn’t cut it, and for the next five minutes of driving he overthought how simply he’d put it. You hadn’t complained, tucking your phone away and chatting pleasantly while juxtaposing the two climates, but he was aching with dread.
When he pulled into the parking garage (you’d ducked, and he’d waited until the street was relatively empty), he squeezed as close to the door as he could before braking. Stay. Please. “Thanks for showing me the pictures.” Don’t leave. “Looks nice. Walter’s fun.” Let’s watch another show. Get snacks. Talk. “See you on Thursday.”
You waved before getting into the elevator, and he waited for the doors to close before pulling out. His body felt hot, sweaty, tight. Putting on the padding, the armor, the cowl��� it sounded horribly irritating. The driving, the elevator up, the strain on his esophagus when he spoke. The pictures Gordon would inevitably share, full of blood, and guts, and dead, dead eyes.
He winced, intrusive images of that overlaid with your neighborhood. Bloodied, mangled leaves, animals and bodies strewn about, a constant scream heard from another assault, another fist, tooth, blood running down his shower drain at six in the morning. He wasn’t even mad when Gordon called him minutes later to postpone, and he didn’t care why. The drive home was monotonous.
Bruce dragged his heavy body up to his bathroom, shedding first the sweater, then his undershirt, his hands tiring as they unbuckled his belt. He turned the water hot, waiting for steam to fill the room and fog the glass before forcing the last of his clothes off. He let the water pummel into his tired muscles, the soreness becoming one dull throb. Being around you lowered his tolerance for this, he was becoming conscious to that phenomenon of yours. But he didn’t know why.
The water droplets stung as they hit his shoulderblades, cooling just slightly but not enough as they slid down the back of his thighs. Steam thickened the air he breathed in, deep and slow. He let his eyes fall shut, let the weekend pass over him, slip through like the water falling from the tips of his fingers. He pressed his palm against the shower wall to release the tension in his lower back, struggling to grip against the slick, fogged glass as he dropped his shoulders and opened his hips. His eyes fluttered and he let out a reflexive sigh as the hand lingering at his side moved to slide down his abdomen, following the flow of the water.
He hadn’t masturbated in awhile, not having enough energy while balancing the two identities. He was tense, strung out, his dick already hard, pulse hammering. He leaned his forehead against the glass, soft moans coming out in exhausted sighs as he built closer to climax. God, his body needed this… his strokes stuttered as the water fell out of perception, his body tensing, tensing, yes—until his hand became yours. His eyes flashed open and he gasped, yanking his hand back as he slammed onto the shower floor. What the, what the fuck?
He scrambled out and threw on a towel, unimaginably tense, driven straight to the edge. He pressed his palms to his temples, struggling to stop their shaking. No. No. No!
#the batman#batman x reader#bruce wayne x reader#batman#battinson#bruce wayne#battinson x yn#battinson x reader#romance#fanfic#eventual smut#the batman 2022#bruce wayne smut#angst#batman imagine#batman smut#slow burn#slow build#fateful beginnings#x reader#reader insert#long fic#denial#slow burn fanfic#cross posted on ao3#noir#enemies to lovers#reevesverse#gotham#battinson fic
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First Of Many
Bud Cooper x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • Kinktober 2024 Masterlist • Kinktober 2023 Masterlist • Day 30: Cunnilingus
Summary: Bud forgot a file at work, you take a trip to bring it to him.
A/N: This was meant to be for kinktober 2023 (I'm so sorry). This is so badly not beta read, I cannot stress. I am cutting this one so fine timewise.
Warnings: reader works with Bud, kissing, oral, not beta read, please let me know if I have missed a warning!
Word Count: 1713
You race down the pavement, rain soaking into your skin. You’re practically a drowned rat at this point, sodden and cold.
You have the case file wrapped tightly to your chest, under your coat and thankfully in a metal carry case - safe from the rain.
Bud had forgotten it when he’d left, you knew he’d need it for Monday morning and probably wouldn’t even notice he hadn’t picked it up over the weekend. Not that the offices would be open even if he did.
So, with your boss’s permission, you’d looked up Bud’s home address and made your way. It hadn’t been raining when you got on the bus, but when you got off the storm clouds had been looming.
Finally, you reach his house. His car is parked in the drive, which is a small mercy. At least you know he’s in.
You duck under the shelter of his porch and ring the bell.
He's surprised when he opens the door to you, but he smiles. And it's utterly disarming.
“Hi, erm, I, so, you left…” All the practised sentences you'd gone over in your mind on the way here fall out of your head the instant you need them. “Here.” You hold out the metal case file and quickly realise he has no idea what's inside. “I…”
“Come in, come in, my god, you're soaked.” He ushers you inside, giving you a sympathetic look.
“I don't want to be any trouble-”
“No trouble at all.” He closes the door and turns to you. It's upsetting how good he looks out of his work clothes, part of you hoped that his allure was just from the pressed suit and ties he wore. But it seemed you were down bad.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, and to your obvious distress?” He smiles as he talks and you get lost in the expression for a moment.
“Distress?”
“You racing through a storm?”
“Oh… you forgot, erm, the Brandle File.” you hold up the box again, your hands shaking slightly from the cold. Rain water drips from your clothing onto his clean carpet and you wince. “I asked Mr Johnson, he gave me permission to drop it by, I know it's not professional, I don't mean to barge into your home and-”
“Hey, hey,” He looks at you warmly as he takes the box from you and puts it on the floor. His fingers brush yours and he hisses, “You're freezing!”
“I'm sorry.”
He tuts. “Don't be sorry, you'll catch your death.” He gives you an apologetic look, “all this because I haven't got my head screwed on right.”
“N-”
“I'm not taking any excuses from you for my behaviour.” He grins. “Now I'm being a terrible host.”
He ushers you upstairs and to the bathroom, handing you a laundry basket towel and dressing down. “Take a hot shower and bring your clothes down in the basket, I'll get them washed and dried for you.”
“Mr Cooper-”
“Bud.”
“Bud, I-”
“I'm not taking no for an answer sweet pea.” He smiles and leaves the room.
You sigh and stare at the full basket in your hands. It's not really like you have much of a choice.
“Use my soap if you want to!” He calls out halfway down the stairs.
The shower is wonderful, warm and soothing, and when you're done you ring out your work clothes as best you can before you put them in the basket.
The towel dressing gown is massive, it could easily fit 4 Bud's inside standing side to side, and still have room for more. It's soft and warm, and there are a pair of warm socks rolled up inside it. You put those on as well.
You hang your towel up on the side, and panically try to make sure you've put everything back in the exact place it was before you head downstairs.
It's only when your foot is on the first step that your anxiety bubbles up, nearly paralysing you. You're naked under the dressing gown. In his house. You double check the tie around your waist, making sure everything is secure.
He’s in the kitchen, bent down checking something in the oven so you have a first seat view of his ass.
God was teasing you.
“Erm, I,”
Bud spins around, still all smiles, he’s got an apron on over his house clothes that has ‘kiss the cook’ printed on it in fancy lettering. “I’ll take those, get them washed and dried for you.”
“Oh, you don’t have to.” You hate how timidly your voice comes out.
He waves a dismissive hand at you before he takes the basket. “It’s the least I can do, would you like to stay for dinner? There’s more than enough, I’ll drive you home after.” He pauses, “Not that I’m insisting on you staying, you’re more than welcome to keep the dressing gown and I’ll take you home right now.”
“No, I,” you smile a little bashfully. “Are you sure I’m not imposing?”
He shakes his head happily and busies himself by sitting you down in the living room with a hot drink before he goes to the laundry room. You have to practically beg him to make Bud stop from hunting down the spare portable heater for you.
You have a sneaky look around the room while he’s gone, just out of interest. There are a few photos, friends and family, a couple of small knick knacks.
You smile at him when he comes back in the room, “You have a lovely house.”
“Ah,” he shakes his head, “It’s not very homely. Needs some care.” He taps the door frame affectionately.
“Well, I think it’s lovely.” He puffs his chest out a little. “Thank you.” He takes a few steps closer to you, “Oh that’s Frank, he’s an old friend.” He points to the photo you were looking at. “Fishing trip last year.”
“You like fishing?”
“Hate it,” he chuckles, “Frank loves it, I think you can see by my face there, I’m not a fan.”
You giggle.
“I mean, I like the beer, and the talking and the peace and quiet, but it was fucking freezing there even though it was the middle of May. I nearly lost toes to frostbite.” He pauses, admiring your smiling face. “Thank you for bringing the file, you’re too sweet.”
“Oh,” you shrug. “It’s nothing.”
“I don’t think so, I don’t know anyone else that would do that for their boss, let alone for someone that isn’t your boss.”
You shift a little, biting your lip, trying not to let your embarrassment bubble up and overwhelm you completely. “Well…”
“I think…” Bud smiles, lightly touching your cheek and titling your head up so that you meet his gaze. “You might have a soft spot for me?”
You freeze, unable to look away from his soft eyes.
“I know I’ve got one for you.” He breathes, leaning a fraction closer. “Do you think I could try a little something, just to make it up to you? Repay you for the favour?”
“I…” You swallow. “It was no problem…”
“Please?” He smiles sweetly, you didn’t notice him take a step nearer, but you moan softly when he presses his lips to yours and groans.
It barely takes a moment before he’s licking into your mouth and walking you backwards to the sofa.
He presses you down gently before he climbs on top of you, kissing you senseless. It’s like he’s everywhere, all at once, stroking and sighing as you lean closer and wrap your arms around him.
His fingers trail down, then up your legs, lightly pushing the dressing gown higher. He breaks the kiss, breathing hard. “Can I?” He asks softly, once more looking at you with those heartbreaker eyes.
You nod, not trusting your voice. Part of you is so sure you shouldn’t be doing this, but the other doesn’t give a single fuck.
He grins happily, scooting down and pushing your clothing higher, and up to your hips. Anxiety begins to swirl and settle, but Bud groans, his eyes rolling back for a second.
“Fuck me, if this isn’t the prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen.” He licks his bottom lip before he dips down, his warm hands pulling your right thigh onto his shoulder.
You gasp as his mouth touches you and grab at the cushions as he places a soft, light kiss to your clit before he flicks out his tongue.
“Taste so good too.” He mutters, lightheaded. Something about the taste of his own soap mixed with your skin is driving him crazy. He laps again, a long slow lick through your folds that he savours while he pushes at his hardening cock with the heel of his hand.
The little whimper that escapes your throat makes him feral, makes him want to push and push until all he is pulling from you is those sounds.
He moans happily, watching you with lidding, hazy eyes as he licks, flicking your clit with the tip of his tongue after every swipe.
“Fuck,” you squirm, breathing hard and trying to get closer to the sweet warmth of his mouth. He grins, pressing closer to you and kneading the back of your thighs with his hands pushing you up and nearer, letting you rock and ride exactly how you want to.
“Bud, please,” your toes curl, pleasure shivering along your limbs, mixing with the pent up anxiety to hurtle you towards your peak.
He moans against you, the vibrations running up your nerves. Your legs part to shake, moving without your control as the sensation builds and builds and builds. You throw your head back, your spine arching as pleasure explodes out and along your skin, bathing you in its soft glow.
You come hard against his mouth, rocking and pulsing as he continues to lap and lick, whining ever so slightly when your cum finally hits his tongue. He slows his movements only stopping when your muscles relax.
“Fuck,” he wipes his mouth greedily, already craving your slick on his tongue again. “You know what, I don’t think I quite made it up to you enough.” He grins cheekily, “I think two or three more should do it.”
Thank you for reading!
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tags: dacryphilia
You can't even imagine how much he loved watching horror movies with you. Setting the spooky atmosphere just to make you scared like a tiny mouse - all of that to mockingly comfort you as his hands made their way under your shirt. Soon after that you jump again and decide it's enough for you, nuzzling your face against his neck while you quietly sobbed. "Ohh, is my baby scared?" he said before gripping your chin and forcing you to look at the movie feeling how his pants got tighter as more tears came out of your eyes. God, your scared face turned him more than it should have. You just nodded in reply, sniffing quietly. He shushed you quietly, not really wanting to calm your worries. His hands touched yours and led them onto his hardness, making you unzip the pants. "Sweet pea, get on your knees for me, okay? We need you to stop thinking about the scary movie and monster, right?" and you obediently do that, wanting the fear to leave your body. You look at his big hard dick, the tip glistening with his pre and the moment your lips wrap against it, tasting the salty precum he pushes your head down. You gag and cough, hitting his thighs as tears smear the rest of your makeup as you look at him. "You're so pretty when you cry," he grunts before letting your head go.
You cough looking at him, the silvery string of his precum and your saliva connecting your lips to his dick. "Sorry, I just can't, you're looking too hot now," he said before pushing your head back down, his dick stretching out your mouth and throat as he moved your head, gripping your hair. The tears streamed down your cheeks as you struggled to breathe, your throat tightening around his length as you dug nails into his thighs driving him further insane as his hips buckled against your face, your nose pressing against the soft bush. You clenched your eyes when he pulled out, the pearly white ropes painting your face - making it even more messy. "You look so good right now. Messy just for me, can't wait to see your pussy baby, hope it's also eager to please me like your mouth," and you dumbly nod again, letting him gently wipe his cum from your face with the tissue before carrying it to the bedroom. "I'm gonna fuck you so hard that you'll get another reason to cry."
#jjk smut#jjk#jujutsu kaisen smut#jjk x reader#jjk x reader smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#smut#gojo satoru#geto suguru#satoru smut#jjk nanami#jujutsu nanami#toji zenin#toji fushiguro#toji x reader#jjk toji#toji smut#toji x you#jujitsu kaisen#suguru smut#jujutsu kaisen suguru#suguru geto#geto suguru x reader#satoru gojo#fushiguro toji#kinktober
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Nothing annoys me more lately than "Going to the gym isn't a personality" like yes??? it is???
People talk about the things they care about, that they spend time on, that they put effort into. That includes their bodies?
I work with a lot of athletes. Like more than your typical amount. And they will happily debate protein powders, tell you they're doing a new training regimen, talk about Lat Pulls like having opinions on them is something obviously I have as well. Going to the gym is exciting for them- they tell me they hit a new personal best bench press, or are trying to hit a specific weight class, or are working on knee strength after their surgery. They compare times they threw up or got too dizzy.
The same way when I talk to MTG players they tell me about their new EDH deck, or talk about that one wombo combo they pulled in Draft, or this asshole at FNM. It's all just nuts and bolts for a thing they care about. I don't know much of anything about Knitting but a lot of my friends do, and I would NEVER tell them that "Knitting isn't a personality" just because I personally find it boring or whatever. Because I would be an asshole.
Going to the gym is a ~personality~, it's just not one you want to talk about. You don't care about machine vs. free weights. You don't want to know how long they spent working out this morning. Frankly, you want them to do the work at the gym and not give you a peek behind the curtain. You want people to look good, look fit, look how you want to, but not talk about how much work and effort it takes to do so. Working out to you is a chore, and an unpleasant one at that, so you'd rather they not remind you of it.
But exercising your body shouldn't be a chore, it should be something you enjoy- your favorite rock climbing place, the dance class you and your friends take, etc. These people LIKE going to the gym. They would gladly tell you about it. And if for some reason you are talking to someone who works out religiously but hates every second of it- first of all, yikes, buddy you don't have to live that way- but second of all, that person will not talk to you about the gym. They will talk to you about what they are actually passionate about.
You don't have to enjoy their hobby! You can think the gym is boring, or exercise isn't interesting. But like. say that. The gym can be a personality. Anything can be a personality.
#9 times out of ten when someone says Oh I workout when you ask what they do for fun#they are prepared for you to not want to talk about it#but if you give like. a couple followup questions to them to show you really mean it#boy oh boy I hope you're ready to hear about the draconian gym policy against stringers and whey vs. pea protein#people are much more interesting than we give them credit for#anyways I almost made a dating profile again and got mad and made this post instead after snooping around#I'm yelling at an imaginary person here for the record#or rather a real person but not a person I actually want to confront
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Hi Essie!!! Hope you're doing well! (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)❤️
So I had this idea for a sick!Dazai fic (that I'm honestly too tired to write dhehee), and who else is better to brainstorm it with than my fellow Dazai whump enthusiast? :D
Based on my own experience of being sick for the past week, I forgot how awful it can get. It sucks. You're feverish, your nose is either runny or super blocked, your throat hurts, you get headaches, you're lethargic 80% of the time, all that stuff. But what sucked the most for me was how hot my skin felt. Like, clothes were so uncomfortable to wear from the sweat, especially since it's still summer around here.
So imagine putting bandages into account as well?
Yep, awful.
So I present you with a scenario: Teen!Dazai in his office, has taken over paper duty (that Mori knows he isn't gonna complete anyway) because of his fever. He feels gross, to say the least. Flushed and hazy, a little nauseous and sleepy. But his skin- his skin is scorching, and there is no way for it to disperse that heat because it can't breathe. He endures it for as long as he can until he just can't.
In his haze, he scrambles to tear his bandages off, loosen his tie, and decides that he will lie on the cold floor shirtless. The air conditioner isn't enough. No one is there to stop him.
Until Chuuya barges in without knocking as usual (to discus the paperwork he also knows Dazai isn't going to finish) and stumbles onto the scene.
Dazai doesn't even acknowledge him, has already taken off the bandages around his eye and is halfway through tearing off the ones around his neck. His clothes are disheveled as he loosens them and looks like he's about to take them off.
Chuuya gapes for a solid second, before exclaiming with a blush-
"What the fuck?!"
He rushes over, trying not to look at Dazai's skin that's on display and stops him. He wraps him with Mori's oversized coat aggressively.
Dazai fights against him, exclaiming that he needs to lie on the floor. Chuuya doesn't get it, all that he knows is that Dazai is delirious, and even if he thinks it's a good idea to tear through his protective layer now, he'll definitely regret it later.
So Chuuya ties him with the coat and decides to take the paperwork to his place, along with a flailing Dazai on his shoulder.
I just wanna see Dazai giving Chuuya hell during treating him 😭 cuz even if cooling off is a good idea for a fever, not staying huddled in the warmth equates to chills and endless sneezes. Makes you feel even more awful. So it's gonna be a push and pull of Chuuya trying to warm Dazai up (in order to fight off the fever faster), and Dazai wanting to cool off (because he isn't used to being this warm and hates it), until they come up with a compromise somehow dgdhejndjd
Yeah, just a fun idea! :3 Feel free to expand on it hehe
PEA 😭 i saw this when i was having a Very Bad Day™️ & it immediately made it sm better tysm 🥺🩷🩷
UGH THE TENDER, FEVERISH SKIN UNDER THE BANDAGES ❤️🩹 where everything just feels like too much, i completely understand why Dazai (in his feverish delusion) would think removing the offending material would be the solution
Chuuya barging in and quickly going from 👁️👄👁️ to 😳🤬. i love that he goes into protective mode, thinking of how future Dazai will surely regret this course of action & putting measures in place to prevent that 🥺
Chuuya would wrap Dazai up like a sushi roll & carry him on his shoulder like a log back to his apartment, where he proceeds to lose the idgaf war & embrace his mother hen side (which he still denies exists)
meanwhile Dazai is kicking & fighting him every step of the way, acting more like a 5 year old than a mafia sub executive (he’s still only a kid sobs), even as he shivers with chills
until Chuuya manages to get a hand in his sweat soaked curls, gently carding through them. the coolness of his leather glove against Dazai’s overheated scalp makes Dazai go still… and then slump against the couch in a mixture of relief & exhaustion. Chuuya takes advantage of his compliance to make him agree to stop fighting him, & they spend the rest of the day resting on the couch, watching movies & playing video games (well. Chuuya plays. Dazai watches & points out all of Chuuya’s mistakes) 🩷🩷🩷
#asks 💌#my ask box is always open for you or anyone else who wants to send in thoughts <333#especially this month if anyone has any sick skk thoughts they’d like to share BY ALL MEANS DO. i’d love to read them 🩷🩷🩷#ilysm bestie i’m always delighted to see you in my ask box <333#sorry it took me so long to answer this. it’s been a loooong week sobs#i hope you’re completely recovered now!! being sick is no fun (*purposely avoids dazai’s pointed stare AHEM*)#i’m so honored to be your fellow Dazai whump enthusiast 🤭#this has definitely got me thinking about one of the sickfics i’m working on… the skin tenderness from fevers is genius & would make a great#addition hehe 🤭#tysm again pea this made me so happy#long post#bsd#skk#skk fic#sickfic#sicktember
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it was tendOnitis all along???? travesty
#I thought it was spelled ‘tendinitis’??#me is a fool??#no it made sense bc in my language there’s definitely an ‘i’ ther but like#*there#come on mate#D:#I’ve resorted to look up my symptoms online yes why do you ask#4 months of pain should be plenty imho#moreover. I have receipts some lovely comments on my fic :) and I want to reply to them soon :D#*received#but I’m currently typing this with my left as I strapped (no pun intended) a frozen peas bag to my right arm at 6am on this merry Sunday#this does look pretty grim my dudes. ngl#anyway.#I hope everyone is having a good time#and if not.. I’m sending you the goodest of luck#imagine a golden retriever bringing luck to you in a picnic basket as we speak#that’s the luck you deserve peeps#I’ve typed (and I must stress this. with my LEFT index finger. like a boomer) enough for the day#I’ve been awake since 4am to get a good start with ch25 and boy howdy did SDY got scared for a minute there in this chapter 👀#*get#ok I’m done#I’m rather delirious at this point. sorry about that. the pain is real#to my lovely m00ts: I may be late to the game but I will answer your messages and comments. done you worry#*don’t you worry#if anything lemme know if I can be of help with anything on your end D:#mutuals of the same feather as they say..#ok. Niki out P:#sneaky niki
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Rating band names based on their accuracy:
(I keep updating this list so check back later)
The Beatles: 3/10. None of these people are beetles, they’re just a bunch of fruity guys from Liverpool with matching haircuts
(Edit: changed from 0/10 to 3/10 because John Lennon beat his wife)
Pink Floyd: 4/10. There is not a single person named Floyd in the band, but some of the members do arguably look kinda pink
Nirvana: 10/10. Getting high and listening to Nirvana is roughly what I imagine actual nirvana to be like
Foo Fighters: either 0/10 or 10/10. I have never seen foo in real life so either they’re pretending to fight a problem that doesn’t exist or they’re doing an absolutely fantastic job of fighting it
The Eagles: 0/10. Same as the Beatles, there is not a single eagle in this band. The name is misleading and we have all been lied to
Queen: 6/10. Partial points for Freddie Mercury
Led Zeppelin: 0/10. I don’t think any of these guys have ever even seen a zeppelin, let alone one made of lead. A lead balloon would crash faster than my hopes and dreams
The Rolling Stones: 3/10. There is not a single stone in this band. Some points added because I’m pretty sure they rolled quite a few
U2: 0/10. Despite what the name says, I am not a member of this band
Metallica: 9/10. Naming a metal band “Metallica” is like naming your dog “doggy”
Red Hot Chili Peppers: 2/10. These guys are not chili peppers. They’re not even that hot, let alone red hot
Guns N’ Roses: 0/10. How the fuck could a gun or a flower play music
Backstreet Boys: ?/10. Depends entirely on their current given location
Simon and Garfunkel: 10/10. No notes
The Doors: 1/10. Jim Morrison is kinda shaped like a door tho
Chicago: 4/10. The number of people in this band does not come even remotely close to the population of Chicago. Points added because it originated in Chicago
Earth, wind, and fire: 2/10. This is even more innacurate than Chicago. Points added because wind instruments were often used
Def Leppard: 3/10. There is not a single leopard in this band. Some of the members are probably kinda deaf by now tho
The Beach Boys: ?/10. Accuracy depends entirely on location
The Black Eyed Peas: 6/10. Not sure what the hell an ‘eyed pea’ is but the black part is pretty accurate
Imagine Dragons: ?/10. Depends entirely on whether or not they’re thinking about dragons.
