#light angst and fluff | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pencil-n-pen · 4 months ago

Text

I WANT AN INNOCENT LOVE

.��︎ ݁˖

──────────────────────

alexandria! rick grimes x fawn! fem! reader

masterlist | kofi

summary: you’re a new addition to alexandria. Rick’s just looking out for his group. That’s the only reason he finds himself drawn to you. Nothing else.

cw: LEGAL age gap (it is big, i imagine reader in her early 20s) canon typical depictions of violence, Rick is kinda mean to reader at first, Rick kind of struggles with the age gap a little, dom! Rick, slight possessive rick

tags/tropes: shy and skittish reader, she’s not used to dealing with people but she’s not helpless, honestly she’s just a sweet and soft person who became what everyone becomes in the apocalypse, hurt/comfort, insecurity, touch-starved reader a bit, YEARNING, no saviors or whisperers just Rick and everyone living happily in alexandria. Daryl is also here and he’s kind of like ur uncle bc i love daryl and i say so

a/n: i have nothing to say other than this is so insanely self indulgent it’s not even funny. nobody asked for this but writing it has kept me sane while i’m couch ridden. everything is terrible rn but rick grimes <3333

songs i listened to while writing: We'll Never Have Sex by Leith Ross, Work Song by Hozier (Rick's theme song) you were mine by Esha Tewari, Do I Wanna Know- Hozier's Cover, Somethin' Stupid by Nancy & Frank Cinatra, Lover, You Should've Come Over by Jeff Buckley (i'm so not normal about that entire album) Under Your Spell by Snow Strippers, Little Bit by Lykke Li (the original not the remix)

title taken from Under Your Spell by Snow Strippers

──────────────────────

₊ ⊹❀

You were just a little thing when you showed up at the gates.

All wide-eyed and skittish at the tree-line, clothes hanging awkwardly off your frame. Scuffed and dirty, when Rick goes up to the tower to scout you out.

You don’t quite come close enough for anyone to get any kind of information on you. Name, age, where you’ve been, what you’re doing at the gates.

These are all questions Rick, as leader, needs answers to.

If he could just convince you to get close enough.

Under different circumstances, he’d just let you do whatever it is you’re planning on doing, but the lurking is starting to make people uneasy. And he figured he ought to do something to ease their concerns. Easiest way is to either get you inside the walls or find answers to those questions.

You’re real good at staying out of reach, though. And you never stay in one place for long. By the time two weeks have gone by, you’ve made it around the entire length of the walls. Just to end up right where you started: the gates.

It’s just past the crack of dawn- dew is still lingering on the plants and grass and the sun’s rays have yet to actually provide warmth. Rick is up, making his rounds and checking in when one of the guards on rotation lets him know that you’re at the gates. Only time you’ve ever been that close.

So they’re opened, and you amble in— light-footed and unsure. Honestly, you remind him a bit of Daryl with your obvious hesitance to be in the company of other people and clear inclination towards nature. But where Daryl is hard edges and reclusiveness, you’re… softer.

A small group of people —curious onlookers, mostly— forms behind Rick as he saunters towards you, and he watches the moment you see the reality of your decision and begin to regret it.

He comes to a stop a few feet away from you, letting the silence hang in the air for a bit.

He finally takes you in with his own two eyes, without the aid of the binoculars, and he examines. Catalogs the nervous twitch of your hands and scuffs and scrapes he can see on the visible scraps of skin. Eyes the way you worry your lip between your teeth and can’t decide if you’re going to keep staring at him or look away- your mind clearly torn between vigilance and submission.

“You finish your tour of Alexandria?” He asks dryly.

You blink up at him, eyes wide. “Are you the leader of this safe-zone?”

He nods. “Sure am.”

You begin fiddling with your fingers absentmindedly. The small motion draws his attention back to your hands, where me notices bandaids practically covering the entire surface of your skin. He files the information away in his head for later.

“Are you currently accepting new members?”