Cage the Elephant: 1/10. Why would you do that. Let the elephant go
Green Day: 0/10. They’re not even green
The Police: 0/10. There is not a single cop in this band
KISS: 5/10. I’m sure they probably kissed sometimes
The Monkees: 0/10. Are you fucking kidding me
We Butter the Bread with Butter: 8/10. I can’t verify this but I have no reason to suspect that they’d lie. Butter seems like the most logical thing to butter bread with
King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard: 0/10. I got really excited about the concept of a lizard wizard only to be let down. My disappointment is immeasurable
They Might Be Giants: 5/10. I googled everyone in this band’s height, the tallest guy’s only 6’1 so I wouldn’t exactly consider him a giant. Then again, I can’t really argue because the claim was only that they MIGHT be giants
The Presidents of the United States of America: 2/10. None of these people are Joe Biden nor are any of them former presidents. This is incredibly misleading. I’m pretty sure “Lump” was written about my first girlfriend tho so I’ll give them a point or two
Gorillaz: 2/10 Not quite but we’re kinda close genetically so I’ll give them partial credit
The Killers: ?/10. I have no way of verifying if they’ve actually killed before but the fact that they’re not in prison tells me probably not
The Offspring: 10/10. These guys are definitely somebody’s offspring
Arctic Monkeys: 1/10. They are neither monkeys nor are they from the arctic
Thirty Seconds to Mars: 1/10. It takes WAY longer to get to mars than that
Beastie Boys: 8/10. They’re pretty beast on the guitar
Jimmy Eat World: 1/10. Slow the fuck down Jimmy, you’re biting off way more than you can chew
Hole: 9/10. One point deducted because I’m pretty sure they had more than one hole
Rage Against the Machine: 10/10. They did exactly that
Alice In Chains: 0/10. This is illegal. Let Alice go
The Band: 10/10. This could not possibly be more accurate
Nine Inch Nails: 1/10. I can’t find any good pictures of their feet but from what I can tell their fingernails definitely aren’t nine inches long
Bush: ?/10. Not quite sure about this one, felt uncomfortable asking
The Who: 2/10. I’m not dealing with this “Who’s On First” bullshit
Radiohead: 0/10. Not a single person in this band has a radio for a head
Queens of the Stone Age: 0/10. This band should be called “five random dudes from the modern era” but FRDFTMA is a bit of a mouthful
Soundgarden: 2/10. Sound does not grow in the garden
Sonic Youth: 5/10. They’re not exactly youth anymore but the sonic part checks out
Talking heads: 8/10. There’s more to the band than just a bunch of disembodied heads but the heads do tend to talk
The Cranberries: 0/10. Decent music but I only added them so that the Beatles and Freddie Mercury weren’t the only fruits on this list
The Wiggles: 8/10. They do tend to wiggle a lot
Blue Man Group: 10/10. Yep!
Weezer: 5/10. They all look like they definitely have asthma
Limp Bizkit: 3/10. While the visual image of baked goods playing the guitar is hilarious, Fred durst is not a biscuit. Points added because he probably has erectile dysfunction
Stone Temple Pilots: 0/10. None of these people are accredited as being licensed to pilot anything, much less an entire stone temple. Stone temples don’t need pilots anyways
Wasted Youth: 8/10. I guess it really kinda depends on how you frame it but yeah, they probably wasted a lot of it
Them Crooked Vultures: 3/10. These are people and not birds but Dave Grohl’s posture is kinda bad and John Paul Jones is so old that his neck kinda looks like a vulture’s so I added some points
Audioslave: 0/10. Slavery is illegal
Traveling Wilburys: 4/10. Sure, they traveled a lot but not a single one of those lying bastards was named Wilbury
D12: 6/12. There were only 6 people in this band
NWA: 10/10. I’m a little too white to safely comment on this one but I’d say they nailed it
Jet: 1/10. A real jet would be way too loud
Goldfinger: 0/10. Not a single person in this band has a finger made out of gold
No Doubt: ?/10. I can’t really be too sure how Gwen Stefani felt but I think it’s probably a safe assumption that she had some doubts
The White Stripes: 3/10. I bet if you stripped them down naked and made them stand shoulder to shoulder and squinted really hard they’d probably look more like white stripes
Screaming trees: 3/10. They scream occasionally
Garbage: 2/10. I think they’re being a little harsh on themselves, their music isn’t THAT bad
Butthole Surfers: 5/10. Not even gonna touch this one
Megadeth: 3/10. To be fair, some of the former members are dead but only a little amount of death, not mega death
Dead Kennedys: 2/10. Last I checked Kennedy was still dead but neither he nor his clones are members of this band
Cake: 0/10. The cake is a lie
Cracker: 8/10. Most of them are
Tool: 7/10. I don’t know much about their music but they sure look like tools
Counting Crows: ?/10. Is this what emo kids do instead of counting sheep? Accuracy depends on whatever bird they happen to be counting at the moment
Dave Matthews Band: 10/10. It certainly is
Oasis: 1/10. Their music is the opposite of an oasis
Blur: 2/10. They are not that fast
Barenaked Ladies: 0/10. If I wanted to be this disappointed I’d reestablish a connection with my biological father instead
Meat Puppets: 10/10. Technically, aren’t we all?
Live: 8/10. Apparently they still do live shows but I deducted some points because I’ve only ever heard their music on Spotify
ABBA: 9/10. I’m still not giving any points to Guns N’ Roses but that’s mostly out of spite
5 Finger Death Punch: 8/10 I guess it probably depends on how hard you hit them but this seems to be the usual amount of fingers to punch somebody with
All American Rejects: 9/10. They’re all rejects from America so I don’t really see any issue with this
T. Rex: 0/10. Even if any of these people WAS a T. Rex I don’t think their arms would be long enough to play their instruments
Free: 0/10. Unless you steal their music, in which case it becomes a 10/10
The Strokes: 3/10. To my knowledge, none of them have had a stroke but I still added a few points because the name was probably accurate for other reasons
The Smashing Pumpkins ?/10. Another thing I have no way of verifying but this seems like a waste of perfectly good pumpkins
Therapy?: ?/10. The hell are they asking me for? I don’t know their medical history
Twenty One Pilots. 0/10. There’s only two of them and neither is a licensed pilot
Finger Eleven: 0/10. Leave the poor Stranger Things girl out of this
Fall Out Boy: 9/10. I conferred with an expert on this one who confirmed that they are in fact boys who had a falling out
Cream: 8/10. Considering this was the OG supergroup I’m sure a lot of people did in fact cream when their music came out
Edit: humans aren’t fucking monkeys. Stop saying we are
#r/196#r/196archive#196#/r/196#rule#meme#memes#shitpost#shitposting#music#rock#rock music#the Beatles#pink floyd#nirvana#foo fighters#the eagles#queen#led zeppelin#the rolling stones#metallica#red hot chili peppers#rhcp#guns n roses#backstreet boys#simon and garfunkel#the doors#Chicago#earth wind and fire#def leppard
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Ruined!
Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader
Summary: Joel is an old man who struggles to cum sometimes. You’ve got time to kill and a tight hole to fill.
Warnings: 18+. Peepaw brainrot + a dash of anorgasmia. Unprotected p-in-v, cockwarming, age gap, daddy kink.
Note: Finals are whooping my ass left & right. This is a quickie.
Word count: 1.2k | Part of the Waiting Game ‘verse
Surely he was hurting you now.
Joel Miller had a kink for many, many fun activities, but splitting a sweet young thing like you over his cock to the point you were almost in tears was just not one of them.
At the same time your poor, surely-bruised walls pulsed around his hardened length, he felt a pang of guilt. His balls were pressed against your ass like two lead weights, soaked with the remains of your third release, and his mind was at war with itself—keep fucking you like this? Pull out and offer his sincerest apologies for not being able to cum? A boy your age would’ve never had you waiting around like that, aching around his cock, much less begging for something as simple as a cumshot.
He decided to go straight to the source. Leaning over your prone body on the bed before him, he was careful not to rut his hips or jostle his dick around too much.
Joel pressed a hot, stubbled kiss to your cheek, then:
“‘S’it too much, baby? She need a break, maybe?”
Joel thumbed at that space where your body ended and his began and nearly lost his mind to the pearly-white slick that had accumulated with time. Two hours time, he had to remind himself while you moaned and writhed and bucked your ass back. Your cunt was choking him.
Crying, too.
Your eyes flew open the moment his words reached you.
“You kiddin’ me, Miller?! I could do this shit all day.”
Sometimes Joel forgot you were only in your twenties. Really, the thought only occasionally crossed his mind in moments like these—or when your father, his best friend, happened to bring you up—but when it did, it hit him hard. You were young. Lively. Surely far too spry and full of life to be messing around with a man as old as him.
Joel’s guilt ran almost commensurate with his pleasure when he felt you anchor your feet on the bed and start to fuck yourself back and forth over his still-throbbing dick.
Almost.
He planted a hand beside your head and grinned. He let you fuck him. Felt you pull off, crawl up the bed a little, then beckon him back to your body, where your ass was now pointing up and your back was arched in invitation.
Almost.
“You know I can’t sleep without your cum inside me.”
And you made a point to spread your knees and look behind you with a smile as sweet as Milo’s tea, fingers drumming a beat against the bedspread in anticipation.
“You do wanna fill me up, don’t you, daddy?” you teased.
Yeah, no. The guilt was gone. Joel could worry about being a depraved old man when he was done cumming.
Then he was back inside you, driving his hips until every last inch of him was wrapped snug within your wet and velvety embrace, and he sighed. A real protracted one, like the kind he was liable to exhale after climbing two flights of stairs, or else just hoisting himself off the sofa. Or lifting you in his arms and fucking you hard against the hood of his Bronco. Any time. Any place. You were kind enough to oblige him with the best cardio of his life, so the least Joel could do now was make you cum again.
He snatched your hands up in one of his own and placed your wrists at the base of your spine. With his other, free set of fingers he took to rubbing your clit gently.
“SON OF A—”
“—good girl.”
You let out a bloodcurdling scream into your pillow and secretly hoped this man’s dick would never deflate again. Not with the way he was sawing his thing back and forth and dragging you to the edge, circling your clit like you were the single most precious thing in the world to him.
“Oh, sweet pea, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
Like he could feel the tears staining the cushion himself.
“Mmrooonme,” you cried into it, voice garbled by cotton.
“What’s’at, honey? Can’t hear ya.”
Joel then bent at the waist, pretending to be leaning in to hear you better, when really he knew he’d be digging in your guts with that big, bulbous head of his and making you squeal again. Hands still held captive behind you, you inched your chin back on the pillow so your moans could be heard even louder while Joel sped up.
“You— ruined me,” you repeated. Now clear as ever.
Joel tried to hide his smile and glanced down between your body and his. Then, while his ring finger joined the other two to make their tight, light circles, he returned,
“Ruined? Pussy feels just fine t’me.”
You’d kill him if he wasn’t so good at this. You turned your head more to meet his eyes from the corner of yours.
“No. Ruined me. For anyone else.”
Probably forever.
“Good.”
You knew he liked it that way.
You saw it in his eyes. Felt it in his touch. The hefty, broad, and greying Joel Miller had been loafing around on this earth long enough to know how to claim what was his. When his hips knocked yours to lay you flat on the bed, you already knew what was coming next.
First, his arms came to rest on either side of your body.
“Shit,” you whimpered.
Next, his lips went trailing down to your ear.
“Just a little more, sugar—that’s it,” he murmured while his hips sank in, and you felt that big, delicious stretch.
Then he released your hands so they were free to squeeze the sheets, and when they did, his moved over them—lacing his fingers through your own—and his lips pressed a kiss to your jaw. He held you in a tender grasp. His breath was hot on your neck, and the whole of his body was blanketing yours. Joel knew you liked it like that, which is why he made sure not to leave an inch of space in between. He was grunting, rutting, holding you close while his cock drilled a maddening pace inside you.
“You ruined me too, y’know,” he mumbled into your skin.
His nose was flush with the side of your cheek, nudging inward. Begging you to turn your head just a little more so he could kiss you. Weak as you were, you obliged.
And you moaned against that grey, stubbled chin of his when the thrusts above you had your cunt grinding the bed, rubbing that soft and helpless nub on the sheets.
“C’mon— let daddy have it,” he growled, “Let daddy have it and make it his, huh? That okay by you, baby?”
It was.
More than okay, as confirmed by the orgasm that tore through your body moments later while your teeth sank into the flesh of Joel’s lower lip and your cunt clenched and soaked over him whole. Joel wedged his tongue in your mouth and fucked you through it. His broad and callused hands were like iron around your own, holding you tight and keeping you still amidst a maelstrom of pleasure that combed over your every last nerve.
He licked into your mouth. Licked over it. Took the sick and distinct pleasure of knowing no one but him got to see you like this, with your jaw hanging slack and your eyes rolling back and your whines repeating quietly, ‘Daddydaddypleasedaddyfuckohfuckdontstop.’
Maybe ruined wasn’t such a bad thing to be at all.
#NOBODY SPEAK TO ME UNTIL I’VE HAD MY MORNING COFFEE#AND BY MORNING COFFEE I MEAN THIS MAN’S LOAD IN MY MOUTH#PREFERABLY FOLLOWED BY AN OLD FASHIONED#joel miller smut#joel miller#joel miller tlou#joel miller imagine#joel miller one shot#joel miller x reader#joel miller fanfiction#the last of us#tlou#the last of us fic#joel miller x you
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charles leclerc answers the internet’s most searched questions
gif by @countingstars-17 <33
MASTERLIST | MY PATREON
"Hi I'm Charles Leclerc and today I'm going to be answering the web's most searched questions about me."
Charles said to the camera, he was wearing his typical media day outfit, a Ferrari half zip up jacket and his baggy jeans, ones that no matter how hard his girlfriend tried to get rid off it was just impossible because he liked them too much.
"First question, what is Charles Leclerc's number?" he read on the iPad the Sky Sports team had given him to read the question, "I hope we are speaking about the driver number, because my girlfriend won't like that people are searching for my phone number on the internet and I'll be very worried if you can find it," the crew laughed at his comment, "But it's number 16."
"What is Charles Leclerc's favorite song?" he read the next question, "I think overall, it's Where is the Love by the Black Eyed Peas, but recently I've been loving Sabrina Carpenter's songs, and that's thanks to my girlfriend."
"Did Charles Leclerc retire?" he couldn't help but let out a laugh at the question, "Are people really asking this question? The answer is no, I'm not that old and I hope I don't look that old. I've still got many years in me I hope."
"Did Charles Leclerc win in Monaco?" a small smile played on his face, "The answer changed just a few weeks ago but yes I did. It was a really special moment, my mum cried, my brothers cried, my girlfriend cried. It was beautiful."
"Did Charles Leclerc adopt Oscar Piastri?," he couldn't help but laugh again, "That answer also changed a few weeks ago and yes I did. He's one of my sons now."
"Does Charles Leclerc speak Italian? Yes I do."
"Does Charles Leclerc have a sister? No I don't."
"Does Charles Leclerc have a girlfriend?" he could feel his cheeks blushing as he read, "Yes I do. And as you can tell, I talk a lot about her, so much that there are compilation videos of me just talking about her, I've seen them."
"Will Charles Leclerc win a championship?" he made a thinking face, "I'm curious to know what Google says about that one, but I'll say yes. At least if I work day and night for that, so I hope it will happen one day."
"Is Charles Leclerc good at cooking?" Charles chuckled. "Well, I like to think I'm decent. I can make a mean pasta and I really enjoy it, but my girlfriend is the real chef in our relationship. She loves baking, and her cookies are the best."
"Can Charles Leclerc play the piano? Well I'm not a pianist but I have enough skill to really enjoy it. So yeah, I can play the piano.
"Does Charles Leclerc have any pets?" he smiled warmly, "Yes, my girlfriend and I have a dog named Leo. He's a an absolute sweetheart. He even comes to some of the race weekends with us."
"What is Charles Leclerc's favorite date night activity?" he chuckled, raising an eyebrow, "Did my girlfriend search that?" the crew laughed, and Charles continued, "If she did, she knows I love our cozy movie nights at home, eating whatever we want and just chilling on the couch."
"Alright, last one," he said, looking back at the iPad, "What does Charles Leclerc do in his free time?" he read, "When I'm not racing or training, I enjoy spending time with my family, friends and my girlfriend of course. I love going to the beach, traveling or just relaxing at home."
He set the iPad down and looked directly into the camera. "Thank you for all the questions! I hope you learned something new about me. Until next time, ciao!"
did i reference my own fic here? anyway i hope you like thisss
#charles leclerc#charles leclerc au#charles leclerc x female reader#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc x you#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc smau#charles leclerc fake instagram#charles leclerc fanfic#spanish gp 2024#formula 1 fanfic#f1#formula 1#formula one#charles leclerc fanfiction#harrysfolklore#f1 x reader#cl16 x reader#f1 fanfiction#charles leclerc smut#f1 grid x reader
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What If 141 and the best enemies to lovers line of all time...
"Who did this to you?"
Cue protective instincts and sexiness
hehe I am giggling!! Okay. Listen. I am fully aware that this is an enemies to lovers trope, but I don't think it applies to all of the 141 guys in that manner. Is there protectiveness? Yes. Is there a bit of spice? Yes, if you squint really hard. Is there also some sweetness thrown in? Absolutely there is. I had lots of fun with this one. I hope you enjoy it!
Presented in four double drabbles.
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Task Force 141 x 141!Reader
Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, brief blood and injury, hurt/comfort, brief suggestive themes, protectiveness, light angst
Word Count: 800
ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
“Who did this?” Kyle bends forward at the waist, pressing a bag of frozen peas to your face. His concern is genuine. You can see that, but it’s strange. The two of you get on, but this is something else.
Kyle looks…angry like your injury personally offends him.
“It’s nothing,” you murmur. “Things happen during sparing. It’s fine.”
Kyle’s frown only deepens. He doesn’t believe you. And why should he? The person you were placed with took it too far. And it was all to impress him as if putting you in your place would somehow grant his favor.
It’s clearly done the opposite. He could care less about your sparring partner.
“It was your sparring partner, wasn’t it?”
You don’t answer. Just press the peas to your forehead a little harder.
This time, Kyle’s frown turns slightly upward. “Jokes on them, ya?”
You glance at him sideways. “How so?”
Kyle is grinning. It’s stunning. All pearly white teeth.
“Because I have my eye on someone else,” he says simply, as if that answers everything.
Though you cannot see yourself, you feel your face growing hot under Kyle’s gaze.
“You shouldn’t say thing like that,” you reply.
“Why? It’s true.”
John Price
“Who did this?”
“Why do you care so much, John?”
You attempt to pull your face out of his grasp but he holds firm.
“Of course I care,” he replies. The two of you stare into each other’s eyes, chests heaving. John is close. Too close. So close he could easily brush his lips against yours.
“I don’t know why,” you murmur.
“You do,” he affirms, authority in his tone.
Do you? Maybe. Perhaps. Deep within yourself you truly know the reason but can’t decide to speak it to the air. That would make this real. Whatever this is between the two of you.
‘Tell me who did this?”
“And do that what?”
“What the fuck I want to them, love.”
“It’s nothing. You shouldn’t worry about it,” you reply, again trying to escape from him.
But John isn’t having it. His other hand hooks around your upper arm, and then you’re pressed closed to him. He is so warm. All strength.
“Let go,” you say, but there is no volume behind it. It is weak. Not even a protest.
“Tell me,” he repeats, head dipping slightly.
Yes. Close enough to kiss.
“Tell me,” he says again, this time softer.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Simon’s blood beats heavy. It is tinged with metal. A lace of fire that cannot abate.
His boots slap against the linoleum floor. The overhead lights are bright. Clinical. He is a shadow here. A dark specter.
No one stops him. No one glances his way.
And why should they?
He is a man made fury.
There were hands put upon you. A training exercise taken too far. Simon was not there. And he doesn’t know why. Not exactly. But he’s furious. Protective. The fact that he could not stop this only infuriates him further.
To him, this is a failure.
He doesn’t come to a stop. Doesn’t knock. He barges right on in.
The nurse yelps. Spins suddenly. Face red.
You glance up, eyes wide at first but soothing slightly as they land on Simon. You’re bruised. Stitched up.
Fucking hell.
“Out,” barks Simon.
The nurse leaves but stares him down the entire time. He approaches the table, and lightly brushes the backs of his fingers against the wound on your forehead.
“Who did this?” he asks.
“Simon—”
“Which fucker?” he growls, bending forward slightly to look into your eyes.
“Should see the other guy,” you joke, smiling.
John "Soap" MacTavish
Johnny shouldn’t feel this way. He shouldn’t. You’re not his. Even if he wishes it were so.
Every swing of his fist sends the building frustration outward, shooting into the massive boxing bag before him. It’s a poor substitute for the face he truly wants to smash. Several faces that is. Two specifically.
Who did this?
The words slipped from him unbidden. An instant anger. You had only scowled. Told him you could handle yourself. And you can. Johnny knows this. But he’s still fucking pissed about it. Still seething.
All the fucker got was a quick slap on the wrist. A promise to not do it again.
That sits sour in Johnny’s belly.
But you didn’t cave, no matter how much Johnny insisted that he’d take care of it on your behalf. So he is here, punching the shit out of something that isn’t flesh.
He wishes he could take away your pain. Take away the memory. Give it to himself to carry. You don’t turn on your own. There’s no honor in what happened.
But as much as he wants it to be true, Johnny can do nothing.
You are not his.
Even if he wants to be.
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Mini Me
With how shitty my life is rn, I keep having these depressive episodes. Turns out my depressive episodes breed fluff
Max's six year old son has just started karting and his wife has to take him. Boy oh boy, does he miss his wife and son.
"So, Max, can we expect to see your little one around the paddock today?"
Ever since the day he was born, Fabian Verstappen had been seen with his parents around the Formula One paddock. He was always smiling and waving at those he knew and those he didn't. Fabian Verstappen was the happiest boy around.
Max was very proud of his boy. He showed him off to whoever he could. When he was young, he sat on Max's hip while he completed interviews and such.
Fabian was Max's number one supporter (Tied only by Max's wife and Fabians mother, Y/N. She followed him around the world three times before agreeing to marry him. It was a year long engagement, and in that time Y/N found out she was pregnant. They managed to keep it hidden until after their wedding, although Y/N did have to get a dress that better fit her bump).
There was a year between Fabian being born and him being able to attend his first race. Christian was happy to get him fitted out in Red bull Racing merchandise. He got his own little hat and a too large Red bull shirt with a thirty three on it (Max had lost that years championship. Red bull had won the constructors but Max had just missed out on the WDC. Red bull had worked out the kinks in the car and Max was bound to win this year, just as he had the previous year).
This year was the first year Fabian and Y/N weren't there to cheer Max on. And interviewers certainly picked up on it.
"Uh, no," Max answered when they asked about Fabian. "He and my wife are at a karting event right now."
The interviewer gave him a nod. "Following in your footsteps perhaps?"
Letting out a laugh, Max nodded his head. "We can only hope," he said.
"Do you think we'll be seeing him in a Red bull Racing suit in the next fifteen years?"
Again, Max nodded his head. "If he's anything like his dad, he'll be in a Red bull Racing suit before that," he said and adjusted the cap on his head.
Max left the interview and checked his phone. As much as he wanted Fabian and Y/N at his race, he knew how important karting was to his son.
Max has always been Fabian's hero. His first full sentence was 'I wanna be like daddy'. Max and Y/N did whatever they could to make Fabian's dream come true.
The one thing Fabian wanted but he couldn't have was to have his daddy at his karting races, watching him. There had been a lot of screaming and crying while Max and Y/N tried to explain to him why his father couldn't be there.
But Fabian had made friends at his Karting matches. He and the other kids he had raced against got along like peas in a pod. Fabian's first ever play date was with his karting friends. Some of them had been sat with their eyes and mouths wide open while Max brought them juice. They couldn't believe he, their hero and favourite driver, was Fabian's dad.
Max pulled out his phone and checked his messages. Nothing from his wife yet, but Fabian's race should have been done, he realised when he checked the time.
Dialling her number, Max pressed his phone to his ear.
It took Y/N a moment to pick up. "Hey handsome," she said in a chipper voice when she picked up the phone. Her voice was distant and slightly distorted, and Max realised she was in the car.
"Hello, Liefje. How's our little racer?" He asked her.
"Daddy! Daddy!" Came Fabian's voice. "I won! I won! I won!" He shouted.
Well, that answered Max's question. His cheeks were warm as he smiled, listening to his son. "Ik ben zo trots op je, mijn jongen. Ik kan niet wachten om jullie twee weer te zien!" (I'm so proud of you, my boy. I can't wait to see you too again!)
There was a moment before Fabian responded. He was fluent in English and French, but he was only good at Dutch. It still took him some time before he could work out what Max was saying and respond.
"Papa, ik... heb een... trofee." (Daddy, I got a trophy.)
There was a certain sense of joy that filled Max whenever Fabian answered him in Dutch. "Fabi, make sure mommy sends me a picture of your trophy," he said.
"I will do, Maxy," Y/N responded for the little boy. "Fabi, what do we say to papa?"
Again, Fabian was quiet for a moment. "Oh!" He suddenly cried from the back of the car. "Good luck with your race, Papa! Maybe you can win like me!"
The Verstappens laughed.
"Good luck, Max. Call me after you've won."
"I will, Liefje. I love you."
"I love you too."
Max hung up the phone after that. He his qualifying to get ready for. As he got ready, though, he spent the entire time thinking about his wife and son. He checked his phone constantly, waiting for Y/N to send over the picture of Fabian and his trophy.
No father had ever been prouder of his little boy than Max. Fabian was his everything and he couldn't wait to see him in the big leagues. Who knows, maybe Max would still be racing alongside him. Maybe he'd have Horner's job, team principle of Red bull Racing while his son raced as their number one driver.
No matter what, Max would always be Fabian's number one supporter.
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holy shit world/insure made me sob. would you consider doing a part two ? i’m imagining stan and ford telling dipper and mable childhood stories with the reader. they’re vague about it, saying stuff like “they aren’t here anymore” so the twins just think read died. then reading coming back through the portal and they connect the dots. omfg i’m obsessed with this concept.
Word/Insured Part 2
Stanford Pines x Sibling!Reader/Stanley Pines x Sibling!Reader
☆ GUESS WHO FINISSHHHEDDDD!!!
☆ this'll have 2 parts so it's easier to digest, since it's lawnngg so if it abruptly ends, that's just me splitting it
☆ 4,5k words
☆ gender-neutral reader
☆ possible tw: drinking to cope, mentions of suicide, gagging and descriptive chewing? and just angst
☆ srry this lowk kinda took long to write both keyboard and mouse just died on me when i was writing this so i had to find an old keyboard oops
☆ if this does well, i'm considering on making hcs of reader adjusting back to their home dimensions and diving deep into the twins n their trauma !!
☆ that's all. i hope you all enjoy! :3
✶ Stan and Ford hadn’t talked to each other since your disappearance. The anger and hatred that Stan held onto was enough to deter him from even granting a glance at Ford who tirelessly tried to get Stan to talk to him. He’d begin the conversation with ideas he’s thought through the night prior, ideas that most likely secured a chance on bringing you back. But Stan wanted nothing to do with him. His head was shrouded with your screams, the way you yelled out for Stan instilled such a soul-crushing guilt on Stan; he wasn’t sure he’d properly function as a normal human being after this. Not to mention, you and Stan were two peas in a pod, spending 10 years together after the collapse of their family truly brought the pair together, closer than they’d ever thought they would be. And now Stan is going through the same grief he felt when he was kicked out of the house, Ford doing nothing but sparing a sorrowful glance to him as he shouted for his brother, anticipating Ford to do something; to clean his name and everything would go back to normal. But instead, he turned his back on him. The situations were massively different but the pain was eerily still the same.
✶ Stan would spend majority of his nights clutching your belongings close to his chest. He didn’t care if it looked weird, those were the only things that he had left of you at the moment. Nights were spent crying himself to sleep, envisioning different scenarios where he had caught onto your wrist and pulled you back to the ground, where it was safe, where he was there to protect you. He couldn’t let his mind linger on the idea of you being stranded in another dimension, helpless and lost, not knowing what to do or where to go. The mere thought of it sends his heart crumbling down to his palms, all shredded and shattered beyond repair. He was your big brother, he was supposed to protect you. To keep you safe from harm's way, he betrayed that very promise by leading you to the place where you were taken away from him too soon. And that alone gutted him. Ford would hear Stan sobbing into the night and all he did was lay there in his bed, submitting himself to the torture to hear his brother’s wretched cries. Because, this was his fault. Stan wasn’t shy to tell him that almost every waking moment of the day when he has the chance. The guilt haunts him.
✶ Verbal arguments were pretty common between the pair. Stan mainly started them when he was pulled out of the haze he was in and roughly back to reality. A reality where you weren’t around anymore and that irked him, because who else was at fault other than his idiotic brother? “Do you ever wonder how more lively this house would have been if ya hadn’t pushed [Name] inside the portal?” His tone was harsh. They carried thick venom to them, his words permanently burning their way into Ford’s brain. “Not this again,” Ford’s heart quivered. He had just recollected himself from yesterday's fight and now Stan wants to barrel through another one? Ford avoided Stan’s glaring eye contact. “Stanley, I told you many times before. I’m sorry! I’m sorry for screwing up, I’m sorry for being the reason why [Name] isn’t here anymore.” Ford’s head tilted back, his eyes staring longingly at the ceiling. “You don’t know how much this eats at me, Stanley.” He blinks away the tears threatening to escape, his head lowering back down to meet Stan’s fiery stare. “But I beg of you, please. Don’t hate me for it. I can’t lose you again, not after losing [Name].” The look in Ford’s eyes was something Stan would never be able to forget, no matter how hard he tried. He looked so broken, so shattered, the shell of someone who once was a prodigy at everything he touched was now crushed to bits; pieces of him scattered, lost to time. Stanley’s anger faded into a mellow irritation. Shifting his hands awkwardly on his chest, his face softened ever so slightly. “Fine,” He grumbled, rushing past Ford, their shoulders roughly rocking against each other. Ford sniffed, wiping the tears off his face. This was a new development. A spark of hope flickered in Ford.
✶ Alcohol and cigars were Stan’s life vest. He’d rob a few packs of beer and down them within two days. It wasn’t healthy, but at least it distracted him from everything that was happening, right? Stan was pretty much drunk every day, and if he wasn’t, he was out on the porch smoking cigars, hoping that one day Ford would find him dead on the floor with beer cans surrounding him, his last moments spent thinking about how much he missed you. Stan wasn’t an angry drunk much to Ford’s surprise, considering how he spent his times where he was sober yelling at Ford, rather he’d rot away on the couch or floor, silently crying to himself in a puddle of his own tears. Many times Ford would have to pick up Stan, rest him on the couch and try to sober him up. And it wasn’t an easy task to do, picking up Stan with his weak arms was a workout for Ford. “Why couldn’t I save them?” Stank drunkenly babbled out, his head swaying side to side. “Don’t move too much, Stanley. You’ll give yourself a headache.” Ford warned, propping his head up with a pillow. “If I wasn’t so slow, [Name] would still be here.” Stan hiccups, his eyes glistening with tears. No matter how many times Ford hears Stan painfully talking about you, it still hurts the same and even more. “It’s not your fault, Stan.” Ford said, pulling a blanket up to his chest. “It’s not yours either.” Stan’s hand patted Ford on his face, thinking that it was his head. When Stan pulled his hands away, tears were streaking down Ford’s cheek. Hearing Stan tell him that it wasn’t his fault healed a piece of him and that quickly triggered the waterworks. “There, there, brother.” Stan patted Ford’s back as he sobbed into his hands. “It’s not my fault,” He repeated in loud sobs. “It’s not your fault.” Stan echoes.
✶ Ford handled his grief and stress by huddling himself in the lab, isolating himself from Stan’s drunken state and researching his work. Trying to find loopholes that he can tie them close with a workaround, with a quick fix that would bring you back. Cans of beer were discarded around his lab, just the same as upstairs. But he wasn’t downing beers like Stan, he chugged one or two to dull out the ache in his heart, to keep it from distracting him. He knew when to stop and limit himself. He wasn’t dependent on alcohol. Sleep was something Ford considered useless. That would only distract him from his work, from his progress. Stan walked into the lab, puffing a gray smoke of air out onto the air. Your absence has bestowed so much despair onto the pair and he hadn’t realized until this very moment. Walking over to Ford, he placed a hand on his back. He was messily sleeping on top of his work, glasses hanging off his face, mouth open, drool dribbling down to his arms and paper. His dark circles were so dark and he was unshaven, chin stubbly with hair. Has he been getting any sleep? He wouldn’t know because he’s always drinking the day away. Stan internally groaned at himself. Not only has been neglecting himself, he’s been neglecting his brother. Burning out the cigar, he grabbed a blanket from upstairs and draped it over Ford. “Sleep tight, Stanford.” He said, gingerly squeezing his arm. Stan sat right next to him, wanting to keep him company and dozed off. When morning came, Ford awoke to Stan’s head colliding with his chair. For that one morning, Stan’s snores were music to his ears.
✶ ��S-Stanley!” Ford’s body lunges up from the couch when he sees Stan briskly pass by him and into the kitchen. “I-I’ve done some research and I-I think I found a way to get [Name] back!” He stumbles over his words, the lack of sleep weighing heavily on his foggy brain. The only thing that is keeping him up as of now is coffee he had been taking in shots for the past few days. The way he moves is fidgety and erratically and Stan takes notice of that. Pouring a cup of coffee for himself in a mug, he leans his back against the counter. “You need sleep, Stanford.” He brings the rim of the mug to his lips, his eyes never leaving Ford’s trembling figure as he takes a big gulp from his coffee. Ford couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Stan spoke to him! It was measly four words, but that’s more than he has ever said in the past five months, that wasn’t angry nonsensical words that were being thrown at him or depressing drunken babbling. “No, there’s so much to be done.” Ford runs a hand through his unkempt hair. “You need to hear me out. We need to find the other two–” Stan shushes him. “I won’t talk to you until ya sleep, Stanford. Don’t you bother trying to back out from this.” He looks at Ford with a stern expression, almost the same one Mom wore whenever he warned Ford to not do anything stupid in the backyard with Stan. “B-But!” Stan doesn’t hear his weak objections, he’s already out of the kitchen before Ford can conjure a good enough excuse. With a groan, Ford trips over his own feet while he makes his way back to the couch. Pushing all his research and books off the couch and onto the floor, he topples over the couch. When his head crashes on the soft plush of his sofa, his body automatically shuts off, revealing how dangerously tired he was. His eyes fluttered close and it didn’t take long for him to crash out on the couch. Stan came in to check on Ford and was pleasantly pleased to see his twin at last getting the rest he deserved.
✶ Clinking his fork idly on the ceramic plate, Stan watched Ford make breakfast. Originally Stan was going to prepare breakfast, but Ford saw he was cooking and pushed him out of the kitchen, telling him that it was “his treat,” Stan couldn’t even utter a single word to him. He just wanted simple scrambled eggs and toast and now he’s left to fear for his life as Ford concocts a science experiment for his breakfast. “And for you breakfast, Stanley.” Ford swoops in, leaning forward as he shuffles the plate of food onto the table. “Scrambled eggs and buttered toast,” Ford smiles knowingly, placing his breakfast down. He had the same breakfast but the crust of his toast was cut off. “I don’t even know why I doubted you.” Stan scoops up the scrambled eggs with his fork and shoves it in his mouth with giddy excitement, a display of emotions Ford hadn’t seen in over 10 years. Who knew a simple breakfast would get him so happy? “Still being a baby about the crust?” He points to Ford’s crustless buttered toast with his fork, mouth muffled with food still being chewed in his mouth. Ford cringes at the sight of mashed up food in Stan’s mouth, suppressing a gag as he nods his head. “Chew your food before talking, Stanley! We’re not kids anymore.” He rasps out, his palm covering his mouth, his body shuddering with full body heaves. “Alright, alright!” With a loud gulp, he swallows his scrambled eggs. “Happy now?” Said Stan with a roll of his eyes. “Maybe not,” Using his other hand, Ford pushes the plate of eggs away. “Don’t want to eat anymore,” Stan shrugs, pouring the scrambled eggs on the plate. “More for me!” As Stan is chowing down on his eggs, Ford regains his composure. Though, he couldn’t watch Stan eat his eggs without the image of the yellow goopy food in his mouth so he averted his gaze to his hands.
✶ “[Name] sure had grown up the last time I saw them.” This was Ford’s feeble attempt at sprouting a conversation with Stan, but he soon regretted what he said when he realized the fragility of the topic. Stan blinks, stunned. A beat passes and Ford’s ready to divert the conversation to another topic when Stan replies with a weird look on his face Ford can’t quite catch. “Well, yeah,” Stan looks off to the side. Ford lets out a breath of relief, Stan wasn’t upset at the mention of you. “They left with me when you and Dad kicked me out and we haven’t seen each other since then.” There’s a distant look in his eyes when he speaks, his words carrying a light anger to them ever so slightly. “How were th–” Stan shoots up, the chair skidding behind him. “Just because we’re all chummy now doesn’t mean you get to ask all about [Name].” The sudden shift in his emotions slapped Ford right in his face. “I’m sorry.” Ford whispers. Stan clicks his tongue, uttering to himself before shaking his head. “No, I’m sorry.” Stan rubs the sides of his head with his fingers. “Let’s not talk about them right now, okay? I don’t think I’m ready yet.” Stan pulls the chair to him and sits down. He rests his head on his fist, eyebrows pinched together with a long frown on his face. “I didn’t mean to blow up on ya like that.” Stan looks Ford in the eyes, and he could see the sincere sadness swimming in his eyes. “It’s okay, Stanley. Why don’t we talk about what you do for a living?” With that, they eased themselves into a comfortable conversation, with a few hiccups here and there, but in the end, the twins both had a soft smile adoring their faces.
✶ The repairing of the portal was a stepping stone that repaired Ford’s and Stan’s relationship. They weren’t going to lie and say that their relationship now was perfect, they still had their moments of anger and differences, but with a lot and a lot of patience, their bond was soon regaining its spark. “Whaddya think, poindexter?” Stan slapped a sloppily written plan on how to fix the portal in front of Ford. “What is this?” Ford looked at the piece of paper like it was garbage. “A plan to fix the portal, isn’t it obvious?” Stan snatched his paper back up, eyes speedily reading his work, doubting his work. “Stanley, that is unnecessary. I have the blueprints to fix the portal.” Discarding his plan, he slapped his hands enthusiastically, rubbing them together. “Alright! So where are they?” Ford sucks in a breath. “In the other journals.” Stan nodded his head slowly, as if that information was already obvious. “And where are the other journals?” Ford coughs into his fist, speedily saying; “I hid them.” Stan looks at him weirdly. “Can’t we just unhide them?” Ford rubs a hand up against his prickly cheek. “That’s the thing. I may or may not remember where I hid them.” Closing his eyes, he braced for the gust of angry yelling. “you WHAT?!” Stan’s hands flew to the side of his head. “How do you forget where you put them?!” Stan made a mental note to mark down how many times Ford screwed up, so far he has two. He has a long way to go before he could be anywhere near Stan’s record. “I was in a flurry of panic! I wasn’t thinking straight.” Stan groaned, smacking his face with his hand. “Was it at least in Gravity Falls?” Stan had his fingers crossed. “Yes, obviously.” A triumph “Yes!” leaves Stan. “Okay, let’s get digging then!”
✶ Stan severely underestimated how truly difficult it would be finding one of the books in a forest that seemed like it stretched out for miles. Every turn looks the same and whenever he’d think he’s making progress, he’s right back where he started, at least he thinks he is. Frustrated, he bangs his head on a tree. The sound of metal clanging rang in his ears and shook through the tree. He groaned, holding his head with one hand as he curiously examined the possible metal tree. “Stanley!” Ford came running to Stan’s side, panting heavily. He wasn’t used to running for more than 5 seconds, and that was evidently proven with his flushed face and out of breath wheezes. “This tree is metal,” Stan notes, taking a few steps back, winding his leg back and hammering his shoe into the tree. The tree simply shook, the metal sound nowhere to be heard. “What?” Stan can feel his brain heating up, he couldn’t make any sense of this. The tree he kicked felt like a tree, not some metal contraption. It was only when he knocked his head—An idea springs to mind. Leaning his head back, he slammed his head on the tree. Shocked noises sputter out of Ford as he watches Stan rub the sore spot in his head. “There’s something here,” He gestures to the general area where he smashed his head in. “I can see that!” Ford walks up to the tree, knuckles gently knocking on the metal plate that was disguised as a tree. His hands move around the tree, searching for a way to open the plate. His fingers snag on an elevated piece of tree and with his fingertips, he swings it open, revealing a control panel. The memories of constructing this rush to his mind. “I remember now!” He flips a switch, his head turning over to where the large log rested. In front of it, a patch of grass was pulled back to unravel the hidden place where book three was. Ford eagerly snatched the book in his hands, showcasing it to Stan. “Great job, Stanford!” He claps Ford’s back. “So where’s the other one, you remember?” Unfortunately for the both of them, Ford doesn’t remember. He had seemed to bury most of his memories after meeting Bill Cipher, anything beyond that point was an empty mess for him.
✶ With the two books in hand, they managed to tinker and repair the damage to their best efforts. After each exhausting night in the lab, he’d attempt to pull the lever in hopes that whatever they did that day would work and to their utter disappointment, it never dislodge from its spot. “Man,” Stan wipes his forehead with his forearm, sweat glistening on his arm. “For a brainiac like you, I would’ve never imagined you being terrible at building this!” Stan barked with a laugh. Ford scoffed, his attention laser focused on fixing a part of the machine. “How did you manage to build the portal in the first place?” Stan wondered, the flashlight he was using to help Ford see what he was doing began to steer away. “Stanley,” Ford snapped. “The light!” Stan jolted up in surprise, the light quickly going back to Ford. “Sorry,” He sheepishly said. “But seriously, how did you build this?” He looked at Ford curiously. “I had an assistant.” Ford mumbled, a leak of oil dotting his clothes. He hissed, grabbing a tool off the ground to fix whatever started leaking. “Had? What happened?” Ford hummed happily. He had fixed the leak. Placing the tool back down to the floor, he directed his attention to Stan. “He quit.” Ford scratched his head, unintentionally smearing oil on his cheek with his hand. “Why?” Stan tossed him a piece of clean cloth, silently motioning to his cheek. Ford took it, wiping his cheek with the cloth. “He, uh,” If Ford told Stan that he went inside the portal momentarily and came out completely traumatized, Stan would go berserk on him knowing that you went inside the exact portal that mentally ruined Fiddleford. Ford did not want to go back to the arguing and suffocating silence so he lied. “He just thought what I was doing was unethical.” That wasn’t a complete and total lie, but it was far from the truth. Stan bought the lie fortunately for Ford. “Glad at least someone had the brain to call a quits!”
✶ Before they knew it, they were tremendously low on money. Stan was the unfortunate one to discover this revelation. On a quick supply run, Stan had gone to the grocery store and stock up on some food. When the cashier rang up him, totaling his price to 30 dollars, Stan had pulled out a penny, paper clip and a wrapper. Mentally cursing Ford for spending all his money on unnecessary science stuff, he weakly smiled at the cashier. “Can you hold onto my groceries for a quick second?” The cashier nodded their, a big bright smile on their face. “Of course, stranger!” And right when Stan was going to snag the groceries bags in his hurried rush, a woman spoke from behind him. “Hey, that’s no stranger! That must be the mysterious science guy in the woods!” She points, gathering a crowd around Stan. “Ah, no. That’s my nerdy twin brother.” Stan says, causing the crowd to coo in interest. “There’s two of them?” Someone in the crowd asked. “He probably cloned himself just so he could do two things at once!” Someone else said. “That’s probably what happened. I’ve heard strange stories about that old shack.” Toby Determined spoke up. “Yeah! Mysterious lights and spooky experiments!” Daryl added. “Gosh, I’d pay anything to see what kind of shenanigans you get up in there!” Pa said. Susan perked up at that. “Oh, me too! Do you ever give tours?”
✶ A sly smirked pulled to Stan’s face. He had the perfect idea. “Yes, I do give tours! Ten…no-no fifteen bucks a person!” The crowd erupts in cheers, waving their green bills around. “Is it possible we get to see the man of mystery himself?” Susan questions. “Hmm, I’m not sure.” Stan eluded them to think that there was no possible way to get to Ford to gauge their reactions. And what they gave him sent adrenaline rushing through his veins. “You know what?” The crowd lightens up with hope. “Fifty bucks if you all want to see the man of mystery himself!” Another boisterous cheer from the crowd. “And what did you say your name was, twin of mister mystery?” Stan smiled proudly. “Stanley, Stanley Pines.”
✶ The crowd bustles into the shack, ooo’s and aaa’a left their mouths in awe of the place. “Step right up folks to a world of,” he pauses for a moment thinking. “A world of enchantment!” He gestures to all the wild findings. Grabbing a dial box with two antennae, he showcases it to the crowd. “Behold! The um, nerdy science box.” Susan looked at it with interest. The device rumbled to life and zapped her in the eye, rendering it closed. “Ah, my eye!” She covers her closed eye, stumbling back. “Uh, I can assure you, that is no way permanent!” He offers an uneasy smile. “I paid sixty five dollars for this!?” With Susan’s comment, the whole crowd erupted in complaints. Quickly thinking, he grabs a skeleton and makes a half-assed joke where the last customers didn’t make it out alive. The crowd laughs at his horrible joke and Stan smiles. “What is with all this ruckus?” Ford walks in, irritation evident on his face. “Is that him?” Someone excitedly shrieks from the crowd. “Oh my god, it is! Take my money!” Wads of dollar bills get thrown at Stan who was making a great effort to make sure he caught all of them. “Stanley, what did you do!”
✶ After answering a few questions he was coaxed into, (they stroked his ego), he kicked them out, accidentally saying that they could return another time before closing the door, smacking himself in the head. “What was that?” Stan turned over to Ford, buckets of money shoved inside into his shirt. “I got us money! And look how much we got!” He pulls a ten dollar bill from his stack in his shirt. “Stanford, this the best thing that’s ever happened to us so far.” Ford looks at him, unsure. “I’m not a fan of ripping people off,” Stan’s hands fall to his sides. “It’s their choice to throw money at me like a madman. Listen, if we get more money, we can stock up on good materials to fix the portal, like really good parts and we can finally bring [Name] back.” Ford stewed in his thoughts for a little more. He hated to admit, but Stan was right. With a little more money, they could be sailing straight to victory with a higher chance of your return. Ford let out a defeated sigh. “Fine, but I don’t want you to mess with my stuff, got it?” Stan beamed brightly. “I promise!” He broke that later on.
✶ Gradually, the scary shed in the woods turned into a tourist spot people would frequent. Together, they advertised the shack by plastering various signs and posters all over the woods. They even went as far to tape advertisements onto people’s windows. Ford wanted to use actual beasts he had found in the woods to show to people, but in the end they all ran away, horrified for their lives. Ford was respectfully peeved because when he’d glance over to Stan, he had somehow had the crowd hanging on to every word that spilled out of his mouth. And when he’d show the crudely sewed animal he had made within five minutes before the tour started, they all gasped in delight, their money flying to him. “How do you do it?” Ford asks as Stan closes the door, reveling in the pool of money he had made. “I just say whatever comes to mind.” Stan shrugs. “But none of your stories make any sense logically! How did they believe in a half beaver half bat?” He gestures to the taxidermy animal. The beady eyes were slowly sliding off its face, leaving a trail of glue. “Hey, the people love to spend their money on things that are obviously fake, weirdly enough.” The door rattles with a knock. “Wanna take this next crowd? I gotta sort this money.” Against his will, not really, Ford opens the door and flashes an award winning smile he had learned from Stan. Cash was already being shoved in his face. At least he earns money for looking good. Ford attempted Stan’s whole shtick and to his very surprise it worked! It wasn’t as good as Stan’s performance, but it worked well enough that people were swarming him with cash. His bitterness from before was quickly washed over and he continued on his act. When the crowd dispersed, satisfied with their tour. Stan was there in the middle, clapping widely. “That was some good acting there, Ford!” Ford smiled, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah. I’m only doing this cause we need the money.”