He can’t help but crack a smile at your question. The way you phrase it and your nervous demeanor remind him so much of the times before the dead started walking— you look like a college student looking for a job, not somebody trying to find refuge here, after the end of the world.

“Depends,” He rests his hands on his hips, and he notes the way your eyes dart to the gun at his side before back up to him, “You got any skills to offer? You alone? Or do you got a group waitin’ for you?”

Your lip is raw from where you release it from your teeth.

“I’m really good at mending. I’m a proficient hunter. I can hold my own in a fight. And I’m alone.”

At the admittance of your lack of company, you shift back a few steps, a subtle re-distribution of weight.

Ain’t been socialized a whole bunch, Rick thinks to himself. He’s willing to bet you either don’t have a lot of positive experiences with large groups of people or you just plain ain’t been around em’ much.

He hums. “You killed anybody?”

“Walkers or live?”

“Either.”

You shift your shoulders. He’s starting to wonder just how many nervous actions you have.

“I don’t think anybody lives alone who hasn’t killed walkers.”

“And the living?”

You don’t move, but your eyes look to the ground, not at him.

Shame. Fear.

“Twice.”

“How come?”

“They wanted my supplies. Wanted me dead. I decided I didn’t want to die.”

He looks you over again. You really are a cute little thing. He thinks, absentmindedly in the back of his head, that something like you shouldn’t have bloody, bandaid covered hands. Shouldn’t have a kill count.

But he dismisses the thought. The end of the world leaves no room for those unwilling to do what’s necessary.

He dips his head. “We’ll get you settled in,” He jerks his head to the some of the guys behind him. “They’ll get you sorted out. Get along, now.”

You slink past him, distance carefully measured as you go.

Your eyes don’t quite leave him, though. There’s a moment- either you pause or his mind slows. Maybe a bit of both. But the air stills, and your gaze locks on him for the first time since he saw you, nestled in that tree line. The memory is clear and vivid- the sun shining through the trees, dappling you in shades of amber and grey. And then he’s here, and you’re looking up at him, eyelashes fluttering, and the sun has risen just enough that it casts a similar glow, the only difference now he can see up close just how the light catches on your face, just how he knows your features would look so different, so much softer if you were cleaned, if someone minded the cuts and scrapes.

And then you step away, and he snaps out of his reverie. He blinks a few times at your retreating form, shakes his head, and then busy’s himself with other work. There’s always something to be done.

But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get the image of you gazing up at him, bathed in the early morning sun out of his mind.

—

A few days pass, and Rick sees little of you. He’s almost positive it’s on purpose. The few times he does see you, you look scared. And then, generally, you manage to make some sort of fleet-footed escape. The repeated spotting and fleeing reminds him of the time he accompanied Daryl on a hunt and startled a doe.

He can’t quite figure out why you’re afraid of him, though. He remembers being fairly decent to you when you arrived, and tried coaxing you towards the gates politely before you’d shown up on your own.

The sight of your scared expression ends up stuck fast in his head, usually super-imposed over the image of you on that morning at the gates. Two different versions of you, neither making any sort of sense.

He decides that it’s probably best that he stick away, if he scares you. You’ll settle, your ruffled feathers’ll smooth.

And he’ll stop thinking about you.

—

Neither do you settle or does he stop thinking about you.

He watches you from a distance, careful. You just… don’t relax. Ever. You creep away from every possible opportunity to connect with others like it might grow jaws and bite- you shrink back or freeze. Like you think if you play dead, if you don’t move, they’ll leave you alone.

He’s wondering what you hoped to accomplish by seeking refuge in Alexandria if this is how you act. You’re going to have a bad go of things if this is your plan. Or maybe you plain haven’t even thought that far.

He snags Daryl’s arm as he passes by.

“Wha—“

“The new girl,” Is all Rick says, still watching you remarkably avoid everyone who passes you. “She’s real skittish.”

Daryl follows his eyeline, finding you easy enough.

“Mm. She ain’t settlin’?”

“No.”

Daryl just hums again. “Well, she ain’t got nobody, does she?”

“So?”