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Harana | Jungkook
harana (n.): the act of wooing someone by serenading them
→ summary:
Unwilling to settle down with you after five years of dating, Jeon Jungkook decides to break up to chase after his dreams. In the aftermath, you leave your hometown, desperate to forget your past and relearn what it means to be on your own. Two years later while on your way to work, you pass by a familiar voice singing songs about a girl he had left behind.
{or alternatively: Jungkook still sings the love songs that he wrote for you. He still means them, too.}
→ genre: busker!au, exes to lovers, angst, humor → warnings: jimin is insane and kinda crude (he has some issues going on), jungkook is a pathetic wet bunny but he's trying his best, oc has So Many Problems, so much arguing and yearning, ambiguous ending??? but my god there is hope!! the humanity of it all!! → words: 16.1K → a/n: HOLY SHIT IM BACK (kinda) and happy new year!! yeah ok its march but im relearning how to form coherent sentences so be patient ;w; this is the first installment of my hfoh series that i teased a LONG time ago... i made it a resolution to complete this series by the end of the year before i kms (Keep Myself Safe) so here's to a brand new year :D (oh god @ universe pls be kind)
part of the “heart full of hugot” series
Two days before the incident, your shower nozzle decides to explode.
Okay, you have to admit that statement is a little misleading. Shower nozzles, in all its nonsentience, do not randomly decide to explode no matter how much you try to defend yourself to your landlord. Maybe your grip had been a little too harsh that morning, or maybe hanging 5 pounds of hair products on the handle had been a bit too much for the old sport to handle. Or maybe, just maybe, the universe was warning you about the incident.
Whatever it was, it doesn’t erase the fact that your shower would be out of commission for the next week or so (though your landlord seems adamant about prolonging your suffering as long as possible). Until then, you’re going to have to find some other ways to keep the grease and grime from building on you. Heavens know that you already have a thriving ecosystem living in the back of your couch—you don’t need another one growing under your armpits.
Lucky for you, you have friends. More importantly, you have friends who have showers. There is one problem though—all your friends live on the other side of the country.
It’s been two years since you moved to the Big City™️, but you have done little to grow your social network. Call it introversion or depression, either way, you have no more contacts on your phone than you did when you left your hometown. Well, except for one person, if you could even consider him one. Frankly, you didn’t have a choice.
“Welcome to my humble abode, stinky,” Jimin greets you as you enter his house. Your nose is instantly assaulted by the smell of Bath & Body Works® Sweet Pea, reminding you once more why you didn’t consider him a friend.
“Hey,” you reply gruffly, shucking your ratty shoes near his entrance. Your shoes look incredibly out of place amidst the sea of designer Chelsea boots and a singular pair of thigh-high heels. You take a glance at his living room, already feeling worse about yourself tenfold.
You had met Park Jimin by complete accident, much like how his mother probably felt when she first saw him too. You had never known anyone quite as… interesting as him, to put it lightly.
When you got your job as a hostess for a luxury bar and restaurant, you figured you wouldn’t make many friends with your coworkers. Everyone was so… pretty, but in the shiny, untouchable sort of way. Almost all of the servers were as gorgeous as the models you’d see in magazines. You hadn’t known that the owners only hired a certain “demographic” of people for their restaurant, and you were equal parts flattered and disgusted that you’d somehow made it (though you suppose your bullshitting skills were all to thank).
Unsurprisingly, even the bartenders were gorgeous, including one Park Jimin. He did have an aura to him that screamed “I’m a cut above the rest and I know it,” but that could just be the gold chains dripping down his neck. You almost mistook him as one of the patrons who mistakenly made his way behind the bar, and knowing the sort of clientele you’ve had to deal with so far, you wouldn’t have been surprised. It took a couple of weeks before you finally found out who he was (and what his fucking problem was).
Jimin was a part-time bartender with a full-time job as a bitch a self-made entrepreneur. Which is to say, he sold… tasteful photos of himself on the internet. You had nothing against his line of work. In fact, you would go far as to say you didn’t give a shit what he did outside of your shared workspace. But if there’s one thing Jimin is, it’s that he hates being ignored.
So when you were adamant about not oohing and aahing at everything that makes Park Jimin perfect, he made it his self-appointed mission to befriend you. Or at least that’s what he claims, but given how he treats you lesser than the shit that cakes his cheeks, you have a lot of doubts. Perhaps he’s never made an effort to make a friend, hence his inexperience with being a decent human being. Or perhaps he’s just an asshole, but who is to say? The point is: he’s the only person you knew in this godforsaken city who would likely allow you to use his shower without being awkward about it and that’s that.
The worst part about being an acquaintance with Park Jimin was that he lived in the richest area of Downtown but he wasn’t old money, that’s for sure. His entire essence screamed overconsumption, and his myriad of little trinkets littered across his apartment confirmed your previous assessment. You wouldn’t be surprised if you opened his freezer and found ten types of ice sorted assorted by color and shape like the extra bitch that he was.
He made his money through sheer force, and it would have impressed you if he wasn’t, you know. Him.
“Bathroom is over there. I placed a towel and other shower amenities that you can borrow,” he says pointing to a door with a large “FART ZONE: ENTER WITH CAUTION” sign taped to it. You don’t ask.
“Thanks,” you say flatly. You wait patiently for his out-of-pocket comment.
Like clockwork, Jimin smirks. “Sure thing. I gave you the super heavy-duty stuff. Figured you’d burn a hole through my expensive towels with how stinky you are, with your yeasty cu—”
“Aaaand I’ll be done in a few minutes. Thanks again Jimin,” you interrupt, making your way to the bathroom and slamming the door with as much force as you can muster. You hear something fall as the door shuts, and you vaguely hear Jimin mutter something about his “fart zone” signage.
You begin to prepare your shower routine, humming lowly as you go about your business. You try to ignore the suffocating scent of ten million diffusers entering your nostrils, wondering for the umpteenth time if Jimin is suffering from long-term olfactory dysfunction.
“Focus, Y/N. The quicker you shower, the quicker you can get the fuck out of here,” you whisper to yourself. However, in your haste, you knock over Jimin’s towel by accident. When the towel falls, a sheet of sandpaper slips out from underneath it, and you stare bemusedly until it finally hits you.
“YOU ARE SUCH A LITTLE BITCH!”
From behind the door, you can hear Jimin’s infamous cackle. “Did you find the loofah? I got it just for you, darling!” he shouts back through his laughter, and you just grumble back in response. How on earth no one has strangled him to death, you have no idea.
“Whatever. I’m gonna shower now! Go beat off or whatever the fuck you do in your spare time,” you grouse, stripping as quickly as possible.
When the first droplets of water hit your body, you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. You had both anticipated and dreaded going to Jimin’s house, but you desperately needed the shower. So you go through your routine, trying to find some semblance of relaxation throughout the process. However, it seems that Jimin was yearning for a little bit of attention as he chose to recline on the other side of the door and chat your ear off. Peace was never an option, it seems.
“Hey, Y/N! So why haven’t I seen you at work recently?” Jimin hollers from his living room. Despite the wall separating you, his voice manages to retain its volume.
You squirt a large glob of Jimin’s (expensive) conditioner onto your hands. “What do you mean? I go to work every day. You were the one who hasn’t been clocking in.”
You can hear Jimin scoff. “Um, correction! I went to work last Friday, which so happened to be your day off. If I didn’t know any better, I would have assumed you were avoiding me.”
And right you are, you think. But instead, you say, “Yeah, what a coincidence. I’ll be back to my regular schedule on Monday, though.”
“So that means you didn’t see the Justin Bieber wannabe stationed outside the restaurant then?” Jimin asks, voice miffed. “The guy suddenly sat down by the entrance window and a whole damn crowd started to appear! The absolute nerve of these people—don’t they know Park Jimin was just past the doors?”
This provokes Jimin to go on his long epic soliloquy, which you’ve learned to drown out over the past two years. He could go on hour-long tirades if he wanted, and any interruption from you would just bounce off his nonfunctioning ears. And so, you allow his voice to fall to the back of your mind, similar to white noise if it wasn’t so grating.
However, this was likely your greatest mistake. If you hadn’t been so exhausted, or if Park Jimin hadn’t been so damn annoying all the time, or if the stars had aligned just right… Maybe you would have been forewarned about the incident. It’s as if the universe was screaming at you to pay attention, but alas… You were standing on the proverbial highway, unbeknownst to the incoming traffic because you had your metaphorical AirPods on.
So there you are, completely showered but none the wiser to your impending doom, naively looking to the future with unsuspecting eyes. Even if you had known of what was to come, would avoiding it even be possible? In hindsight, you suppose not, but you still kick yourself for being so blind. If only you’d steeled your heart, then maybe you wouldn’t have felt like vomiting in front of a crowd of innocent bystanders the very next day.
xxx
Monday comes and your shower still isn’t fixed. Jimin makes the benevolent gesture of allowing you to use his shower in the meantime, though you’ll only partake in his offer as minimally as possible. He does mention that he’ll need at least an hour’s notice, warning you about “accidental voyeurism.” You shudder to think of what sort of horror you might find if you did visit him without warning, and you pray for the continued well-being of your retinas.
On your way to work, you’re too busy watching cute videos of animals to notice the unusual flock of people idling close to your workplace. When you get closer, however, the growing commotion is enough to rip your gaze away from your phone, and the sight of the large crowd makes you stop in your tracks.
It is 4 pm and the usual line of waiting patrons should not start piling up for another three hours, so this confuses you more than anything. You shuffle closer, squinting at the crowd until you notice that they aren’t lined up at all; instead, they have congregated into a large circle, but you are too far to see what they are surrounding.
An accident? You worry, wondering if something terrible happened. You tiptoe above the heads of people, subtly moving forward to take a better look. Curse you and your curiosity. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself to see something grotesque or astonishing, but instead…
It’s worse.
Inching closer, you can begin to hear a soft thrumming of a guitar and a gentle singing voice that causes alarm bells to ring in your ears. The warm melody digs up old memories of a time long past: of ballads sung outside your childhood bedroom window, of promises whispered under Spiderman sheets, of tender caresses tucking stray hairs behind your ears… They flood your senses, but all you can feel is dread.
It can’t be who you think it is. You accidentally elbow a guy on your way to get closer, unsteadying his grip on his phone.
“Hey, watch it! I’m filming a totally not-staged TikTok over here!” He yells, but you can hardly pay attention to him when you feel unnaturally drawn to come closer, still.
You’re nearly at the front, with just a couple of teenagers standing between you and the (not-so) mysterious street performer. But the distance is enough, and your breath catches. You can see him—
Black hair partially hidden under a bucket hat. Boots bigger than Pangaea and a pair of eyes equally as large. Dark ink snaking down his arms, peeking out from under oversized sleeves. Piercings that could rival Park Jimin on a good day. He isn’t facing you, but you can still see his big doe eyes, gentle sloping nose, and pretty lips stretched into a handsome smile.
Your heart is thundering in your chest. This can’t be happening, you panic. After two whole years of rebuilding and reshaping yourself, relearning how to be yourself and not… not just his girlfriend.
Jeon Jungkook stands before you, busking in front of your workplace of all locations. The universe could not have been any crueler to you.
You—you had been known as nothing more than Jeon Jungkook’s high school sweetheart. Buried memories of snide comments from jealous teen girls fill your mind, reminding you of the time when you were coined a simple side piece to the main attraction. Decor, as they would call you. Nothing more than a girl who happened to snag Jungkook before people realized he was going to turn… hot. A hot guy who could sing. An inevitable chic magnet, as they would call him.
And now, years later after much therapy and soul searching, your worst nightmare is standing in front of you in the flesh. This is what you will eventually dub the incident.
At that moment, however, there is little to no time to dwell on naming this ongoing core memory. All you can feel is the adrenaline pumping through your veins, as well as the nausea rising up your throat. You stumble backward, blatantly shoving onlookers away as you struggle to find some air to breathe. In hindsight, you probably should have backed away as subtly as possible, but you hope that your dyed hair might be different enough that Jungkook wouldn’t know it was you if he had glanced your way.
Even when you stagger towards your work establishment, the walls cannot perfectly muffle his soothing singing. You can’t make out the lyrics to his song too well, but his unmistakable voice is hard to ignore. Working as a hostess, your station is also coincidentally as close to the door as possible for maximum torture.
This can’t get any worse, you think as your mind races with conflicting emotions. You thought you had moved on, thought you were past the pain and the memories, but seeing Jungkook again, unexpectedly, stirs up a storm of feelings you thought were buried deep. Anger, hurt, betrayal—all rush to the surface, threatening to overwhelm you.
But there is no time to unpack all that baggage right now. Time will continue to march on, and your job is still on the line. How can you have the time to have a mental breakdown when you were still living paycheck to paycheck?
But even as you try to push Jungkook out of your mind, his voice echoes in your ears, his image burned into your memory. It's as if the universe is laughing at your misery, reminding you that despite all your supposed growth, you are still just you.
Painfully and pathetically you.
As you struggle to pull yourself together, a familiarly loud voice rings outside the edge of your consciousness. “Hey, Y/N! Fancy seeing you here…” Jimin greets you, his usual jovial demeanor halting midway when he sees your panicked expression. He clears his throat, perplexed. “Umm… Are you alright there, girl? You’re looking a little pale.”
You do not even have the mental capacity to wonder why Park Jimin was miraculously early to his shift, nor why he seems genuinely worried for you. Rather, all you can do is wave him off and use what little time you have before the restaurant opens to steel yourself for hours of melodious torture.
“I’m fine, Park. You should get to work,” you grit out, wiping your sweaty palms on your uniform. Normally, Jimin would have teased you about the obvious wrinkles on your skirt.
“You’re not the boss of me,” Jimin huffs, always the contrarian. He thinks better of it, however, and softens his tone. “Are you feeling sick or something? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
You freeze, perhaps giving yourself away a little. “I’m fine,” you repeat.
“You know, if you refuse to elaborate, I’m going to have to retract your shower privileges,” Jimin taunts with a smirk.
You feel a migraine growing by your temple, making you wince. God, why must men be the source of all your problems?
“I’m just… a little annoyed by the busker outside the restaurant,” you eventually admit, trying to be vague. Unfortunately for you, Jimin hates beating around the bush and would never take your crap if he knows something is up.
Unable to withstand the weight of his unimpressed stare, you clarify, “He was someone I used to know, that’s all.” You aren’t going to be any more specific than that, though you imagine Jimin gets the picture. You zip your lips, hoping to whoever is causing you pain that Jimin would somehow let the matter drop and leave you to your misery.
You brace yourself for his onslaught of questioning to come, and… it doesn’t happen. Instead, when you glance at Jimin, he is mysteriously stone faced. You wait for him to speak for what feels like a few minutes, but he doesn’t show any signs of wanting to tease or ridicule you. He simply watches you with a pensive expression. You can barely stop yourself from staring back at him, slack-jawed at his silence.
Of course, you aren’t just going to question your luck, or what little you have at least. So, you stay silent back and fidget uncomfortably.
Finally, Jimin seems to snap out of his strange reverie. He fixes you with a bizarrely sympathetic grin, patting you affectionately on the back. “I see… Well, if you ever need a drink tonight, head over to the bar for a little sip. I got you covered,” is all he says in response before sashaying away.
That was so fucking weird. You want to chase after him, perhaps beat the truth out of him. Jimin is nothing but a scheming dick, and you aren’t about to let him roam free with such sensitive information about yourself. Just as you’re about to stomp his ass (perhaps to relieve some of the building tension from your weary soul), your manager pops his head from his office door.
“Y/N! Make sure you’re logged into the booking system. There’s going to be a party of 20 coming in about an hour,” he reminds you, shooting you an apologetic look. You nod back with a sigh, swiping the booking tablet from the hostess desk and scrolling through the logs. Sure enough, it is going to be a busy night despite being a Monday evening. Perhaps a little busier than usual, in fact.
Whatever. You will use whatever distraction you can get, and perhaps the approaching noise from the restaurant patrons will be enough to drown out the sound of his voice.
You aren’t religious by any means, but you pray to whatever higher power exists that Jeon Jungkook doesn’t somehow decide to enter the restaurant. Stay outside, you plead. Outside the restaurant and your life, if possible.
Throughout the evening, you do your best to push aside the memories that threaten to resurface. You greet customers with a smile, lead them to their tables, and ensure their dining experience is pleasant despite the anxiety poisoning your insides. It's a routine you've perfected over time, a shield against the chaos of your emotions.
As the night wears on, you can feel Jimin's eyes on you from across the restaurant. You sneak glances back at him, and you blanch at his pitying gaze. If the restaurant had been slightly less crowded, you would have flipped him off.
He’s probably enjoying my suffering, you think darkly. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, you straighten up and do your best to appear more unaffected. Just as you do so, you can hear Jungkook perfectly hitting a soulful high note.
“I’m so sorry for thinking I was strong,” you whisper to the universe. “Forgive me for my insolence.” You clench your fist in anguish, ignoring the confused looks from the customers in front of you.
By the time your shift comes to a close, you are completely and utterly drained. You feel like a snail that has been continuously salted over the past eight hours, and you cannot help but cheer in relief when the clock finally strikes two in the morning. You have to wait for the last few diners to make their leave, but otherwise you are ready to let your bed swallow you whole.
You stand by your hostess desk, leaning your head against it with a defeated sigh. Jungkook’s voice had died down only a few minutes ago, and you hope that by this point he has mercifully left the premises. You want to take a peek to make sure, but just as you’re about to make your way to the door, you feel a hand on your shoulder stop you in your tracks.
“‘Sup, bitch.” Jimin still has that weird, pitying gaze pointed at you, though his words don’t match it. “Are you okay to go home alone tonight? I can bring your dumb ass home if you want.”
You shove his hand away, ready to bite his head off when you think better of it. If Jimin drives you home, then that lowers the chances of seeing Jungkook down to pretty much zero.
“You know what? Thanks,” you grouse. Jimin smiles at you winningly, and the image of it brings a shiver down your spine. You hit him, creeped out. “Hey. Stop that, will you? You’re being really weird?”
Jimin scoffs, crossing his arms. “Me? Weird? At least I don’t look like a damn firework ready to explode just because my cringelord ex-boyfriend is singing sappy love songs outside—”
“Shut the fuck up,” you seethe, stomping on his foot. He yelps in pain and slaps your shoulder in retaliation.
“Ouch! Watch your ogre feet! My shoes are worth twice your monthly rent I’ll have you know,” he bristles. He breathes deeply, likely finding his inner calm (which you doubt exists). “But because I’m so nice, I’ll ignore your earlier transgression and blame it on your underdeveloped amygdala.”
You don’t know what’s more surprising: the fact that Jimin knew what an amygdala was or that he was forgiving you in the first place. “Whatever. Let’s finish closing up and then head out. I’m exhausted.”
You make quick work of your task and when you’re ready to head out, Jimin is already waiting by the backdoor. He’s twirling his car keys with a finger and gestures for you to follow him. As you make your way to his car in the back parking lot, you catch sight of a lone figure standing next to a beat-up pickup truck. He’s leaning against it, his hands busy tuning a battered guitar.
Your breath hitches, and you immediately feel nauseous. Of course the incident has yet to end. The night is young, after all.
Jimin accidentally slams the backdoor closed, and the noise wrenches Jungkook’s attention away from his ministrations. Immediately, his eyes lock with Jimin before finally turning to you.
Your heart skips a beat as he gazes at you, your mind racing with a hurricane of emotions. You hadn’t expected to see him again so soon, especially not after the tumultuous encounter earlier in the day. What did you say earlier? That “the chances of seeing Jungkook was down to pretty much zero”?
The chances of seeing Jungkook is low, but never zero, your mind unhelpfully supplies.
There is a long period of awkward silence. Jungkook has his mouth slightly agape, his hand subconsciously lowering his guitar to rest against his truck. To your left, Jimin’s breathing quickens slightly. You, on the other hand, are trying your best not to projectile vomit in this damned parking lot.
Jungkook is the one who decides to break the delicate silence. “Is that you…?” he calls out hesitantly.
Don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my—
“Y/N,” Jimin interjects. His gaze is steel cold, uncharacteristic of the carefree boy. He slings an arm around your shoulders, gently nudging you towards his car. With your view still fixed on Jungkook, you miss the way Jimin shoots the other boy with a playful smirk. “C’mon, babe. Let’s go home.”
His words startle both you and Jungkook. “Wha—? Jimin?” you splutter, flushing at his flirtatious undertone. You want to curse him out for his strange behavior, but all the shock has left you mute.
Jimin all but shoves you into the passenger seat. But just as he’s about to slam the car door, you hear Jungkook call out your name. It’s fleeting and quiet, but you heard him crystal clear.
It breaks your spirit to hear him say your name. For a moment, you feel as though you are floating.
When was the last time he called your name? And so softly, too? If you could replay that moment over and over, would you be able to catch some signs of tenderness in his voice? When you close your eyes later that night, would your dreams show you that he had been gazing at you with yearning? Was any of it true?
As Jimin starts the car and pulls away from the curb, you steal one last glance out the window, only to find Jungkook staring at you with an arm outstretched. You continue to watch him until his figure disappears into the night.
You are quietly immersed in your own thoughts, the whirlwind of emotions intensifying your persistent migraine. Unaccustomed to silence, Jimin decides to give his unsolicited two cents, as per usual.
“Geez. Didn’t know you were into the whole starving artist type. If I’d known, then maybe I’d stop trying to brag about my fortune to you,” Jimin scoffs. “If loser buskers like him impress you, then maybe I should—”
“Would you shut the fuck up for once in your fucking life!” You explode, whirling to face him with a glare. Jimin has the audacity to flinch, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the road.
“What the fuck? Why the hell are you mad at me?”
“What the hell was that back there? ‘C’mon babe.’” You mimic his voice with a sneer. “Why on earth would you do that? Now he thinks that we…”
“Why do you care what he thinks? He’s your ex, remember?” Jimin cuts you off, but you can’t even refute him. He continues, “Figured as much. And judging by how spooked you’ve looked all day, I have to assume that he was an asshole, right? Why else would you accept my offer for a ride home if you really wanted to avoid seeing him?”
You shrink under his accurate assumptions. Damn, were you really that easy to read? “I… I mean, yeah but…” You clear your throat, still feeling wronged by him. “You didn’t have to act like a weird prick in front of him!”
Without warning, the floodgates burst forth. You begin to ramble, the thoughts that have been weighing you down pouring out of you in waves. “Jungkook was my ex, yeah. But he wasn’t an asshole. On the contrary, he was really sweet. The nicest guy in my school, at least. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, that sort of person. I dated him all throughout high school and he was a great partner.”
Jimin hums skeptically. “Then why the messy break-up?”
“It wasn’t messy!” You retort defensively.
“Could’ve fooled me!” Jimin snorts. “I also frequently act like a trembling kitten when I see my exes,” he says sarcastically.
You ignore him. “The reason we broke it off was because he wanted to pursue his dreams to become a singer after high school and I wanted to do other things. It was a mutual break-up! Honestly, I’m glad that we did. Too many girls wanted him and all the unwanted attention was getting on my nerves. I was glad to find a reason to end it all,” you explain, hoping you didn’t sound as shaky as you felt. What you said was mostly true, though you left out the important bits to yourself. Mostly to save some of your dignity intact. (Truthfully, you just didn’t want to admit things you weren’t ready to face.)
“Then if you’re so glad, why do you look like you wanted to shit yourself? It ain’t adding up,” Jimin fires back.
“It’s just—” you stammer, trying to find a reason why you were so bent out of shape after seeing him. “I-I was caught off guard, I guess. I knew he was pursuing his dreams to sing and all, so I expected him to leave the country. I wasn’t expecting to see him outside where I work, of all places,” you mutter lamely. You have your head bowed, biting your lips from the nerves. Again, you weren’t totally lying.
Jimin is silent for a moment, contemplating your admission. When he looks so calm like this, it’s hard to get a read on what he’s thinking. As Jimin speeds down the highway, the street lights illuminate his face in a strange way, and for once, he looks like a stranger. His steely expression makes you nervous, for some reason.
Eventually, he asks you a question you would never have expected. “And he just let you go?”
You pause. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” Jimin huffs, irritated. “He just up and left without a fight? If I were him, I would have…” he trails off, his jaw clenching.
You don’t know where this Jimin came from. Under the moonlight, Jimin looks livid, but that can’t be right. Jimin, mad for you? Sure, you’ve seen his anger directed towards you, but this? Everything’s gotten so complicated, and you are just about ready to succumb to sleep and hope to wake from this nightmare.
The rest of the drive to your house is silent, save for the sounds coming from passing cars. Jimin pulls up to your apartment complex, his mysterious anger finally subsiding.
Just as you’re about to reach for the car door handle, Jimin places a hand on your shoulder. “Listen, Y/N. I’ll talk to management tomorrow morning. I know the manager well enough that I can probably convince him to do something about that ex of yours. He’s busking on private property, so it should be easy to get rid of him,” Jimin says, tone serious. He swallows, and for a moment you think he looks a little nervous. “If that’s what you want, I guess.”
His kindness scares you. You want to tease him, ask him where Mr. Bitchy and his $2000 Chelsea boots had gone. Anything to make this air of severe sincerity to abate. This new Jimin feels suffocating. But instead, you nod your head stiffly.
Jimin makes a pained expression for a moment, but it’s quickly replaced by his usual playful smirk. He slaps you upside the head, laughing heartily at your stunned face.
“Get some rest, babe. I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” he chuckles, reaching over to open the door for you. You scramble out into the cold city air, taking one last look back at him through his window.
He rolls it down, leaning forward to flash a toothy grin at you. “Hey, stop with all the angst, pookie. Wouldn’t want my favorite toy to get sick from overthinking. Who else would I bother at work if not you?”
You snort, both endeared and irritated in equal measure. He’s right. Everything was going back to normal tomorrow, you’re sure of it. You flip him off with a cheeky grin before making your way to your apartment.
Everything is going to be okay. Jimin says he’ll do something about it, and for whatever reason, you feel like you can trust him on this. Surely good fortune was soon to be upon you.
xxx
Jimin had texted you while you were still sleeping:
Spoke to Manager Jeong about your little problem. He said he’ll deal with him.
You breathe a sigh of relief, your body feeling significantly lighter. Your sleep last night had been tumultuous and restless. You feel more tired than you did when you went to bed, but all your weariness fades once you read Jimin’s text.
Once you make it to work, you find that management has gotten rid of Jungkook somehow. Added with the fact that your landlord has promised to look into repairing your shower (no guarantees, but you want to stay optimistic), today has been significantly better compared to yesterday. You even catch yourself humming as you set up your workstation, a small smile gracing your lips.
Jimin has a later shift this evening, and you find that you are somewhat disappointed for once. Your overwhelming gratitude is surely the only reason, otherwise you would never admit to wanting to see him at any given time.
You are in the midst of texting Jimin about all the good news when your manager passes by your desk. You are quick to pocket your phone away from his prying eyes, ready to defend that you aren’t slacking off… but his demeanor does not reveal any ire. In fact, he looks rather pleased for once.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Jeong. What’s up?” you ask, suspicious. You instinctively fold your hands behind your back; it is a subconscious effort on your part to keep your distance from him. Something about your manager always gives you a bad feeling when he looks a little too happy.
He grins widely. “Everything is going splendidly, Ms. Y/N. In fact, I think today might just be our lucky day!”
Never during your time working here has his and your luck ever coincided. “Our lucky day?” you echo.
“Why, yes! I spoke with your lovely friend and coworker Jimin this morning,” he starts, and immediately your alarm bells ring. You don’t even bother correcting him about the ‘friend’ part like you normally would. He continues, “He gave me a brilliant idea about the busker who had been performing in front of the restaurant the past two days.”
You nod slowly, not quite understanding. “Yes… The busker has been quite… the spectacle,” you say carefully. Somehow, you know calling Jungkook a ‘nuisance’ would have been the wrong choice in this instance.
Manager Jeong beams. “Exactly! You must have noticed the amount of people we served yesterday despite being a Monday. Additionally, almost all of those new customers requested outdoor seating no less!”
You feel the world tilt on its axis. What is he on abou—?
“What are you talking about?” you exhale.
“Don’t you think it would be even better for business if we got that busker to perform inside the restaurant? Why, it’s a brilliant idea and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it first! Our live band has always been missing something special, and perhaps a vocal accompaniment is the exact answer to our problem! Think about it, the atmosphere would be…”
Manager Jeong continues to prattle animatedly about his plans to your unhearing ears. There must be static or cotton plugging your head because you cannot possibly understand anything he is saying. Jungkook? Inside? Performing at your restaurant? But Jimin said he had spoken to the manager about getting Jungkook away from you! None of this makes sense.
“That makes no sense,” you verbalize, unknowingly cutting Manager Jeong from his monologue. He halts in surprise, as if now just realizing you were standing there (much less capable of interrupting or disagreeing with him). When he snaps out of it, you sense that familiarly sinister aura emerging from him in waves. You belatedly realize he must have mistaken your outburst as antagonistic.
“Well, Ms. Y/N. Whether it makes sense or not, we have hired Mr. Jeon to perform live at the bar stage for the next four weeknights. If, for some unknowable reason, I am incorrect,” he pauses to emphasize his words, “then his services will be promptly terminated. However, judging by his popularity from simply standing out in the cold and singing silly love songs, I am sure that worry is unwarranted.”
Behind you, the telltale sound of the main door swinging open catches you even more off guard. You do not even have the chance to turn to face the newcomer, only managing to register the gust of cold wind that accompanies their entry.
And so, you hear him before you see him.
“Hello?” Jeon Jungkook greets quietly.
Even without turning, you can imagine how he looks, how he stands, how he feels, how he tastes—
Manager Jeong claps his hands gleefully. “Splendid timing! Speak of the devil…” The older man nearly skips towards Jungkook like a youthful school girl, accompanied by his uncharacteristic squeals of excitement.
You can feel his gaze on you, almost tangibly. With nothing but your shreds of dignity left intact, you force yourself to face him.
He’s still so tall, is all your mind can helpfully supply as you stand feet away from your high school sweetheart for the first time in two years. He’s still wearing the same bucket hat from the night before, semi-shielding him from view. Despite that, you catch a small flash of white graze his bottom lip as he chews the soft flesh nervously.
“Hi, Y/N.” He addresses you directly, completely overlooking your manager without a single glance. Despite his hat, he still has his eyes lasered on you, as if not quite believing you were there. You hate how his attention makes you shiver all the same.
Even though he ignored your manager (which would have been a major dispute had you done the same), Jungkook still receives a friendly handshake in return. “Mr. Jeon! I’m surprised you know Ms. Y/N, though I’m sure you must have spoken with her when she was escorting guests to the outdoor seating the other day.”
You had actually gotten your co-hostess to seat all the outdoor seatings yesterday, but you weren’t going to mention that.
Manager Jeong claps him on the back, inadvertently causing Jungkook to stumble forward closer to you. He looks up at you then, eyes bugging out of their sockets like a rabbit caught in a bear trap. You stagger backwards in turn, barely concealing the anxiety on your face. Oh fucking hell.
Your manager is none the wiser, of course. “Well, this makes my job much easier! Since you’re both acquainted, I’ll let Y/N show you the ropes. The band doesn’t start their set until later in the evening, but you’re free to take a look at the stage and other parts of our facility in the meantime,” he says, chuffed. Meanwhile, Jungkook looks like he’s been shot by a freeze ray.
Then, your manager points a sharper gaze at you. “Ms. Y/N, treat our super star well. I know you won’t disappoint me.”
Fucking superstar… You can only nod in defeat. “Y-Yes, sir…” you whisper, clenching your uniform with your fists. It is the only way to keep them from shaking like a leaf. You watch as his figure disappears behind his office door, leaving you to fend for yourself. Powerless, you train your gaze to the floor, unwilling to meet Jungkook’s eyes.
But the nerves are taking control of your body, screaming at you to eject, eject, eject!
“Sorry, I have to go to the toilet,” you splutter quickly, almost tripping over yourself on the way to the restroom. You dimly wonder if Jungkook is going to think you’re leaving to throw up, but you can’t find any self-respect left to care. All you need is air and space to breathe—preferably away from him.
You slam open the stall, hardly checking to see if anyone else is around before locking the door shut. You sit on the toilet, plant your face between your knees, and scream.
Should you go home and use sickness as an excuse? But even if you did, you still had shifts every weeknight. You would have to see him eventually. You can pray all you want that Jungkook will be fired by the end of the week, but even your delusional mind can never fathom the idea that anyone would willingly want to send Jeon Jungkook away. Plus, you remember that the regular band that plays at the restaurant has been wanting to get a singer to accompany them for ages, and you know just how damn affable he can be. They are going to love him, and you hate him for that.
It is clear to you that there is no other option:
You pull out your phone to quickly open up Indeed on your browser, frantically hunting for any openings that might fit your measly qualifications. However, you have to pause in your search to deliberate. Wouldn’t it be better to move out of the country? You had been so naive to think that moving cities was enough distance between you and Jungkook—going across the ocean is the obvious answer. Should you start up your Duolingo lessons again and hope that you can somehow survive in a different continent with only a few dollars to your name?
You shut your phone in despair. Whether or not your plans of escape are feasible or not, in the short term, you are stuck with having to suck it up and just learn to ignore your ex-boyfriend’s presence. Surely you can force out a fake smile or two, especially with how much practice you’ve gotten after working with unbearably entitled customers.
Taking a step outside of the restroom stall, you head to the sink to splash some cold on your face. You stare at the mirror, confronted by a girl who looks two seconds away from having a Netflix Original-esque meltdown. You rake your fingers through your hair, doing your best to look like you aren’t about to rush into incoming traffic. To no one's surprise, it doesn't work.
“Okay, I got this. Just pretend like he’s just some guy, because at the end of the day, he is just some guy,” you mutter to your reflection. She looks back at you unconvinced. “He may have broken my heart into little bite size pieces, but who cares! HE’S JUST A GUY!” You repeat the phrase over and over again like a lunatic, in a desperate attempt to cognitively alter your brain chemistry.
At that moment, one of the other stalls in the restroom creaks open, and a girl you recognize who works as one of the dishwashers walks out. You both have a silent eye conversation as she quietly studies your crazed expression and crumpled work uniform.
Eventually, she awkwardly clears her throat, pointing to the only sink in the restroom. “Uh, sorry to hear about your, uh, guy problem. Could I use the sink please?”
You hastily back away, allowing her to take your spot. You don’t even have the energy to apologize for your spectacle, just bowing sheepishly to her before making your way back to the main hall. If she rats you out to the rest of your coworkers, then that gives you another reason to move out of the country. Maybe you should consider a name change while you’re at it.
When you exit the restroom, you half expect Jungkook to be waiting for you by the door, but find that he isn’t anywhere nearby. He isn’t by your hostess station either, and you thank your lucky stars for once. Even if your manager had asked you to show him around, you’re sure that Jungkook can find his way around just fine. Plus, the stage is at the corner of the restaurant and is sufficiently far enough that you wouldn’t have to make eye contact with him if you were careful.
You don’t know which greater entity has been messing with your sanity these past few days, but you hope that they can show you mercy just once—a brief reprieve, if anything.
You clasp your hands in prayer. I’ll eat more vegetables, I’ll remember to floss, I’ll call my parents from time to time… Just please let me survive tonight.
“Remember, Y/N… He’s just some guy,” you reiterate through gritted teeth. If a passing coworker happens to overhear your demented chanting, then you pay them no mind.
You walk towards the entrance, flipping the sign to open. You feel like a video game character when you glance at the clock, which signals the start of your shift. You can imagine the red bold text hovering above your head: 8 more hours until freedom.
This is just like playing Five Nights at Freddy’s, except you’ve only watched the movie and you suspect your life is probably worse than whatever Josh Hutcherson had to survive through.
You take a couple heaving breaths to brace yourself for what will be the longest eight hours of your life. You’ll show Jungkook just how well-adjusted and mature you’ve become. You are a professional, and not even a boy with angelic vocals will make you crumble. After all, what’s the worst he can do?
xxx
He could, in fact, do a lot worse than you thought.
“I have many regrets being born at all,” you mutter bleakly, three hours into your shift.
Jungkook had started singing only an hour ago, so you had been filled with false confidence at first when the restaurant was filled with nothing but ambient chatter and soothing jazz music. You felt more and more confident as the minutes ticked by and your anxiety slowly melted away. You even forgot that he was somewhere in the back, likely warming up or whatever it is that singers did before a performance.
However, your brief moment of courage shatters almost immediately when Jungkook finally takes the stage.
At first, you did your best to tune out his voice, but it’s especially hard when whoever was in charge of the sound system decided to crank his volume to an excruciating level. You wanted desperately to grab some napkins and shove them in your ears, but you suspected that your customers (and manager) would be unappreciative of that gesture. And so there you lay, forced to wallow in Jungkook’s melodious singing like a criminal strapped to an electric chair.
But how much more pleasant an electric chair would be! Why on earth was Jungkook so adamant to sing sad love songs the entire time? Why couldn’t he be like his other singing contemporaries, who loved to write songs about getting bitches and making money? At the very least, even if he wasn’t quite a platinum selling artist just yet, surely he was constantly sharing beds with anyone he pleases? Couldn’t he sing about that?!
(In the back of your mind, you wonder if it would be less painful to learn that Jungkook has slept with multiple people… Because then, it would mean that he had moved on while you stood alone on your island, stranded and yearning.)
You didn’t want to think too deeply about his lyrics. However, you're only human. So when your mind barrier failed and you caught snippets of his singing, you noticed a pattern. There was always a girl in his songs. She was omnipresent, and Jungkook was always pleading for her. Begging and aching and wanting. But most all… he was always repenting. In every song, he always whispered a pious apology.
You feared what would happen if you turned around in those moments of weakness. You were terrified of admitting something, of letting words spill that had been trapped in your throat for the better part of two years.
Lucky for you, salvation comes in the form of one Park Jimin. Though, can you even count him as your savior when he had also inadvertently caused your demise?
Jimin doesn’t even have a shift today, so you’re more than surprised when his bright blonde head stumbles through the restaurant doors. His expensive coat is askew and his signature designer shades are nowhere to be found. He is panic incarnate—an expression you have never seen on his face before.
“Holy fuck,” he greets, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. His profanity startles the elderly couple waiting to be seated, their glares menacingly sharp. To his credit, Jimin doesn’t even seem phased.
In lieu of an answer, you gesture vaguely behind you. You can imagine how dejected you must look. “Holy fuck indeed,” you sigh.
It takes a moment for Jimin to regain his bearings. He straightens up and pats down his coat, but his hair is still tousled by the wind. If not for the fact that he has a car, you might have thought he had run all the way here.
“I am so sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen,” he starts, genuinely remorseful. “I texted Manager Jeong this morning and he said he’d get your ex to leave, but I didn’t think he’d offer the damn bastard a job!”
“Mind your language, Park. I’m still at work,” you scold. You try your best to ignore the scrutinizing gaze of the elderly couple. You lower your voice. “And don’t apologize. I know you’re an asshole, but I doubt you’d actually prey on my downfall like this. I know you’re not into public humiliation.”
Jimin brightens slightly at your joke, but he still looks like a guilty puppy who'd been caught shitting on the carpet. “Yeah, well. I happen to enjoy tormenting you and I won’t let some upstart Charlie Puth wannabe ruin your life. That’s my job.”
You smile wryly at him. “Well, that’s too bad. Jungkook’s been singing for a few hours now and I’m pretty sure Manager Jeong is going to keep him long-term. He might have broken my heart, but damn does he have vocals. I'm sure you'll have plenty competition when it comes to 'who can make Y/N's life feel like hell.'”
Jimin doesn't smile back, but instead studies your face for a moment. Then:
“Do you think if I offer to suck Manager Jeong off, he’ll fire him?”
“What the fuck?” You nearly yell out in surprise, your jaw dropping to the floor. Judging by his serious scowl, you know he's actually considering it. By now, the elderly couple waiting to be seated have left the premises.
Jimin continues, unperturbed. “I know he secretly wants me, based on how his wife seems to have a personal vendetta against me. He definitely wants a taste of my bus—.”
“Stop, I get it!” You wave your hands to make him shut up, heat rising up your cheeks. “Never say that string of words to me ever again. You have just inflicted ten years of suffering onto my poor brain.”
“Hey, I’m just offering solutions here!” Jimin pouts.
You stare at him, unimpressed. “Save it. You tried solving my problems already, so let’s just accept the fact that there’s nothing else for me to do but to suck it up. It’s time for me to put on my big girl pants for a change.”
“I mean, I could do all the sucking instead, but you’re being a little bitch about it,” Jimin mumbles. He’s lucky you didn’t hear him this time, lest you give him something to really whine about.
“Anyway, I guess this is my life now. Nothing to do except hope that he never tries to interact with me or I can find another job,” you shrug.
Over your shoulder, Jimin fixes Jungkook with an icy glare that is cold enough to give you the shivers. For the first time that entire night, you hazard a glance back at the stage, finding that Jungkook is already looking back at you.
You whip your head back forward, perspiration forming down your back. For fuck’s sake, this guy.
“Well, let me know if he tries anything. I’ll beat that little freak into the floor if he tries so much as breathing the same air as you.” Jimin huffs, puffing up his chest with false bravado. You can’t help but laugh at his empty threat, knowing that Jungkook could probably bench press Jimin without breaking a sweat. Jimin's muscles are only for aesthetics, after all.
“Don’t worry, he hasn’t actually spoken to me actually. He can keep singing his sad little love songs, I really don’t mind,” you say, like a liar. Jimin snorts, wholly unconvinced.
“Well, if you need me, I’m heading to the bar to grab a drink so I can stare at your ex uncomfortably until he leaves. See you!” Jimin bids you farewell with a cheery grin as he skips a little too happily inside the restaurant.
Why'd you have to befriend the largest lunatic in the city? You massage your forehead with a groan, willing away your growing headache.
The rest of the night trickles away like molasses. Jungkook continues to sing his heart out, save for an hour intermission where he presumably takes a short break. In his absence, you hear Jimin guffaw loudly, his laughter too sharp to be considered happy. You faintly hear Jungkook shy stutters in response, and you momentarily consider running in to interrupt.
Why? Did you want to save Jungkook from Jimin’s unnecessary harassment? It’s not like Jimin is doing it out nowhere, he was just trying to be… a good friend?
You pause to ponder. As much as you hate to admit it, you know why you want to help Jungkook. But Jimin on the other hand? Why did he want to help you? Questions begin flowing through your head like a whirlwind, and your nausea increases. God, when was your next therapy appointment again?
You save those questions for another day. As you look at your watch, there are only thirty minutes left until two in the morning. You tap your foot impatiently, smiling curtly at departing customers as the restaurant slowly emptied. As they left, you overhear some of your regulars giggling amongst themselves, whispering about the cute new singer and his charming demeanor.
The last nail on your coffin has been hammered. Yeah, Jungkook isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
With the restaurant closing soon, it sounds like Jungkook is ready to end his set as well.
Throughout the night, Jungkook rarely made a point to speak. The only time he didn’t sing was when he quietly introduced the title of his next song and the band swiftly began the first opening notes. For his last song, however, Jungkook decided to give a little more backstory for his final song.
“Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for listening to me for the night,” Jungkook says with a soft voice, his tone awfully shy despite his powerful belting throughout the evening. The few customers left give him a warm round of applause, and you hear the familiar sound of his timid giggles spill from the restaurant speakers.
“This will be my final song for the night. Most of the songs I sang today were covers, but this one is an original. I…” He hesitates for a moment, and something pulls you to turn despite the alarm bells ringing in your ears. You face him, and just like earlier in the evening, he is already looking back at you.
This time, you don’t look away; he does. His eyes flit to the ceiling, and he licks his lips from nerves. “I… I wrote this song a long while ago. I’ve never sang it in public before and I never thought it would ever see the light of day. Until, well…”
He stops again. This time, he gestures to the guitarist in the band, silently asking to borrow it. With a guitar in hand, he smiles a little more confidently at the small crowd of people. He begins strumming the first few notes, and your heart stops. “I hope everyone had a pleasant evening. Get home safe and have a great rest of your week. My name is Jungkook, and this last song is called…”
Before he can sing the first line of his song, you make a break for it.
You slam the restaurant doors open, and the stinging cold air immediately pierces their fangs into your skin. Your coat is still inside, but you can’t bring yourself to reenter. You take a long breath, the chill barely registering in your mind with how loudly your heart is pounding in your ears.
Hearing the opening to that song was enough to bring you back in time, three years ago:
You are in his childhood bedroom, his walls littered with concert posters and his floor a mess with unfolded laundry and guitar picks. The afternoon sun is streaming through his windows, bathing him in gold. You have an exam the next day and he has cram school to go to, but you’ve both chucked your books somewhere on his desk, left forgotten.
He has his eyes closed, concentrated. You’re both on his small twin bed, squished together side by side and thighs touching. You have your head on his shoulder and he has his hands on his guitar. He strums a few chords experimentally and sings a melody that only the two of you know.
(Not anymore.)
“Are you writing a new song?” you ask, voice a little scratchy. Neither of you had spoken for the past few hours, just basking in the setting sun and Jungkook’s indistinct strumming. But now, his chords sound more sure, more certain of something.
“Yeah, I just thought of it,” he hums. He opens his eyes a smidge, a smitten smile on his lips. You mirror him.
“What’s it about this time?”
His brows furrow. “I’ve been trying to write about other stuff, you know? Namjoon-hyung tells me it’s important that songs have meaning and impact.” He pauses in his strumming, looking a little conflicted. “And I get what he means. Art is all about saying something, but… I can’t help that there’s only one thing I ever want to talk about. Is that so wrong?”
You chuckle, understanding what he means. You nudge your head against his cheek, grinning from ear to ear. The fluttering in your chest has become routine to you at this point, but he somehow always knows how to increase it tenfold. “God, you’re such a sweet talker. Really, Koo. There’s no need to serenade with love songs—I’m already yours.”
He looks back at you, brimming with tender affection. “I know,” he responds. Then, he takes a pen from his bedside table, and begins writing.
During those years of dating him, you always thought that If he was a waterfall, then you were a teaspoon. You desperately tried to be enough for him, but you’re barely able to fathom the depth of his devotion. Everything about him was excessive, and you could seldom understand how he managed to contain himself. He was born to share himself, to tear bits of his soul so that the world may understand him, love him. His songs were a testament that he was trying to do that, and you always felt so lucky to be able to receive him, wholly and fully.
How cruel was it that Jungkook uses that same song to rip open the barely healed scab on your heart, leaving you bare and stinging and raw all over again.
You have no idea how long you've stood there in the cold. It must have been barely a few minutes when Jimin finds his way to you. He wordlessly shrugs his coat off and places it on your shoulders, but you make no move to acknowledge him.
You hope your silence is enough for Jimin to infer that you are not in a conversational mood, but he’s nothing if not impatient. He forcibly pulls you to face him, his hands warm even through your clothing.
“Hey, you good? Did something happen?” He asks with barely concealed irritation, but it’s not directed at you. Still, you flinch at his scathing tone, shrinking in on yourself. In your daze, you vaguely notice his resemblance to an angry baby chick.