The hunter shrugs. “Can’t relax. Ain’t got nobody to watch her back, take a watch. She’ll settle. Might take her a bit of time.”

Rick huffs. “She’s afraid of me.”

“No she ain’t,” Daryl snorts, “And since when does Rick Grimes care whether other people like him well enough?”

Rick doesn’t respond, just keeps watching you.

Daryl follows Rick’s gaze, then breathes out a low sigh.

“She is a pretty little thing, ain’t she?”

“That is not what this is about.”

Daryl levels him with a look. “Sure it’s not.“

“She’s half my age. I could damn well be her father.”

“But ya ain’t.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Then what is the point, Rick?” Daryl sighs again, crossing his arms. “Either do something about it or move on. You got too many people dependin’ on ya for you to be eyeing up flighty young girls.”

Rick rolls his shoulders. “You make me out to be such a creep.”

The other man claps him on the shoulder. “Then stop acting like one.”

He attempts to take Daryl’s advice to heart. It’s an annoying truth that Daryl always knows exactly what Rick needs to hear. Not necessarily what he wants to hear, but what needs to be said.

And he is being creepy. He shakes his head as he walks away. Watching you, thinking about you. He can’t. That’s— you’re too young to be thinking any kind of thing like that.

No matter how there’s this half second, before you look scared, where you almost look relieved. No matter how he wants to personally take care of the bumps and scrapes on your face, wants to take off the bandaids and examine what’s beneath them.

Daryl was right. He needs to focus. Carl, Judith, everyone- they need him.

You’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.

—

You’ve gone missing.

Rick has been doing his best to heed Daryl’s advice— he stopped looking for you in the crowds, stopped trying to figure you out, stopped watching you from afar. He even made a fairly decent attempt to stop thinking about you. Not that the effort proves especially fruitful, but he tried, damnit.

All of those efforts go straight out the window when Daryl tells him that no one’s seen you since yesterday.

It takes him two seconds to grab his gun and follow Daryl out the door.

He barely remembers to tell Carl where he’s going, which scares him, because he doesn’t quite understand what’s been so invasive to his mind and day-to-day activities about you. Your eyes, the soft curve of your cheek, how you might feel in his hands.

They cloud his judgment. Make him do stupid reckless things like search Alexandria high and low for any sign of you.

He doesn’t find any. He searches the place you’re staying— nothing. Only sign of life is the unmade bed and bandaid wrappers in the trashcan by the bed.

He sighs deep and low as he stands over your bed. “Think she had enough? High-tailed it?”

Daryl leans against the doorway. “Nah. She likes it here well enough. She ain’t stupid enough to leave a good thing like this.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve spoken to her?”

Daryl shrugs. “Few times. She don’t like talkin’ too much, but I think she figures her and I similar.”

“She wrong?”

He scratches his beard. “A little. She fears situations and people the way a prey animal does. S’ why she’s a runner.”

Rick mulls Daryl’s words over as they scan the rest of the place but, of course, find nothing. There are no signs that you, specifically, live here. Nothing personal. Just the unmade bed and the bandaid wrappers in the trashcan.

The pair of them turn the entirety of Alexandria over in a matter of hours. He’s just about to call it quits, either wait for you to come back or send out a search in the morning when Daryl comes back over, telling him you’re at the gates.

As in, outside of them.

Opposite of how things went when you first showed up at the gates, people clear a path as he stalks towards you. They give the pair of you a nice, wide bubble. Even Daryl stays a few feet behind him.

The first thing he notices is that you’re covered in blood. From the way you’re holding yourself, most of it isn’t your own. There’s a backpack slung over your shoulder, but it’s not your usual one.

You won’t meet his eyes.

He stops an arms length away from you. “Where the hell were you?”

You shift backwards, away from him ever so slightly. “Scavenging.”

“Mhm, interestin’,” He says, rubbing his jaw, “Because the last scavenging party was yesterday. And you came back with everybody, so I’ll ask again. Where were you.”