“It’s nothing. Go back inside, I’ll be right there,” you mumble lamely, weakly pushing him back towards the restaurant. Jimin does not budge, instead leveling you with a hard stare. This time, you’re sure his irritation is for you.
“You idiot, you literally ran out like someone was out to get you. Of course it’s not nothing,” he grouses.
You sigh tiredly, shaking your head at him. “We can talk later. It’s almost closing time and I just want to go home and sleep.”
Before Jimin can argue further, the door to the restaurant opens once more, but it isn’t a leaving customer.
“What the fuck? What are you doing out here?” Jimin all but shouts at Jungkook. He holds up an accusatory finger at him and uses his other hand to nudge you behind him as if to shield you.
Jungkook winces, instinctively stepping back. Despite being a few inches taller than Jimin, Jungkook’s timidness makes him look smaller. “I… I was just worried about her—”
“Don’t you have a song to finish in there? Talk about professional,” Jimin spits out. Jimin maneuvers you so that Jungkook can’t see you, but you manage to catch sight of how his gaze follows you unfailingly.
“I finished up my set. It’s closing time.” Jungkook responds coolly. He’s still a little quiet, but you can sense some of his natural composure rising to the surface. When he needs to be, Jungkook has been known to stand his ground—usually when it comes to matters involving you.
At this time of the night and after hours of mental torture, the last thing you need is to watch your two worst nightmares duke it out in front of your work establishment. You are beyond exhausted, and you hardly have the fortitude to withstand another minute of their voices ringing in your ears.
Your eyes well up with tears of frustration, causing the two boys to freeze up in panic. You don’t give them the chance to fuss over you; instead, you haphazardly wipe your cheeks before roughly pushing them back towards the restaurant.
“Get back to work, you idiots.” Your voice sounds warbled even to your own ears, but you push past your overwhelming emotions in favor of getting back inside to close up. Hell, you might even call in sick tomorrow, just so you can cry pathetically into your bowl of cereal in solitude.
“I’m not even on the clock today!” Jimin complains faintly, but you only push him harder.
When you all reenter, you walk back to your desk and pointedly ignore the two of them until they awkwardly float away from your orbit. Despite the distance they give you, their gazes are still fixed plainly on you and they feel like knives digging into your back.
Eventually, all the final customers of the day take their leave, and your remaining coworkers start dimming the lights and bidding their goodbyes. From the corner of your eye, you see Jungkook bowing respectfully to the band, who were giving him friendly pats on the back for a job well done. Jimin walks toward you, his car keys dangling from his left pinky.
“No thanks. I’ll take the bus home today,” you declare before he can offer a ride. Jimin opens his mouth like a goldfish, flapping his lips dumbly as he stares at you in shock. You have no idea why he’s so surprised, given how you’ve been making it obvious that you need some space.
He looks like he wants to argue again, but thinks better of it. A singular moment of restraint from Park Jimin, which is an act you once thought impossible. Maybe he does care about you more than you thought.
He stiffly nods at you, shoving his hands and keys into his pockets. He still has a frown on his face when he tells you to text him when you get home. You flip him off with a shaky smirk in response, a feeble attempt to bring some levity back to your now tense relationship. It works a little, and Jimin brightens up significantly. How simple-minded of him.
With a flippant wave, you leave work and head towards your bus stop. At this hour of the night, the streets are mostly dim, save for some street lamps and bars that stay open longer than your restaurant. There are always some people milling about, enough that you never feel too on edge about how late it is. Still, your bus stop is often empty, leaving you to mull over your thoughts in peace.
You are in the midst of jamming your earbuds into your ear when a presence makes itself known beside you.
Is it possible to go through the five stages of grief in under a second? You suppose not, but it’s hard to tell what sort of emotions swim through you when you come face to face with Jeon Jungkook again.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath. You pause the song playing on your phone to glare at him with as much venom as you can muster.
Jungkook holds up his hands in surrender, doe eyes wide like prey. “I-I’m heading home too! I’m not following you, I swear!”
You groan internally. Figures that you and Jungkook take the same bus home. But hold on— “Don’t you have a car? I remember you were parked near the restaurant the other night,” you note, squinting at him.
Jungkook looks sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah. That car was my hyung’s. He lets me borrow it sometimes, but he needed it tonight.”
“Sure…” You level him with a skeptical frown. You remember his hyung, but don’t recall him ever owning a car. You aren’t even sure that his Namjoon-hyung is allowed by the country to drive a car, much less own one.
He could be lying, but you don’t want to give him an excuse to continue any conversation. So, you busy yourself with your phone and keep your head bowed away from him.
When the bus arrives, Jungkook makes it a point to sit a few rows behind you. Thankfully, he has a better understanding of social cues than a certain Park that you know. He leaves you alone, but your entire body still feels like a rope pulled taut. You have to convince yourself not to look behind you, your morbid curiosity scratching your insides raw.
You are in the home stretch now, and it’ll only be a few more minutes before you get to your stop and make your way to your safe haven. Hell resumes the next day and the next, but at the very least you’ll have your home to yourself. No one could take that away from you.
Again, this is where you learn that tempting fate is never a good idea.
When you exit the bus at your stop, you can hear his footsteps following you. It’s hard not to notice, especially when his large and distracting boots make such a distinct racket that makes him so Jungkook.
You hasten your pace towards your apartment complex, your shoulders hunched and hands shoved into your coat pockets in an attempt to hinder the bile rising from your stomach. He had promised that he wasn’t following you, but that proclamation seems to be standing on feeble legs with how long he’s been on your tail now.
Your street is filled with rows of low-rise apartment buildings, so you hope that if anything happens, you can yell as loud as you can and alert some compassionate neighbor to come to your aid. (Not that you think he would ever physically harm you, but… You can’t say the same about your mental state.)
Your home is just two buildings away from where you are, but Jungkook still seems determined to follow you to the end. You all but skip the remaining feet to your apartment entrance, your breath coming out in puffs as you finally muster up the courage to face your supposed stalker and give him a piece of your mind.
“If this is some convoluted way for you to find out where I live, then you aren’t being very subtle about it,” you say, your chin held up high despite the growing urge to vomit pathetically in front of your ex-boyfriend. You have your hand rested on the doorknob, just a moment’s notice away from bolting into your house if the need for a quick getaway arises.
To your surprise, Jungkook wasn’t following you as closely as you expected. He had stopped trailing you about two buildings down, his own hand poised on the door with a look of genuine shock.
You both stand there, staring at each other as mutual understanding dawns on the two of you.
Everyday, the universe learns of more creative ways to be cruel.
“Oh…” Jungkook’s voice falters. He looks simultaneously frightened and amazed, as if he too finds this entire situation unbelievably harsh. He swallows thickly, looking at you and back to his door in quick succession. “Well… This is a strange coincidence,” he murmurs.
You want to believe that this was his entire fault, that Jungkook had somehow managed to track you down to haunt you for the rest of your days. You want to believe that he’s a crazed stalker who is willing to find where you work and live so that every hour of your wretched life is filled with nothing but reminders of what-could-have-beens. You just want someone to blame instead of just the cosmos—you want someone tangible to hate so that your suffering can be given some sort of identity. You want to give your mourning and hurt a name so that you can learn how to heal.
You want to believe all of that, but it’s hard to do so when Jungkook looks so incredibly uncomfortable, as if he’d rather melt into the shadows and never be seen again.
In all your memories, you have never seen Jungkook look so small.
You heave a big sigh, your fingers grasping the door knob so tightly that you half-expect it to be dented from the force. You linger for a moment, your mouth opening but nothing spills out.
What is there to say? What do you say to an ex-boyfriend that you haven’t seen in two years, who is suddenly so deeply entwined in your life once more? Do you tell him goodnight? Tell him to stay away? Tell him to come home with you?
Jungkook looks equally as conflicted. His lips are pursed tight with words left unsaid. You aren’t sure whether you want to punch the confession out of his mouth or seal them up forever. It feels like eons before he finally breaks the silence with a mirthless laugh.
“I… I just wanted to say—back at the restaurant. When I sang that last song,” Jungkook begins, and his voice feels loud because of how empty the streets are. For a moment, you are reminded of a cathedral you once visited during a vacation, how sacred silence can be. The world holds its breath, waiting for him to speak.
“I meant it all. Every word. Every lyric. I never stopped…”
He trails off, shrugging his shoulders. He stares at you helplessly, but you don’t know what to say. You don’t want to listen any more, but your feet are planted to the ground. You’re frozen like a deer in headlights, forced to brace against him as he crashes into you.
He continues, “And when we broke up back then… I never wanted that to happen. You broke it off before we could even try something—and I hated how I didn’t fight for you harder. I let you misunderstand me because I was afraid you wouldn’t want to stick around if I didn’t succeed. I convinced myself that I was holding you down, but I never gave you—us—a chance. I never stopped regretting it since.”
“Me? Break up with you?” You echo incredulously. That statement is enough to break you from your trance, the telltale signs of indignation rising up your chest. “How dare you suggest—Me? You were the one who broke up with me, asshole! You were the one who broke my heart and decided to up and leave to god knows where! Only to miraculously respawn right next to me, groveling at my feet with sad love songs as if that’s enough for me to forgive and forget? Fucking entitled bastard,” you seethe.
Somehow, Jungkook manages to shrink more, like a bunny with his tail tucked between his legs. “Yes, you’re right that I broke your heart but… When I told you I was moving away to try and become a singer, it was always with the intention of staying together. I know it would have been difficult, but I wanted you to be with me through thick and thin. But when you misunderstood and took it as a break up, I let you go because, well… I was scared that it would happen eventually. Who wants to date a broke busking fool anyway?”
He laughs, but it sounds watery. He sniffles, and you hope it's only because of the cold. “I tried looking for you, but you blocked me everywhere and no one from back home seemed to know where you went. So I just accepted that we’d never see each other again… Until a few days ago, that is.”
A misunderstanding? Is that what everything boils down to? Years of trying to build yourself back up again, relearning what it means to be happy—all the fallen domino pieces in your life trailing back to a single moment in time? All because Jungkook was scared that you didn't love him enough?
You’ve never felt angrier in your life. You fear what you might say if you continue to stand outside there, face to face with the singular person strong enough to whittle you down to the bone. Jeon Jungkook is all soft smiles and sweet songs, but how come he’s always able to knock you off your axis? Few people on this earth can stitch you up and break you down in equal measure, but somehow, Jungkook manages to do all that and more.
Then, comes the guilt. Had it been all your fault? That you hadn't returned his love in equal measure? Had you secretly given up on the hope of being on his level? Always looking down on yourself: unable to move past your insecurities. Were you terrified of being his side piece, his girlfriend, forever?
Who are you, even? And where do you stand?
(Beside him, is what you want to answer. You don't know if that's the right choice.)
You can’t bear to look at him, least of all answer him. Without another word, you shove your house key into the door before slamming it shut despite the late hour. If you awaken any neighbors, you’ll apologize later. For now, all you require is sleep and hope that this has been all a terrible nightmare.
xxx
Reality is a bitter pill to swallow.
Jeon Jungkook continues to sing at the restaurant, and after only two days of repeat stellar performances, your manager decides to promote him as the official vocalist for the band. It hurts to admit that you're not the least bit surprised; you might have a hard time looking at him, but you can never deny his talent.
His song list has added a larger variety of genres ever since his first performance. That is to say, he isn’t always singing about lost loves and tragic couples every night. Perhaps it is due to some requests from customers or his other bandmates, but it doesn’t stop him from sprinkling one or two love songs into the mix.
He doesn’t sing any original songs ever again. That, at least, is a small mercy. He doesn’t make any moves to speak with you either, despite the daily awkward trips back home after the end of your shifts. Whether that’s because he’s given up on you (again), or he’s waiting for you to make the first move, you don’t know. Frankly, you don’t think you have the energy (nor courage) to do anything about it.
It’s a few weeks after Jungkook’s first performance at the restaurant, and closing time is approaching. You appreciate Friday nights the most because it means you’ll have two consecutive days to relax and avoid your problems. It’s also the busiest night of the week, when white-collar workers decide to drink and eat for as long as the night allows them. Busier nights mean more distractions, and you’re willing to deal with twenty Karens over one Jungkook.
During nights like these, your manager occasionally asks you to fulfill some waitress duties when there aren’t enough hands on deck. Normally you’d hate it, but earning the extra tips is enough to keep your grumbling to a minimum To this day, your landlord has yet to do anything about your broken shower, and you’ve finally conceded to the fact that you’ll have to be the one to do something about it.
As you inform the customers in your area that the last call for orders is approaching, you sneak a glance at the bar to see Jimin dutifully performing his job. That is to say, he’s flirting up a storm, getting women and men alike to blush from head to toe as he serves their drinks with a salacious smirk.
What a swindler, you think to yourself, snorting when he makes eye contact with you. He gives you a cheeky salute, mouthing something as he gestures to the back door.
Despite the semi-fight the two of you had all those weeks ago, Jimin was never one to argue about the same topic two days in a row. When you saw him the next day after your confrontation with Jungkook, Jimin was back to all smiles. You still catch him sending death glares towards Jungkook on most nights, but he doesn’t bring up the matter with you anymore. For that reason, you’ve gratefully settled back into your weird, banterful friendship with him. Even if there’s still a lingering tension between the two of you that you refuse to acknowledge.
You nod thankfully back at him, excited to go to his house and take a much needed shower. At this point, going to his house has become second nature to you, and it gives you an excuse to not see Jungkook at your regular bus stop every day. You have half a mind to never fix your shower for that reason, but of course there is still the problem of having to deal with Jimin every time you need to bathe. You hardly consider yourself an impatient person, but Jimin likes to toe the line far more often than necessary.
You’re down to your last two tables before you can close up shop when your manager suddenly barrels right into your path. You nearly drop your tray of dirty dishes to the floor, holding in a loud yelp as your suspiciously stern-faced manager halts you in place.
“Ms. Y/N, may I have a word with you for a moment? It’s regarding your paycheck for the month,” he barks, lips downturned. He appears disgruntled about something, and it sends a worried shiver down your spine. And here you thought Fridays are meant to be fun. He doesn’t wait for you to reply before he stalks back to his office, an unspoken command for you to follow.
You unload your dishes in the kitchen before making your way to his office. The small, dark room is cramped with overflowing file folders and coupons from multiple take-out places. You accidentally step on a stack of papers, and upon further inspection, seem to be a pile of applications for new hires. You distinctly remember complaining to him months prior about being understaffed and him replying that no inquiries were coming in.
As you approach, your manager shuffles through your coworkers pay stubs, and you notice yours and Jungkook’s on top of the piles.
Manager Jeong clears his throat. “Well, Y/N. It seems to be your lucky day. As you know, we split the tips based on your hours and what sort of duties you fulfill. With the new hire we have as our in-house singer, we’ve had to split it one way more to accommodate his arrival. However, he has recently requested to me that his portion be reallocated… to you, Ms. Y/N.”
Your jaw drops immediately. “I-I don’t understand, Manager Jeong,” you sputter.
Manager Jeong snorts, bemused by your reaction. “Don’t understand? Well, I suppose you’ll have to ask Mr. Jeon if you want his reasoning. Regardless, since we normally deposit your salary straight to your bank account, would it be alright if I hand you his tips in cash for now? He only informed me about his request an hour ago, and the accountant has already clocked out for the week.”
All you can do is nod dumbly back at him. With a huff, your manager presses a white envelope into your hands before promptly ushering you out of his office. “Well, that's settled. Out you go! Have a good weekend, Ms. Y/N. Don’t forget to lock the register before you leave!” He calls out before slamming his door in your face.
It takes you a moment to reanimate back to life. You stare at the white envelope for a long while, unable to fathom the scribbled out name of Jeon Jungkook replaced with your own name. Then, you crumple it into your fist before stomping over to where Jungkook and the rest of the band are in the middle of packing it up for the night.
Jungkook looks up from his guitar case when he senses you fast approaching. For a fleeting second, a smile graces his handsome face before it’s smacked away by your crumpled envelope.
“Keep your fucking cash, Jungkook. What the hell is your problem?” You fume, cheeks heating from agitation. Jungkook splutters for a moment, prying the envelope away from his face and looking at it in bewilderment. When he sees it clearly, recognition dawns on his face, followed by guilt.
“It’s just… my way of saying sorry, I guess.” He answers you meekly, neck flushing red in embarrassment. Behind him, the rest of the band grow silent at the scene before them, and you debate on telling them to mind their own business when they quicken their pace to leave.
“Well, keep your apology to yourself. There’s nothing to apologize for,” you correct him with a frown. To offer an apology is to offer accountability. You aren’t sure if you’re ready to hear him say that.
“No, it’s a sorry for… using you, I suppose.”
“Using me?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “For what?”
Jungkook smiles wryly back at you. “For inspiration?” he clarifies. For being the reason I can sing? He leaves that part unsaid, but you can almost imagine him saying it.
You feel heat rising to your cheeks again, but this time you aren’t quite sure if it’s from embarrassment, anger… or something else.
Unable to conjure up a response to his simple confession, you stomp away from him with a pounding heart and shaking hands. You continue the rest of your closing shift routine instinctually, your body moving on autopilot as Jungkook’s words continue to ring inside your head. When all is said and done, Jimin makes his way to your station with a questioning stare, but you wave him off in favor of stomping ahead of him to the parking lot.
In his car, Jimin rattles off about his latest exploits and purchases, his grating voice a comfort for once. You hum noncommittally during his stories when appropriate, but you suppose your usual indifference feels different, even to Jimin's untrained ears.
At his house, you drift to his bathroom immediately. You already have a shirt button undone by the time you get a handle on the door when Jimin’s hand stops you in place. You can feel his warmth emanating against your back as he slowly pulls the bathroom door close. With a tired sigh, you reluctantly turn to face him and find him standing closer than you expected.
He has an arm resting above your head, effectively caging you. You feel your shoulders sag. Damn, here comes another confrontation. Why can’t everyone just leave you alone?!
“Talk to me,” he says. No, he demands.
You push him away weakly, but he hardly budges. “Nothing to talk about,” you lie. Had you no filter, you’d be word vomiting all over the place ages ago.
Jimin groans, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Enough with the emotional constipation. I’m here to listen, alright? No teasing or anything, I’m all ears and maybe a shoulder to cry on. Just don’t stain my Chanel top too bad,” he jokes.
You puff out a short breath—a sorry excuse for a laugh. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to talk about it, and that’s that.”
“It’ll make you feel a lot better, though,” he offers.
You scoff. “What makes you think that? What if I just want to ignore all my problems forever and never grow from it? Is that so bad?”
Jimin pushes himself away from you, raising his hands in mock defeat. “You’re so fucking annoying. Can you stop running away from your problems and talk to me? Hell, talk to Jungkook for all I care! Just stop being a doormat and speak your mind for once in your damn life!”
“What are you, my therapist?” You brush past him, shower all but forgotten. You begin toeing your shoes back on, ready to head home tired and smelly. At the very least, you won’t have to deal with this stupid annoying asshole any longer.
Jimin strides back towards you, but for once he doesn’t do anything to forcibly stop you. Jimin has always been gruff with you, not afraid to push and pull you in any which direction. It’s part of the reason why you can’t take him seriously, even though you’ve recently realized why he was always being such a prick towards you—
“Yeah, I’m not your therapist. But for better or for worse, I’m your friend and I—I fucking care about you, alright? And it sucks seeing that good-for-nothing stick his nose in your business and act like he can do anything without any repercussions.”
Is Jimin being for real right now? “With how often you look at yourself in the mirror, you’d think you’d be better at introspection,” is all you say to that. You shove your feet into your shoes, not caring that you’ve probably put them on wrong. Maybe it’s because it’s Friday and the fatigue from the week has finally settled deep in your bones, but you can’t help but leave one last scathing remark to drive the final nail in the coffin.
“You know, if you were a little nicer to me, maybe I would talk to you. Hell, maybe I’d like you back. But no, just keep being your domineering, asshole self and I’ll keep being the same fucking doormat bitch you know and love,” you spit, turning towards the door and away from his face. You’re not even curious to see how he reacts. “I don’t need protection, alright? When I tell you to stay out of my business, you stay out of it. So don’t try and pretend to be my knight in shining armor.”
There’s an ocean of silence, enough to hear a pin drop. The urge to apologize surges to the surface, but you stamp it down. He’s petty all the time, so now it’s your turn.
Okay, maybe that’s a little too mean on your part, but you’re exhausted. Perhaps it is true when they say you should never act on your anger when it’s past midnight. But can anyone blame you? You’re only a girl, and girls need to snap too.
When he responds, his voice sounds weak. Park Jimin, weak? It's almost unthinkable. "Why don't you trust me?"
Isn't it obvious? you want to say. But some mercy remains within you. You'll pick up the pieces another time. Instead, you rasp out, “Good night, Park. I’ll see you on Monday.”
The walk of shame back to your house is long and arduous. Your phone dings thrice, likely signaling texts from Jimin, but you turn it off without checking for sure. For once, the weight on your shoulders is slightly lighter. You huff out a dry laugh, realizing belatedly that maybe Jimin is right—maybe speaking your mind has its benefits.
There’s a small park in your neighborhood that you always pass by. You don’t remember the last time you spared it a second glance, but this time you notice a lone figure swinging back and forth, arching dangerously higher than what you would consider safe. From a distance, all you can make out are the person’s comically bright boots, and you have a sinking suspicion you know who it is without seeing their face.
Cosmos, or whoever it is that controls my life, why must you braid our strings of fate so tightly? You ask, but as always, it refuses to reply.
Against your better judgment, your feet bring you closer towards him. He has his back towards you, his feet pumping him higher and higher and you half expect him to swing in a perfect arc like a gymnast on parallel bars. You have to keep your distance a bit, lest you get the wind knocked out of you by his signature stompers.
You clear your throat, and the boy stops mid-swing and nearly catapults himself into the spongey, playground floor. Hunched over and wheezing, Jungkook directs his shocked eyes at you with a comical stare.
You raise a hand in greeting. A peace offering, maybe. “Hello—”
“I swear I’m not stalking you!” Jungkook interrupts as he scrambles to his feet. He bows deeply in remorse, the action so endearingly him. “S-sorry, I’ll make my way home now…”
“I don’t own the park, Jungkook. I was just saying hello…” You snort, wringing your hands uncomfortably. You grind your shoes into the ground, the sound of crunching leaves breaking the still air. “A-and… to say sorry, for earlier.”
“Sorry?” Jungkook repeats, confused. When he realizes what you mean, he waves his hands frantically. “No, no! Don’t be sorry! It was my fault for being so inconsiderate. I understand how you might misconstrue my actions, and I made things more awkward. I’ll consider your feelings more in the future…”
In the future… You cough, unwilling to meet his bright and honest gaze. If you stare too long, you fear you might go blind.
“I come here to the park often, when I feel too cramped inside my apartment,” Jungkook explains, frantic energy radiating off him in waves. He’s gesticulating too much, a clear sign that he’s trying to hide his nerves. You remember how he would do the same thing in high school, whenever he had to present his projects in front of the class.
You hold a hand up, a weak attempt to get him to calm down. “I’m not here to interrogate you. I just wanted to…” What is it that you wanted to do?
The two of you just stand awkwardly like that, similar to a few weeks ago when you discovered you were neighbors. You’re grasping at straws in your head, both conflicted for wanting to tell him something and running away. Even if you were to talk to him, what would you say? There’s a reason you told Jimin you didn’t want to talk—frankly, it’s mostly because you have no idea what to say or feel.
But you do know, the universe responds.
I ask you questions all the time, and this is how you respond?
Either that, or you’re going insane, the universe remarks.
Jungkook pulls out his phone, his fingers fumbling as he unlocks it. He takes a furtive step towards you, but thinks better of it. There’s a few feet of distance between you, but it feels like worlds apart. Close and yet so far. You recall how you’d easily pull him towards you in the past, how being together felt as natural as breathing.
“I know you absolutely hated it the last time I played my original song at the restaurant, so I refrained from performing any ever since that night. But that didn’t stop me from writing them. I was fine with keeping them locked in a vault forever, but…” He hesitates, searching you for any signs of discomfort. When he sees the carefully blank look on your face, he continues with trepidation.
“Can I try a song for you? You don’t have to say yes, and you’re free to tell me to fuck off and I’ll never even look at you ever again. Just…” He flails one last time, a choked sob making its escape from his throat.
Are you hopeless for wanting to say yes? Or were you reverting back to your old self who relied on him and believed in him so heavily? If you wanted him out of your life for good, you would have quit your job at the first sight of him. Maybe you were masochistic. Or maybe were you hopeful for a new start, a chance to rekindle a relationship that you’ve secretly always wanted to repair.
You have so much life ahead of you. Many more mistakes will be made and maybe they’ll haunt you when you’re older. But would it really be such a terrible gamble to take one more chance?
You nod, and seal your fate.
He presses play, and the soft strumming of a guitar fills the empty playground air.
Not for the first time, you wonder how it can be so easy for Jungkook to be so… honest. He spills his heart in every song that he writes, and you know he’s never been a great liar. He can’t help it, being genuine is in his DNA. This crashing waterfall, this boy with overflowing emotions—he sings what he thinks but feels terrified because of it. You might not understand his honesty, but you know that fear. You know it all too well.
He beholds himself to you—raw and unfiltered. A little battered and bruised, but still Jungkook. Behind everything, still the boy you’ve been yearning for.
Maybe this song is what will give you enough confidence to admit everything to him, too. As you stand there, listening to his mellow voice sing confessions to no one but you and the stars, you think you grow a little more courageous that day.
Maybe you won’t be able to tell him tonight. Maybe not tomorrow, nor next week either. But as you gaze back at his hopeful eyes, you know deep in your heart that you’ll find the words you’ve been looking for.
“I’ll keep waiting for you, if you let me.” Jungkook’s voice floats gently to you, and settles in your open palms. This time, you don’t let go
xxx
Months later, Jungkook stops working at the restaurant when an offer from a major record company arrives in his mail. Apparently, a big shot from the local radio station had pitched him to an employee at that company and they were all pleasantly surprised to find a hidden gem at a random bar and restaurant.
In your apartment, you stare outside your window and to where his home is—well, where it was. You wonder if he finished packing his things, ready to make the big move tomorrow. You stand up with a stretch, sparing a glance at your still broken shower. It would be nice to have one more shower at his place… And after that? Maybe you should start looking for a nicer apartment; somewhere far away might be nice.
Your phone rings, and you see his contact photo light up your screen. With a smile, you answer.
“Come over, if you want. I won’t make you,” Jungkook assures you.
You laugh lightly, already halfway out the door.
#bts scenarios#jungkook scenarios#bts x reader#jungkook x reader#bts reader insert#bts fanfiction#bts imagines#bts fluff#bts angst#jungkook fluff#jungkook angst#jeon jungkook#jungkook#bangtan#bts#bts fanfic
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Like Peas in a Pod
Pairing: Bob Floyd x Female Reader
Summary: What happens when two wallflowers find each other?
Word Count: 5.7k
Author’s Note: I admit that this story is extremely self-indulgent. But I have a feeling that a lot of people can relate to what our leading lady goes through, and I hope you can find pieces of yourself in her!
Warnings: Mild angst, social awkwardness, feeling overlooked, alcohol consumption, flirting, fluff.
If you’d had it your way, you would be at home right now, curled up on the couch in a pair of cozy pajamas with a good book and a steaming cup of tea in hand. But instead, your friends had outnumbered you 3-1 and you were currently sitting in the middle of a noisy, crowded bar, the patrons loudly competing with the music that was blaring through the speakers.
“Do we have to go out tonight?” you’d groaned over FaceTime a few hours earlier. “It’s been such a long week. Can’t we just do a wine night and put on some movies?”
“We did that last week!” Shawna argued. “C’mon, I just got my nails done. Don’t let it be for nothing,” she teased, wiggling her manicured fingers in front of the camera.
“Besides,” Kelsey chimed in, “like you said, it has been a long week. We deserve a night out to unwind and treat ourselves.”
“Hopefully we’ll find other people to treat us,” Renee added cheekily, tossing her unruly dark curls over her shoulder as she winked.
“Besides, the girls at work told me this is a really fun bar. Apparently it’s where all the hotties from North Island go after work,” Shawna giggled.
Your former college roommate had just started a new nursing job at Naval Medical Center San Diego, so if anyone was going to know where the hot Navy guys spent their off hours, it would be her.
“It’s settled! We’re going to The Hard Deck, ladies,” Renee grinned, blowing you all a kiss. “Meet at my place at 8 and we’ll Uber over.”
As much as you would have preferred to stay at home tonight, you had to admit that Shawna hadn’t been wrong. From the moment you’d stepped foot inside The Hard Deck, you’d been amazed at the sheer number of attractive men crowding the space. You certainly never found men like this when you hit the bars downtown.
Renee, ever the mastermind when it came to scoping out the most advantageous situations, quickly managed to grab your group a table smack in the middle of the room. It had an excellent vantage point that not only made you most visible to the bar’s patrons, but also gave you a perfect view of the pool table, the dart boards, and the bar all at once.
“Cheers, ladies!” Kelsey exclaimed once you were all seated with your first round of drinks. “And a special toast to Shawna for telling us about this place!” she added with a grin, holding up her glass of hard cider.
The rest of you held up your drinks—Renee had opted for a bottle of Coors, Shawna had gone with an IPA, and you had chosen a High Noon—and clinked them together with a celebratory “Cheers!”
“Tonight’s the night that you’re finally going to find yourself a man,” Shawna told you, turning to you and playfully poking you in the side.
“Yes, it is!” Renee nodded in agreement, winking at you from across the table as she took a sip of her beer.
“Take your pick, babe,” Kelsey added, waving her hand to encompass the whole bar. “I’ve literally never seen so many gorgeous guys all in one place. And in uniform, too!”
You felt the back of your neck prickling and your skin growing warm at your friends’ expectant stares, a weak smile gracing your lips as you took a sip of your drink. It always ended up being like this. You loved your friends, and you knew they meant well, but they had no idea what it was like to be in your shoes.
The four of you had been best friends since college, despite the fact that you couldn’t have been more different from one another if you tried. Kelsey always joked that your four personalities combined helped to balance each other out.
Despite their differences in looks, style, and demeanor, Shawna, Renee, and Kelsey did all have one thing in common that you had never seemed to possess—the ability to turn men’s heads no matter where they were.
Shawna had the perfectly sweet girl-next-door vibe going on. With her strawberry blonde locks, big blue eyes, dusting of freckles, and curvy figure, she always attracted guys like bees to a flower.
At any given time, Kelsey looked like she had just walked off the runway. Even in a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, she managed to look chic. With her tall, willowy figure, sleek dark brown bob, almond-shaped eyes, and lips that never needed lipstick, she had men drooling all over her.
Arguably the most exuberant member of the group was Renee, who had been a firecracker for as long as you had known her. The only thing bigger than her laugh was her smile, and she had the most gorgeous ebony curls that contrasted perfectly with her cinnamon-colored skin. Paired with her petite figure, she drew men in like moths to a flame.
And then there was you. Quiet, shy, bookish you. Throughout college, people had often commented that you seemed like the most grounded out of all your friends, but you knew what that really meant. You were boring. And you knew what people were really trying to say—how had you become friends with such fun-loving girls?
You loved your friends more than anything, and you were grateful for the ways they’d helped you come out of your shell since college. But you’d be lying if you said going out to bars with them wasn’t challenging at times.
They all knew how to light up a room, how to flirt and talk to random strangers and get phone numbers from the hottest men you’d ever seen. You—didn’t know how to do any of that.
You’d tried over the years, you really had. Mainly at the girls’ insistence. You made an effort to flirt with the guys they introduced you to, or strike up conversations with random cuties at your favorite coffee shop, but it never seemed to work for you the way that it did for your friends. And guys never approached you the way they did Shawna and Kelsey and Renee.
The most painful experience had been a couple months ago, when a guy had come up to you while you were waiting to order a drink, smiling and chatting in a way that had you thinking he was interested. Your heart had soared inside your chest, only to crash a few moments later when he asked, “So, is your friend single?” while pointing at Kelsey.
You hadn’t told any of your friends about that encounter. You knew they’d just feel bad and you didn’t want them to. They were desperate to find somebody for you, and you didn’t have the heart to tell them that you’d given up hoping for that a long time ago. They just wouldn’t understand. They went on dates all the time. You were just the one guys approached to inquire after their relationship statuses.
“Don’t give us that look,” Renee told you, shaking her head and pointing an accusatory finger at you as you attempted to slink down in your seat. “You look hot tonight, and you need to show it off!”
“You do,” Shawna nodded vehemently, nudging you in the side again until you sat up straight. “I love that top.”
“See? I told you it was a solid purchase,” Kelsey winked, as she had been the one to convince you to buy the top in question when the two of you had gone shopping a couple weeks ago.
Despite your lack of hopefulness, you had put a good deal of effort into your appearance tonight. You couldn’t help it. A bar full of hot guys in sexy uniforms? You’d be crazy not to try. You’d spent over an hour on your hair and make-up, and had decided to finally take the tags off the top Kelsey had convinced you to buy. The neckline flattered your figure and hugged your body in all the right places. You’d coupled it with a pair of high-waisted jeans and strappy sandals to show off your pedicure. Even you had to admit that you looked good, but you still hadn’t seemed to catch the eye of any guy in the bar.
“Let’s just enjoy the night and focus on us,” you said, trying to deflect your friends’ intense attention. “If anybody else happens to come along, then so be it.”
The girls all shot you dissatisfied looks, but didn’t push the point any further. Shawna started regaling you all with stories from her new job, which allowed you to let out a soft sigh of relief.
As the night went on, you tried your best not to grow discouraged, but it was getting harder and harder. Countless guys had passed by your table, stopping to flirt with Renee or Kelsey or Shawna, or even all three, but their eyes skipped over you like you were invisible. Whenever your friends tried to direct their attention your way, they smiled politely before instantly turning back to the actual objects of their attraction. Every time you got up to use the bathroom or order another round at the bar, you attempted to smile and make eye contact and appear open and interested, all the things your friends had been telling you to do for years, but none of it worked.
At that point, all you wanted to do was go home, put on your pajamas, and live vicariously through a good rom com.
You were about to tell your friends that you were going to get going when one of the bartenders—if you’d heard correctly earlier, she might have been the owner—approached your table with a tray full of drinks, a smile gracing her lovely face.
“Ladies, these are for you,” she said, setting down a cider for Kelsey, a Coors for Renee, an IPA for Shawna, and a High Noon for you.
“Oh,” Shawna said, her blue eyes widening in surprise. “I think there might have been a mistake. We didn’t order another round, did we?” she asked, looking at the rest of you.
“Not that we won’t take them,” Renee chimed in with that bright laugh of hers.
The woman smiled at the four of you. “No mistake. These drinks are compliments of the group over there,” she chuckled, pointing at a group of officers clustered around the pool table.
The four of you turned your gazes in the direction she was pointing, your friends letting out various sounds of delighted surprise when they realized the men in question looked as though they had just been featured on the cover of Men’s Health magazine.
“Oh, we’ll definitely take them!” Renee beamed, flipping her dark curls over her shoulder.
“Thank you,” Kelsey grinned up at the older woman gratefully.
“Of course,” she nodded, tucking her empty tray under her arm. She leaned in a little closer with a conspiratorial smile and whispered, “I’ll vouch for the fact that they’re good guys. But if they act like idiots, just come find me. My name is Penny.”
“Thanks, Penny,” Shawna giggled, reaching for her new drink. “We owe you one!”
Penny winked at you before heading back to the bar, which was surrounded by thirsty customers. Business was booming. If Penny was the owner as you suspected, then she must have been doing quite well.
“Should we go thank them for the drinks?” Shawna grinned, chewing on her lower lip as she glanced in the direction of the handsome officers at the pool table.
���Not yet,” Renee decided, smirking mischievously. “We’ll let them sweat it out a little bit first.”
“Renee!” Kelsey laughed, lightly smacking her on the arm.
“What? You know it’ll work. They’ll be eating out of the palms of our hands,” Renee grinned, taking a hearty sip of her Coors.
“They look cute,” you ventured, though your palms were already sweating at the thought of approaching them. You highly doubted any of them would be eating out of your clammy palms.
Clearly you shouldn’t have said anything, because suddenly all three of your friends were pouncing on you like ravenous wolves.
“Which one do you think is the cutest?”
“Do you see one you like?”
“Claim one now before we get over there!”
Their words loudly overlapped one another, to the point that you had to resist the urge to cover your ears with your hands.
“I—I—I don’t know!” you exclaimed, feeling your skin grow warm with embarrassment. You hated being the center of attention. “I just meant—I mean, they look cute for you guys.”
“Um, last I checked, you were just as single as the rest of us. Why wouldn’t they be cute for you, too?” Kelsey demanded, raising one of her perfectly waxed eyebrows.
“Please, you guys, let’s just drop it. I’m probably going to start heading home soon anyway,” you told them, sliding down in your seat and wishing the ground would swallow you whole.
“What? No, you can’t!” Renee and Shawna practically cried in unison.
“C’mon, we’ll go over to them now,” Renee decided, grabbing her drink and her purse. “You can’t leave yet,” she insisted.
Kelsey and Shawna nodded, grabbing their things and following suit, nearly having to drag you out of your seat to get you to come with them.
“Well, well, well, fellas,” smirked a blonde-headed officer as the four of you approached the pool table. “Looks like our little gift didn’t go unnoticed after all.”
Glancing down quickly, you spotted the name printed on his nameplate—Seresin. He was extremely handsome in that clean-cut, All-American way, with his perfectly coiffed blonde hair, sparkling green eyes, and charming smile.
Renee, who always ended up being your group’s fearless leader, smirked in return as she stepped to the head of the pack. “Well, well, well, ladies. Looks like the guys who sent us those drinks aren’t half bad after all,” she said, resting a hand on her hip as she gazed up at the blonde man, challenge twinkling in her dark eyes. “Even if they weren’t brave enough to come bring us the drinks themselves.”
Kelsey and Shawna stood on either side of her, giggling softly, while you hung near the back, staring down at your feet as your cheeks burned hot.
“Most of us aren’t half bad. I can’t speak for Hangman here,” another voice piped up, deep and gravelly. You could sense, rather than see, Kelsey’s ears pricking up at the sound.
Glancing up, you saw another handsome man standing before you, looking every inch Kelsey’s type with his sunkissed brown hair, broad shoulders, tanned skin, and easygoing smile. If you knew Kelsey, you knew she was already imagining what that mustache would feel like against her lips. You clocked his nameplate as well—Bradshaw.
“Hangman?” Renee asked coquettishly, quirking an eyebrow as she glanced between the two men.
“My callsign,” the blonde cut in smoothly, pool cue still in hand. It was clear that while he and Bradshaw might be buddies, there was still a sense of competition between the two.
“Ah, callsigns. You’re fighter pilots,” Shawna commented, grinning knowingly. Thank goodness for her job at NMCSD. She was much more in the know than any of the rest of you.
“Not just any fighter pilots. The best fighter pilots,” came another voice from the other side of the pool table. When Hangman stepped to the side, you saw it belonged to a guy whose jawline looked like it could cut glass and whose smile could melt butter. His nameplate read Machado.
“Oh, yeah?” Kelsey asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “And who determines that?”
“The Navy,” Bradshaw replied smoothly, stepping a little closer to your statuesque friend. “We’re all TOPGUN graduates. The top 1%.”
“Hmm, and humble, too,” Kelsey laughed, delicately resting her hand on his arm as she did so. “So what’s your callsign then?”
“Rooster,” the mustached man told her, chest puffing out with pride. “But I’m being awfully rude. I didn’t catch your name,” he said, holding out his large hand.
“Kelsey,” she replied, her dark eyes twinkling as she slipped her hand into his.
You watched as, almost instantly, your friends partnered off quite naturally with the handsome aviators. Renee and Hangman were already bickering about the best way to sink the 8 ball, Kelsey and Rooster were talking about music near the window, and Shawna was flirting up a storm with Machado, whose callsign turned out to be Coyote.
Your stomach sank as you realized that you were suddenly on your own. As usual. Not that you resented your friends getting to flirt with cute guys. You always cheered them on when they met someone new, and you were always there to celebrate with them. You just wished that, for once, they had a reason to celebrate with you.
Glancing around, you saw that there were several other officers hanging around the pool table, though most of them seemed to be engrossed in their own conversations. No one was paying you any mind. And suddenly you felt like crying.
What was wrong with you? Was there something about you that just naturally repelled handsome men? Your friends were constantly telling you how beautiful you were, but that was hard to believe when you were the only one who never got hit on, never got asked out, never felt special or seen by anybody.
It was time to go home. You could feel the tears stinging the backs of your eyes, and the last thing you needed was to start bawling in the middle of a Navy bar. No one would notice if you just slipped away. You’d text your friends in the Uber and ask them to let you know how the rest of their night went. It always ended up being like this, and you weren’t sure why you had thought tonight would be any different.
Silently leaving your drink on the table with your friends’ things, you turned and began snaking your way through the crowd, trying to get to the bar so that you could close out your tab. Before you could get there, however, someone bumped into you from behind, sending your purse flying out of your hands.
Sighing softly, you dropped down to your hands and knees, praying you wouldn’t get stomped on as you tried to reach for it. Just as your hand was hovering over it, however, a much larger hand closed down around it and lifted it up.
Before you could shout for help, that same hand was hovering in front of your face, silently offering to help you up off the sticky bar floor. You lifted your head and your heart skipped a beat at the man who was gazing down at you. He had sandy brown hair, big blue eyes magnified behind a pair of military-issued glasses, and ruddy cheeks, an uncertain smile on his handsome face.
Wordlessly, you took his hand and allowed him to pull you back up to your feet. He was even taller than you had originally thought from your position down on the ground.
“Are you alright?” he asked loudly, trying to be heard over the din of the crowd.
“Yes,” you yelled back, nodding your head on the off-chance he hadn’t heard you. “Thank you,” you added.
“I’m guessing you were looking for this?” he went on, holding up your purse in his other hand.
You nodded again, accepting your bag with a grateful smile. “I guess I’m just a klutz,” you told him sheepishly, the realization dawning that this man had literally just witnessed you crawling on a grimy bar floor.
He smiled in response, which only made him look all the more handsome. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said, shaking his head. “Someone bumped into you.”
He had seen that? Had he actually been paying attention to you? Or did he just happen to be nearby?
“Well, thank you. I appreciate it,” you murmured, nervously fiddling with one of your bracelets as you glanced over at the bar.
He followed your gaze, his expression conflicted. “Well I don’t want to hold you up,” he told you, sounding vaguely disappointed.
Your head whipped back in his direction. “Oh, no! I mean, you’re not. I was just trying to get to the bar to close my tab.”
Were you losing your mind or did he really look disappointed now?
“Oh, you’re leaving?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “I, um, I thought I saw you with the girls who were hanging out with my friends,” he explained, indicating the group at the pool table with his thumb.
He was a part of that group? Was this a sign that maybe you shouldn’t leave after all?
“Oh, um, yeah,” you nodded, chewing on your bottom lip as you tried to think of what to say. “I just, um…well, it’s kind of loud in here and I just���” Your sentence trailed off as you realized how lame you sounded.
“Would you like to maybe go outside for a minute?” he suggested. When you hesitated, he stammered, “I mean, of course you don’t have to. I’m sorry. I mean, obviously you just want to get out of here and I’m—”
“No,” you cut him off, briefly brushing your fingers against his arm. “I mean, I would like that,” you clarified with a shy smile.
“Oh,” he blinked, looking a little surprised. But then he brightened instantly, his bright blue eyes shining as he smiled at you in return. “I’m Bob, by the way. Bob Floyd,” he introduced himself, holding out his hand to you.
Slipping your hand into his, you smiled wider as you told him your name, beaming when he repeated it back to you and told you it was pretty.
“So do you have a callsign, too, Bob?” you asked curiously as he led you through the crowd and towards one of the back doors that faced the beach. “Your friends were telling me and my friends their callsigns earlier.”
“Oh, um, yeah,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck as he held open the door that led to a little back patio with picnic tables. It was relatively empty, except for a few people hanging out in the sand. “My callsign is Bob. Original, I know,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh, as if he was used to being made fun of for it.
In that instant, you felt a deep sense of connectedness to him that you couldn’t explain. Maybe it was the way he ducked his head and averted his gaze, like he was trying to hide, or the way he nervously shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose, but you were suddenly certain that no one understood what it felt like to be in your shoes more than he did. To be overlooked, forgotten, underestimated. To be uncomfortable in your own skin because you were so certain you were never going to be enough for people.
“I like it,” you told him with a smile.
“Thank you,” he replied sincerely, looking caught off guard and surprised by your words once again.
The two of you wandered over to one of the picnic tables and took seats opposite each other, the fairy lights strung up outside illuminating his features as he gazed at you.
“Is this your first time at The Hard Deck?” he asked curiously, resting his elbows on the table. “I feel like I’d remember seeing you.”
You bit down on your lower lip to hide your smile, his words warming you from the inside out. “It is, actually. It was my friend Shawna’s idea to come tonight. She just recently started working at NMCSD and some of her co-workers told her this was a good spot.”
“It is,” Bob nodded, smiling at you. “Penny Benjamin, the owner, is a good woman and she always makes sure to look out for us.”
“I’m guessing this is a regular spot for you guys then?” you questioned, glancing up and spotting your friends through one of the windows. They looked like they were still having a good time with the aviators they’d found.
“Pretty much, yeah,” he chuckled. “It’s been almost a year since I’ve been back in San Diego. I was at TOPGUN a few years ago, then got stationed at Lemoore, then got called back to TOPGUN last October for a special mission, then got asked to stay on permanently with my new squadron. The Hard Deck has become like a second home,” he joked.
You laughed softly, charmed by the way he told you the story without a trace of arrogance or conceit. Clearly, he was one of the Navy’s best pilots if he had been called to TOPGUN not once, but twice, but he wasn’t bragging or boasting. He was just stating the facts.
As if he could read your mind, Bob explained, “I’m actually not a pilot. I’m a Weapons Systems Officer. I ride in the rear of the jet and deal with navigation and operating the aircraft system. I wanted to be a pilot when I was young, but my vision’s always been a problem. I’m proud to be a WSO though. And I have a great partner.”
“I think that sounds really impressive,” you told him honestly, reaching out and resting your hand over his. “I’m sure that takes a tremendous amount of skill and talent. If it was up to me, we’d never make it off the ground,” you grinned.
Bob smiled in return. “I’m sure you’d get the hang of it real quick. You seem really smart,” he said, the tips of his ears turning red as he ducked his head slightly. “So, uh, what do you do?”
“I’m a teacher,” you replied. “I teach history to middle schoolers.”
“Now that’s something I’m sure takes a tremendous amount of skill and talent. Just the thought of middle schoolers terrifies me,” he admitted, which made both of you laugh. “And history, too, huh? I love history. It was always my favorite subject in school.”
“Really?” you asked excitedly. It was rare that you found someone who enjoyed geeking out over history as much as you did.
“Absolutely. If I hadn’t gone into the Navy, I would have loved working in a museum or something. Maybe being a teacher, but like I said—middle schoolers terrify me,” he grinned, his eyes crinkling.
“There’s always high school,” you pointed out with a smile.
“Even worse!” he exclaimed, which made you dissolve into a fit of giggles.
The two of you sat in companionable silence for a few moments, taking in the sound of the ocean waves and the faint trickle of music coming from inside the bar.
“Is that a piano?” you asked when the sound of the music registered in your ears.
“Sounds like Rooster is already trying to show off to your friend,” Bob teased, glancing over his shoulder as the door opened and a small group of rowdy sailors made their way outside.
“Trust me, Kelsey is probably eating it all up right now,” you assured him with a knowing look.
“My friends are very smooth with the ladies, but they’re also good guys, I promise. Your friends are in good hands,” he told you.