Your eyes flick up from the ground for a moment, eying the people that have gathered to stare. He watches you mentally count them all, then attempt to put more distance between yourself and everybody else. Emphasis on attempt, because the second you take a step back, you stumble, wincing before righting yourself and going right back to scanning the crowd.

He works his jaw, anger and annoyance simmering just under the surface of his skin. He’s not going to get anything out of you here.

He grabs your wrist and turns, set in the direction of the medics.

He drags you along behind him, ignoring the little huffs or sharp intakes of pain when you walk a little too hard or too fast on your bad ankle.

You trip a few times as you go, and when you almost take Rick down with you, he sighs, pausing and turning.

The expression you give him is full of fear. He realizes, in the moment, that you might not remember where the medics are, so as far as you know, he’s angry at you and dragging you to a secluded area.

Guilt strikes him hard and fast, right in his chest.

Damn.

It’s too early to feel guilty about the random girl he allowed into Alexandria. Frightened eyes and shy nature aside.

He shakes his head once. “We’re going to see a doctor. Here, put your arm around me.”

He has to lower himself a little for you to drape your arm across the back of his neck. Your fingertips brush his shoulder, and he can feel the way you’re shaking.

It’s slow going from then on, with Rick acting as your crutches.

“Where were you? And don’t bullshit me.”

“Scavenging.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” You nudge the backpack still strapped to your back. “I was… looking for something. I can’t look for it with the others.”

“What the hell is it that you can’t look for it with the others?”

“A body.”

Your response hangs in the air, thick and heavy.

“…Family or friend?”

“Friend. Haven’t found her yet.”

Something clicks into place in his mental file about you. He feels like he just gained a new piece of the puzzle.

He readjusts your weight over his shoulder, tucking you a little closer and steadfastly pretending he doesn’t hear the little gasp you let out at the contact. Whether it was from pain or surprise, he can’t let himself think about it.

“Don’t go out by yourself. If you need to look, take Daryl with you.”

You sag a bit into him. “Okay.”

He glances down at you from the corner of his eye. You’re… pliant. You’d agreed quickly, and showed absolutely no fight or unwillingness when he, admittedly, manhandled you. You’d followed dutifully behind him and then simply allowed him to position your arms the way he wanted them.

There’s another little parasite that burrows into his brain right there. Right as he’s got you in his grip.

He slows to a stop, a little question forming in his head. He slips the arm that had been wrapped around your waist away, instead curls his fingers across your chin and jaw. He tilts your head up, looks down at your face, searching it for… something.

He meets no resistance. You only stare up at him, doe eyes blinking. He tilts your head to the left, then to right, and still, nothing.

Huh.

He lets go, and you shudder, a full body shiver. And he thinks, in this moment, that he could do whatever he wanted, and you might let him. He could break you, like this.

It’s a very dangerous thing, he decides. Because he doesn’t want to break you. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He wants to peel back the bandaids and see what’s under them. He wants to scrub the dirt from your face and give you soft clothes —his clothes— not those tattered rags that hang off your body.

You might let him do whatever he wants, but you’re the one who holds this power over him. You’re the one who made him sick— filled his head and clouded his judgement and made him the kind of man he never used to be.

But he can’t say any of that. Can’t even act on it. Not with someone young enough to be his daughter. He has a daughter for Christ’s sake. And a son.

So he just wraps his arm back around your waist and helps you to the medics.

—

“Rick,” Daryl says one afternoon, leaned on the post on the porch, “You’re drivin’ me crazy, here.”

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to help with that.”

“The fawn.”

He raises an eyebrow. “The fawn?”

“You know. That nervous little thing you keep pretendin’ you don’t want in your bed.”

“Daryl.”

The man just keeps fiddling with his crossbow. “What?”

“I can’t just— she’s half my age.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I got kids to think about, and—“

“Carl don’t give a shit and Judith is ten. Only thing she’s concerned about is sneakin’ sweets.”

He entertains the notion in his head, thinks about what pursuing you might be like.

Something occurs to him.

“She ever get close to you?”