“It’s funny, Penny told us the same thing earlier,” you said.
“Ah, well, no one’s more trustworthy than Penny,” Bob smiled.
You nodded and the two of you sat in silence once again. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, however. You didn’t feel the need to fill it with awkward chatter. You were more than happy to just sit there with him, enjoying the cool evening air and listening to the sound of the waves lapping against the shore.
Bob looked like something was on his mind, like he wanted to say something, but was holding back. When you met his eyes and cocked your head to the side curiously, however, he seemed to come to a decision.
“Why were you going to leave?”
You were a little taken aback by his question and immediately dropped your gaze to your lap, fiddling with the strap of your purse and trying to figure out how to answer his question in a way that didn’t make you sound completely pathetic.
“I’m sorry, that’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked that,” Bob chastised himself, shaking his head. “Please, just forget it.”
“No, um, it’s okay,” you reassured him, clearing your throat slightly. You suddenly wished you had thought to grab a cup of water before coming outside. “Um, I guess I just realized that my friends were really hitting it off with your friends, and I didn’t see any point in sticking around any longer.”
Bob seemed troubled by your response, a small crease appearing between his brows. “Wasn’t there anybody for you to talk to?”
You turned your face away in embarrassment. Things had been going so well. You didn’t want Bob to know what a wallflower you truly were.
“Um, no, not really. My friends are the ones guys usually want to talk to,” you admitted quietly, your voice nearly drowned out by the wind. Your mouth felt so dry, and your hands were sweaty as you wiped them against your jeans.
Bob fully frowned at that. “Guys should be lined up out the door to talk to you,” he said softly, his voice serious.
“That’s sweet of you to say,” you murmured, staring down at the table instead of meeting his eyes.
“I’m not just saying it,” Bob insisted, his tone so urgent that it actually caused you to lift your head up to look at him. “You’re sweet and kind and funny and smart and so beautiful. Guys would have to be insane not to want to talk to you. I’m honestly shocked you’re out here talking to me of all people.”
“Don’t say that,” you begged him, your heart hurting to think that other women didn’t appreciate the wonderful man sitting before you.
“I know that I’m not like my friends,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck as he blushed furiously. “I know I’m not the kind of guy that girls want to talk to. So I know what it’s like to feel like you could just disappear in a place like this and nobody would notice. I hate that you feel that way, too.”
Your breath caught in your throat at his words. You had never met anyone before who seemed to know your thoughts so clearly, who could read your mind and understand everything you were feeling.
“Bob,” you breathed out, reaching across the table and clasping one of his hands between both of yours. “I think you’re a terrific guy. And the girls who can’t see that? It’s their loss.”
He smiled at that, his gaze fixed on your face as he rested his free hand over yours, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “I’m really glad you didn’t leave.”
“I’m really glad you asked me to stay.”
He said nothing in response, just held your hand tighter as his blue eyes bore into yours, as if he was reading the very depths of your soul.
The air hung thick with tension as the two of you stared at one another, leaning in closer and closer until your lips had no choice but to meet, his mouth firm, but gentle as it closed over yours.
It was soft and sweet and chaste, but when the two of you pulled back, you were both stammering and blushing like a couple of schoolchildren.
The stillness of the moment was broken a moment later when your friends shoved open the door and spilled out onto the back patio.
“There you are!” Renee exclaimed, hands on her hips as she did her best impression of your mother. “You had us scared half to death!”
“I told you she was fine,” Shawna insisted, rolling her eyes and mouthing ‘Sorry!’ to you.
“See? Nothing to be worried about,” Kelsey added. “She’s with…” She let her sentence trail off, shooting you a look to make quick introductions.
“Um, Bob! This is Bob,” you quickly supplied, squeezing his hand and shooting him an apologetic look.
“She’s with Bob!” Kelsey said, poking Renee in the side.
“Floyd, there you are! We were wondering where the hell you got off to,” Hangman said, joining your group and wrapping an arm around Renee’s waist.
“I guess they did notice we disappeared after all,” you whispered to Bob with a knowing smile.
“Of course we did!” Kelsey butted in, smiling when Rooster stepped up behind her and slipped his hand into hers.
“We were all going to head back to my place for a midnight swim,” Shawna explained, beaming up at Coyote. Your friend’s apartment complex was the only one that had a pool, and her landlord was cool enough to allow residents to use it whenever they wanted, so long as they were mindful of the noise. “Invite your friend!”
Your cheeks grew warm as everyone stared at you expectantly. “Um, Bob, would you like to come swimming with us?”
“I’d love to,” Bob grinned, his eyes fixed on you and only you.
Your friends clapped and cheered, which made your cheeks grow all the hotter.
“C’mon, let’s go close our tabs. Jake’s paying for the Ubers,” Renee smirked, patting the blonde’s chest as she gazed up at him.
“Aww, thanks, Jake,” Coyote grinned, smacking his friend on the shoulder as he and Shawna headed back inside.
“Owe you one, man,” Rooster nodded, leading Kelsey back into the bar.
“Hey, wait a second—”
“That’s what you get for losing two rounds of pool,” Renee teased, planting a kiss on his cheek before dragging him back inside.
Once you and Bob were left alone in the blessed silence once more, you looked at each other and couldn’t help but crack up laughing.
“I think your friends have really met their matches in my friends,” you told him playfully, gathering your things and rising from the picnic table.
“I think so,” Bob nodded, rising as well. “But I think I really met my match in you.”
Smiling, you slipped your hand into his and beamed up at him. “I couldn’t agree more.”
And as you walked out of The Hard Deck hand-in-hand with Bob, catching the victorious looks and playful winks your friends were shooting your way, you found yourself very grateful for all the times it had never worked out for you before this. Because you were certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that Bob Floyd had been worth waiting for.
#robert bob floyd#bob floyd#bob floyd x reader#x reader#x female reader#top gun#top gun: maverick#lewis pullman
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Did I Cross The Line? || Alexia Putellas
warnings : angst. i am not entirely happy with it but if I kept editing, it would only become worse lol. Loosely inspired by the meaning of ‘Wildflower’ by Billie Eilish.
summary : There were two people to love. Alexia could only have one.
You started off as best friends. Two peas in a pod. One never without the other. You and Alexia were never seen apart from each other. Her mother was like your mother, and vice versa. Both families were like one big one all because Alexia decided she wanted to be friends with you at 4 years old and she kicked a football at you in kindergarten.
You cried, of course, and she got so scared when the teacher scolded her and called her mother to school for it. She sheepishly apologized and when you accepted it, she kissed your cheek where the ball smacked you.
“Mami always kisses my booboos so they feel better faster!”
“Really? My mami does too…”
A football to the face was the price you paid for a girl whom you would give your life for.
That was until Jenni came along.
Alexia looked at her differently. It was new. She’d never been this happy in a relationship before and you could not have been happier for your best friend.
Alexia was someone who loved her friends. She wasn’t shy to show her affection and to boldly display her feelings. You were more reserved and outwardly didn’t like it when she was being touchy.
Deep down though, her touch brought calm to your storm. You were always anxious before games and Alexia knew this; she made sure to stand beside you and hold your hand to squeeze three times before you left the tunnel.
Today, Alexia stood beside you in the tunnel, chatting away to Jenni who was only half listening. Your hands shook with adrenaline and fear, palms itching to reach for Alexia’s hand to calm you down.
The kind of friend she was to you showed itself in times like these. She could feel the fear radiating off you and without even looking back at you, her hand reaches for yours and you feel your body relax and react to the heat from her palm.
“You okay? You look pale,” she whispers, looking concerned at you. You look up at her slightly taller figure and nod, gripping her hand tighter.
“Fine, just nervous for the big game,” you lie, hoping she didn’t see the slight bit of jealousy that creeped into your head.
“You’ll be fine, hermana, we’ll win this.”
You nod again, feeling sweat on your brow. She squeezes your hand three times and faces forwards, walking out while you follow. The game went smoothly and you sailed to a 3-0 win easy peasy.
At training a few days later, you arrive at the changing room a little energized only to be met with screaming.
You stood at the door and listened carefully, not wanting to interrupt anyone when you recognized the voice yelling her head off.
Alexia was yelling.
“She’s my best fucking friend, how could you make me choose?!”
“Well, she’s all you talk about! If I wanted to know her, I would have wanted to date her instead of you!”
“You’re not good enough for her!”
“I’m not good enough?” Jenni laughs, “You’re the one who got rejected when told her I love you while piss fucking drunk! May I add that we were already dating at that point; I knew you loved her and not me!”
”How dare you?!”
You hear bags being zipped and boots clamoring all over the changing room. Alexia storms out of the room and you back away from the door just in time. She doesn’t even see you standing there pretending you didn’t hear them, seeing Jenni try to run after. She, unlike Alexia, notices you standing there looking like a deer in headlights.
“Speak of the devil,” Jenni quips mockingly, “you were listening weren’t you?”
“You didn’t make it hard not to,” you say as you roll your eyes, pushing past Jenni to put your kit bag in your cubby and run after Alexia.
“Ale!” You call, running through the stadium looking for your best friend. She’s sobbing in her car, crying more when you knock on the passenger window gently. The doors unlock and you quietly climb in.
“You heard.”
“I didn’t get there in time to hear all of it, no.”
“Jenni’s leaving,” Alexia takes a deep breath to stop herself from crying before she continues, “and she’s asked me to come with her.”
“Why did you say no?”
The tears start to flow again and she cries harder, now unable to catch her breath. She grabs the steering wheel and still can’t breathe so you take her hands in yours and hope she calms like you do.
Her panic attack exhausts her and she’s in no condition to drive. A quick text to the group chat and you’ve got both your bags in her car and are on the way to her house. She’s passed out in the passenger seat and snoring a little, still holding your hand in the center console.
Your hand holding hers feels familiar and comfortable. You’re sure she’s passed out and can’t really feel anything but unbeknownst to you, she was quite aware of her surroundings and knew she was close to home.
Close to you.
You really don’t want to wake her but you’ve pulled into her driveway and can hear dogs barking so you tap on her shoulder gently. You’re tempted to kiss the back of her hand but you refrain from it, feeling the restraint tug at your heart.
She rouses and smiles softly at you, eyes puffy and nose red. She shuffles into the house with you right behind her.
You make yourself at home, brewing two cups of tea. It fills the house with a lovely smell of jasmine, which eases your anxiety. She takes a mug from you, eyes filling with fresh tears. Her body shakes with fear, brain in overdrive.
She was always open with you. But this time, her lips stayed sealed. It broke your heart.
“Alexia, talk to me,” you whisper, eyes searching for hers. She doesn’t look at you, teary eyes instead glued to the floor.
She sips the tea and it burns her tongue, the sudden rush of pain makes the tears she was fighting with win. They stain her cheeks and reveal her true feelings.
She loved you.
And she has for longer than she cares to admit.
Dating Jenni was just an attempt at denying her feelings. She loved you. But she loved Jenni too.
It was like she was having an out of body experience. She was sitting right in front of you and she had never seen like you she did right this second. But she knew now that she did in fact see you this way.
She looked at you differently from Jenni. She took care of you differently from Jenni. She saw you differently from Jenni. She may have loved both of you, but there was a clear difference.
She did those things differently because she loved you differently.
She didn’t know you felt the same. You loved Alexia too. Boy did your heart break when they first got together. You wanted to break things she got you. You couldn’t wear her clothes you had in your closet anymore. You pulled away when all you wanted to do was crawl into her skin.
You had to lie that day at the bar. You had to break her heart. She loved someone else didn’t she? You couldn’t let her be hung up on someone like you when she had someone like Jenni begging for her attention.
She was La Reina. Two time Ballon d’Or winner. Queen of FC Barcelona.
You were just…you.
“I love you!” Alexia yells; fresh hot tears stream down her face. She looked like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. There was a clear release of tension in the room and it was magical.
When her lips touched yours, there were feelings shared that could be left unsaid. Feelings only the two of you needed to know. She loved Jenni, and there was a conversation to be had tomorrow but for today, she had all that she needed to make it through the night. And quite possibly the rest of her life.
Alexia pulled you into her lap, hands resting on your waist in a deathly grip, clearly afraid you’d just disappear into thin air.
“I love you too,” you whispered against her lips, feeling her perfect smile adorn her face again.
As Alexia held you in her arms the rest of the night, you realized something. You were not just…you.
You were the girl who took a ball to the face like a champ, though it left your cheek bruised for days, all because a 4 year old was too shy to say hello.
You were the girl who fought a boy twice your size when he tackled Alexia dangerously.
You were the girl who walked in and out of her house like it was your own.
You were the girl so scared of walking out onto the pitch you needed your best friend to hold your hand.
You were the girl Alexia, from the moment she laid her eyes on you at the kindergarten playground, wanted to be friends with her entire life.
You were wanted, needed and cherished by your best friend. But there was more, so much more left for you to uncover.
Was the next step in your relationship a line you wanted to cross?
“Alexia?” you asked, looking back at her. She was smiling and you felt your heart melt. But you remained steadfast.
“Sí?”
“What are you going to say to Jenni?”
Alexia’s smile dropped, her arms around you slacked and her face turned into fear.
What was she going to say to Jenni? She was going to break her heart for sure but what would be the right words? Were there the right words to tell your girlfriend you loved someone else and you were only with her because you were in denial?
The night dragged on that day, on one hand you were over the moon to have Alexia to yourself but you felt bad for Jenni who was also a close friend, knowing she was in for a day she would want over as fast as possible tomorrow.
“Jenni, just listen to me, please!”
“There’s nothing to listen to, you’re in love with her and not me. Moving away was a good idea, that way I won’t be a constant reminder of a barrier in your relationship,” Jenni says calmly, standing right in front of the door outside the changing room. She turns, a pained smile on her face.
“You two deserve each other. Please don’t break her heart like you did mine.”
Alexia asked you to wait outside and you did, trying your best not to eavesdrop like before. Jenni walks out and you can see how hard she’s trying not to cry. She sees you and sits beside you, an awkward silence in the air. There was a war going on inside you, one that made your anxiety skyrocket. You were shaking, sweat building up on your brow. You tried to hold your own hand to no avail. It was nothing like Alexia’s palm in yours.
Jenni takes your sweaty palm and rubs the back with her other.
“Please don’t feel like this is your fault,” she starts, looking at your hand in hers. “We were having problems from the start. She has always loved you in a way that was reserved only for you.”
You look at her and tears of your own begin to prickle. You felt bad for her; you should be comforting her since she was the one affected by all this and yet here she was comforting you.
“Jenni…”
“No, please. She loved me,” she pauses, taking a deep breath, “but she loved you more. More than anything in this world. She told me she was terrified of losing you when we got together. She was always your girl. She was never mine to love.”
Jenni stands, leaving your hand in your lap and using hers to wipe her tears.
“She always wished I was you," Jenni says, taking a deep breath, "now she’s got her wish. I just hope she doesn't regret it.”
#alexia putellas#alexia putellas x reader#woso#woso imagines#woso community#woso one shot#alexia putellas angst#woso fanfics#espwnt#spain wnt#jenni hermoso#woso x reader
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‘Tis The Season
Hello my ducklings! I have pure filth for you, and it’s been so long since I’ve given you guys any Wolfrry so I figure you’d enjoy some after a little drought!
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Warnings- breeding, knotting, use of the word 'bitch', degrading, unprotected sex, wolfrry, its an au so the world is diff, etc
WC- 2k
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The beginning of spring was always a magical time in the pack.
The snow melted and little flowers began to sprout. The sunshine warmed them up, the crisp air and emerging leaves sent a new layer of hope into the coming year. It was the true new year for them, something that put a spring in their step and warmth in their hearts, defrosting them from winter
Y/N sat in Harry’s office, next to the tall alpha as he looked over her plans for the pack gardens. “I think that’s a good idea, but I’d move the peas over to the side.” She mused, letting her body melt as the man’s arms wrapped firmly around her body. As much as she knew she needed to pull away in order to finish these plans… it was the season, wasn’t it? “H… We really need to finish the plots.” Her breathy voice echoed in his office as his hands lifted her dress up and his teeth grazed her mating mark. She shuddered, sagging in his arms- the man was playing dirty, but that was the one spot that would make anyone melt. Having your mate brush it, lick it, press it? It felt like the aftershocks of an orgasm. “Y-You’re not playing fair.”
“No, I’m not.” He hummed. “Because you’re mine, and I don’t have to. You can play hard to get all you want, little mate, but I’ve been able to smell that sweet cunt since you’ve left our bedroom this morning.” The accusation made her want to fight- but there was no ground to stand on. She had been helplessly horny all morning. It was the beginning of the mating season, the breeding season, and she was panting for it. Of course she was trying her best to be a good leader, to get on top of plans, but was it so wrong for her to want to look at her strong, handsome, powerful mate? To see his green eyes darken when he caught her scent, to have him corner her and have his way with her because that's what she dreamt about? It was just in their nature.
“S-So what?” There was one last stitch effort to pretend she wanted to work on the plans. “I’m always wet for you.” It was the truth. It was hard not to be when the man had proved time and time again he was the most incredible lover to exist, that he knew her body like the back of his hand.
“I know that. All I’ve got t’do is walk into a room and you’ll roll on your knees and present that perfect cunt for me to fuck.” He chuckled, making her whine. She always got worked up when he talked to her like that. “That’s why it’s so fuckin’ funny t’me that you’re trying to continue this charade. Acting like the point of being in here is for that blueprint when in reality, all you want is for your mate to bend you over this desk and knot you up.” He was quick about it, following his words as he roughly bent her over. Her tits crinkled the papers they’d just been working on as she let out a gasp, her dress being flipped up and a rough palm slapped the curve of her ass.
“Look at you. My sweet little bitch, came all prepared for my cock.” He crooned, using his foot to knock her legs open. She was obedient, deciding not to even feign a fight because this was exactly what she wanted. “Should spank this ass raw for running about the den with no panties on and your silky cunt bare for anyone to see, but we both know all of them have no mistake on who you belong to.” He’d taken her so many times where people could see, let them watch as he plowed her into a whimpery, sobbing mess. It was no secret that their Alpha was the one who owned Y/N.
“M’sorry, Alpha.” She bleated, cheek pressed against the wood as she heard the distinct clink of a belt buckle and the pull of leather through the loops on his pants. It sent a wave of excitement through her, knowing damn well she was in for it. She’d poked the beast, literally and metaphorically, and now she was going to suffer- or enjoy- the consequences.
“I don’t really think you are, my love.” He murmured. “I think that you’ve been gagging for my cock and I didn’t fuck you hard enough this morning. Was nice and soft with you, showered you off and everything. Let you go about your day… But I didn’t fuck you hard like you beg for. Silly me, making love to my mate, my wife, during the breeding season.” His tongue clicked as she heard his pants fall down to his ankles. “I should’ve known that my pretty bitch needed to be bred properly. Needed to be fucked until your knees were weak. You’ve always been a bit of a whore for it, haven’t you my Goddess?” Y/N couldn’t think of anything other than his cock that had begun to rub through her embarrassingly wet folds, a soft keen leaving her mouth.
Harry was right. She was desperate and hot, needy for him in all the ways he’d just described. Y/N couldn’t deny that she really did need to be fucked stupid during this time of year. Don’t get her wrong- she adored when he was so soft and sweet with her, whispering about how perfect and beautiful she was. But when this time of year came around, she wanted to be used. To be filled and fucked and see his most primal part come out. It was only natural.
“Please, I want it.” Her pathetic simper came out as she wriggled her hips, trying to taunt him. She knew damn well that he would give it to her but she was going to play into it even more.
“I know you do. Could’ve just told me you needed a good fuck, but you like to play games instead.” He wouldn’t admit that he liked those games just as much. The sharp slap on her other ass cheek resounded around the room as he got her to stop teasing him with her ass shaking, notching the tip of his prick in her hole. “Since you want t’be a whore, I’ll give it to you like one.”
Her breath was stolen as he entered her in one go. The sting of the stretch made her yelp but her toes curled as she was finally full, his heavy hand pressing her down between her shoulder blades. Keeping her pinned there and pulling out just to repeat the action, she moaned loudly at his rough treatment of her. This was what she needed. A dirty, quick, hard fuck. “Yesssss…” She elongated the word only to be cut off by a wet gasp, his hips thrusting into her again. “Give it to me, please. Please, Alpha.”
“Now she’s begging.” He laughed,a cruel undertone to his words. “Pretty slut is begging for my cock like she should have done to begin with. I know you need it, but I forget every year just how much of a desperate, wet cunt you’ve got.” His pace started to steady, rocking her on the desk while she whimpered at each press inside of her. Her body was quite literally made for this, made for the stretching and filling and being knotted but Harry’s cock was fucking big. The biggest she’d ever seen, and people sure as hell weren’t shy about nudity around here.
“Now you can’t even talk. Finally got a prick stretching you open and that smart little mouth can’t form words. What about those plans, huh?” His snicker was followed by a harsh thrust. “Silly girl. Should’ve just gotten on your knees and begged.”
Harry loved this season. Loved how Y/N became a little minx, slinking around and trying to figure out how to get him to pounce on her. Like he wouldn’t drop everything to give it to her if she just asked. It was entertaining to make her do the work for it, like a little game. As much as he said he didn’t like them, he liked feeling her desire, knowing she was a little shy even still about asking him for sex- except when she was in heat.
“M’sorry, I just-” She whined as his cock began to fuck into her a bit faster. “I just want you all the time. I can’t help it.” If she had it her way, they wouldn’t leave the bedroom. The scents were crazy right now, everyone throwing them around to attract each other if they weren’t mated. All she wanted was his scent smeared all over her, she wanted it coating her body and there to be no question, even if they had visitors.
“I know you do. My beautiful cockslut. I love that you want it so badly. I’ll give it to you…” His words melted into her being as she felt a thumb brush against her ass, gently pressing in- and she was gone. He knew her weaknesses and this was one of the biggest.
Y/N’s brain could only focus on the pleasure. His hands on her and his growling, her cheek being pressed into the wood as she panted. She’d probably have bruises on her hip bones but she’d wear them with pride. It felt like she was just a hole to fuck and that’s how she wanted it. Letting him use her and reaping the benefits of his primal instincts raising up with his pretty mate splayed out for him. She lost count of the moans she let out as her nails sharpened, scratching the side of the desk as she began to feel his knot.
“Please Alpha, Please, please, please, I want it.” Her pathetic mewls only seemed to spur him on. “I want your knot, I want your cum, please give it to me. Give it to me, give it… I’ll be your good girl, I’ll be your bitch, please-” Y/N sobbed into the wood as he pounded her into her end. She squirted, releasing a gush of wetness over his thighs and trickling down her own as her thighs shook, a high pitched sound leaving her mouth as she felt him give one sharp thrust to be filled with his knot.
She felt it expand, her whimpery mess of a face being pulled up slightly as he folded his body on top of her, grinding inside of her cunt to continue her orgasm and work his cum inside of her. “There you go, goddess. Perfect little breeding bitch, s’what you are. Made to take my knot, my cum, my children.” He growled, babbling as his teeth grazed her mark and made her shudder. His eyes flashed before he closed them, grabbing her hair in his fist and angling her mouth so he could kiss her with the grumbles in his chest calming to a purr as he was stuck with her. Her orgasm had splashed all over the both of them, his balls and thighs wet and her poor cunt stretched and full. Her ass would need a salve from his spanking, but that’s how he knew it was good. She’d been flaunting herself around his office for a reason, and now they were both sated… for a while, anyways.
“I love you.” She slurred, bleary eyes looking up at him. “Love you Alpha.” Her sweet words softened his heart, a fond smile tilting up the corners of his lips. No matter how rough he went on her during sex, this woman was his soul mate. His goddess. No one could ever comprehend how much he loved her.
“I love you more than the moon and the stars.” He whispered, nudging his nose against hers sweetly. “My sweet Goddess. You own me.”
#harry styles smut#harry fanfic#harry styles one shot#harry styles au#harry styles fanfic#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles writing#harry styles blurb#harry styles blurbs
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