“No,” Daryl huffs, always knowing exactly what Rick means, “Keeps about an arm’s distance away. No matter what. She’s been inchin’ closer recently, but not by much.”

His hand on your face, moving it this way and that without any resistance at all, your body pliant in his grip—

“Hm,” Is all Rick says, crossing his arms.

“Why fawn?”

Daryl shrugs. “Looks like one. Kinda acts like one, around you.”

“No she doesn’t.”

Daryl levels him with a look. “Yes, she does. And based on the way you’ve been actin’, you like it.”

He opens his mouth to refute the point because no, he doesn’t like it, he just constantly thinks about how far he could take it, what you would let him do, if he could make you his.

And then he thinks ‘oh.’ Maybe he does like it.

He drops his hands to his hips. “What exactly am I supposed to do, then?”

“I don’t know. Ain’t my area of expertise.”

“You’re the one who knows her better, said I was drivin’ you crazy.”

“So? I don’t know jack shit about romance, Rick.”

“Well, you keep calling her a fawn. How different can it be?”

Very different, his mind supplies. You know that.

Now it’s Daryl’s turn to sigh. “Don’t overwhelm her. She’s a nervous little thing, but she likes you. Once she figures out you ain’t gonna hurt her, she’ll latch on.”

“That’s specific. You deal with fawns a lot?”

He snorts. “No. I’m fuckin’ guessin’ here.”

The two men fall into silence, Daryl fiddling or cleaning his bow— Rick ain’t paying that much attention to him.

He’s thinking about you. You, you, you. Your eyes and your face and your hands and the figure you carefully keep hidden under layers of clothing, even under the hot Virginia sun.

Fawn, he thinks to himself.

Fitting.

—

He doesn’t make a plan or something stupid like that. He just thinks. And then he decides.

“You’re really coming with us?” Glenn asks, pack slung over his shoulder.

“Yep,” Rick says, holstering his gun, “Goin’ stir crazy in there. Just needa get out for a bit.”

You’re quiet as you get your things in order, but the group doesn’t bat an eye. They’re used to your silence, it seems.

You can’t seem to tear your eyes away from him, though. You look away every time you think he’s looking at you, but he’s good at looking at you out of the corner of his eye, so he sees it.

Throughout the run, you hover near him, never quite going out of range of his field of vision. He’s impressed by how quietly and efficiently you work- you spot things even he wouldn’t have. All the while watching for walkers, and of course, subtly eyeing Rick.

Despite being the leader, he heads up the back and watches for stragglers. He didn’t really come out cause he was stir-crazy, anyway.

He came out for you. He wanted to watch you work, wanted to do it with you.

To your credit, you work well with the others. You’re a woman of few words with them, but you help where you can and stay civil. Even if you don’t quite get close to any of them.

Except Rick.

As they’re scavenging an abandoned house, a few walkers shuffle out from the trees. Not enough to be a problem— the group outnumbers them easy. But you’re all busy getting supplies and he’s trying to keep an eye out, so he takes them out, one by one.

It really isn’t a huge thing for him, couple walkers ain’t really a big deal, but you notice.

Your eyes are trained on him, clothes now dirty with blood and gore.

He tilts his head, then makes his way over to you.

“You, um,” You say as he gets closer, voice a little hoarse, “Are you alright?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m fine. It’ll take more than a few walkers to take me out.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He snorts a little laugh. “You ain’t too good at this whole conversation thing, huh?”

You flush, looking away. “Sorry. I’m just not… used to having them.”

You look up at him, earnest. “But I’ve been practicing!”

Oh, lord have mercy over his poor soul. You’ve done a full 180– turned from being afraid of him to very obviously wanting his approval.

“That’s good, that’s good. Who you been practicin’ with?”

“Daryl.”

“Now, that ain’t no good.”

You frown, shifting in place. “It’s not?”

“Well, it’s good that you’re tryin’,” He amends, “But Daryl ain’t good for conversation practicin’. He’s a little too much like you. Much too inclined to just sit in silence.”

“Oh.”

You pause, taking your lip between your teeth and mulling something over in your head.

“Would you, um.” You look up at him, clearly nervous.

And he can’t help himself really, from leaning down into your space a bit, a low “Hmm?” humming from his chest.

Your reaction is instant. This close, he can see the exact moment a flush crawls across your face, to even the tips of your ears.

And he’d suspected, you know, based on your behavior with him. But this— cold hard evidence that he makes you nervous. That you want him on you.

It’s cute. Real cute.

You steel yourself against your own nervousness, and he wants to coo at you.

“Would you practice with me?”

He leans back against the post, slides his hands into his pockets. “Course. Ain’t much to it.”

You smile. It’s small, a quiet sort of thing, but it’s there. He made you smile.

You gesture to the house behind you. “I’m. Gonna go back to scavenging. Um. Thanks.”

You turn on your heel, fleeing back into the house. He watches you go, something settling right into place in his chest.

You stick a little closer to him for the rest of the run.

—

After that day, you begin seeking him out. You don’t approach him right away, preferring to to trail behind him for a little bit before finally making a move.

The move being a quiet: “Hi, Rick.”

Today’s no different, other than it being a little later when you do find him. He’s taking a little stroll around, as is his usual. It… settles him, to see everything alright with his own two eyes.

Settles him even more when he hears the quiet patter of your footsteps behind him.

He chuckles. “Afternoon, darlin’.”

Your foot steps speed up, fall into step somewhat beside him. “Hi, Rick.”

“Hi,” He says, smile tugging at his lips. “How was your day?”

You clasp your hands behind your back as you walk. “Good. Weren’t many walkers on today’s run. I got something for Judith.”

“Oh? Let’s see it, then.”

You take something out of your pocket and hold it out to him.

It’s a pocket knife. One of those multi-tool ones.

And it’s pink.

“I know it’s a cliche, the girls knife being pink, and she is only ten, but I saw it and I thought of her, and—“

“It’s perfect,” He interrupts before you can start spiraling. “She’s gonna love it.”

You deflate almost instantly. “Oh, good. I wasn’t sure.”

You walk for a few minutes before remembering the point of you coming up to him.

“Um. How was your day?”

He huffs a little, too fond to be upset. “Fairly decent. Ain’t got too much going on now.”

“That’s… good?”

He shrugs. “Just a little borin’. How’s that ankle of yours?”

This is usually how your conversations go. A few easy, back and forth questions. Easing you into talking to people, keeping conversations going. You’ve slowly gotten more confident. You talk a little longer, voice sounds a little more expressive.

“Fine.” You say, a little too quickly.

He narrows his eyes. “Really? No pain at all?”

It’s the looking away that sells it. You never look at him when you’re lying. Can’t stand to.

“No. It’s fine.”

He kicks his foot out a little, the toe of his boot just barely catching your ankle.

It’s a little more effective than he wanted. You let out a little yelp of pain and stumble forward, ankle almost immediately buckling.

He darts forward, catching you under the stomach with one arm.

You hang there a little, arms dangling.

“Fine, huh?” He hefts you up, so you’re back to standing upright, though now, visibly favoring your ankle. “So what’d the doctor tell you when I dropped you off?”

“Rest, ice, compression, and elevation.”

“And which of those four have you been ignorin’?”

“…”

“Hey,” He says, tapping the side of your jaw with two fingers. “Don’t lie to me.”

“All of them,” You wince, “I just didn’t want to be useless. I can walk on it fine. You haven’t even noticed until now!”

Your voice goes a little high at the end, a little desperate.

He thinks about how animals that are lower on the food rung don’t show pain. A deer will break a leg and keep walking until it drops, till it slows too much and something picks it off.

But you ain’t an animal, and nothing’s gonna pick you off.

“That’s true,” He says, “But that don’t make it right. You’re just prolonging the healing process.”

You look down. “…You were mad. I didn’t want to make you more upset by being useless.”

Ah. So that’s what it’s all about.

His approval, once again.

“I’d rather have you useless for a week than useless forever because you didn’t rest properly,” He ignores the hypocrisy of it, the fact that he’s ignored medical advice more times than he can count.

“I really am fine, mostly,” You say meekly, “It’s stopped hurting when I walk. It’s just a little unstable.”

“I still want you taking it easy for a little, you hear me?”

You nod.

“Nah,” He moves, standing in front of you, more than a little in your personal space, “I wanna hear you say it. Use your words.”

It’s a little test of sorts. To see how you’ll respond. What you’ll say. If you’ll listen.

You swallow, eyelashes fluttering. “I hear you. I understand.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Take it easy.”

“That’s right,” You’ve been nice and obedient, so he figures you deserve a little reward. “Good girl.”

He hears your sharp intake of breath, watches your eyes get a little glassy.

Aw, that’s all you wanted. Just wanted to be someone’s good girl.

His good girl.

He nods towards your place. “Get along, now. Do I have to walk you to your door?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I’ll go. I will. Uh— bye.”

He watches you scamper away, gait a little uneven, hands clenched at your sides.

I can get used to this.

—

It becomes a little thing, after that.

When you’re not busy with your own responsibilities, you’re usually with him. Either right beside him, or trailing a few feet behind. Your company is quiet and calm, like waves from a lake lapping gently at the shore.

You also begin to settle in with the rest of the group. You’re still more inclined to be near Rick or, if he’s not available, Daryl, but once you become comfortable talking with people, Maggie and Glenn are quickly added to your slowly growing roster of safe people.

Judith has loved you ever since she found out that you’re the one who gave her the most beloved pink pocket knife, and enjoys babbling and talking your ear off about nothing the way that ten year olds do.

Carl grows to appreciate your presence too, finding solace in the fact that you don’t feel the need to fill silence with conversation.

You still act different when Rick is around, though. Especially when it’s just the two of you.

With everybody else, you’re subtly but very strictly independent- despite growing close with the group, you still maintain a slight distance with most of them, and prefer doing things yourself, by yourself. Old habits die hard, he supposes.

But when you’re alone, just Rick and you, those hard edges soften, and your little personal bubble pops. He’s steadily growing obsessed with the change.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. Having such a cute little thing follow him around, hanging off his words. Most days, it’s all he can do not to throw you over his shoulder and carry you to bed.

And then one day, he does. Kind of.

It must be the middle of the night, but the second he hears the knock at his door, he’s wide awake.

He hushes both Carl and Judith back to bed, then creeps to the front door with his hand on his gun. He has never, in his entire life, been awoken in the middle of the night to good news.

When he opens the door he sees you. And Daryl, but he’s really focused on you. You’ve got tears streaming down your face, you’re wearing a strange combination of sleep clothes and the clothes he’s seen you wear to do runs. Your boots are on, but not tied.

“Wha—“

“Caught her sneaking towards the gates, all shaken up. Figured it’d be wiser to take her here then back to her place.”

Daryl pats your head once. “Don’t do anythin’ stupid.”

Then Daryl’s gone, and you’re standing on Rick’s porch, still crying.

“Alright, come here now.”

He barely manages to get the door closed before you fall into him, face pressed to his chest and hands grasping the front of his shirt.

He hesitates for just a moment before wrapping his arms around you.

“Shh, shh. You’re alright, you’re alright now.”

He presses one hand to the nape of your neck, keeping you tucked close as you crack, just a little bit, nearly silent tears staining his shirt and tremors wracking your body.

Eventually, he guides you over to the couch, situates himself before helping you into a more comfortable position. He wraps your arms around his neck, your legs draped across his lap and the couch.

He keeps one hand pressed to your neck, the other rubbing slow circles on your back.

He presses his cheek to the crown of your head, breathing in deep and slow, a curl of satisfaction rising in his chest when you unconsciously mimic his breathing, silent sobs slowing, tremors fading.

Once you’ve calmed down enough, he speaks.

“What’s got you so worked up, huh? What happened sweetheart?”

The pet name slips out of his mouth unbidden, but honestly, he wouldn’t take it back.

“Nightmare,” You sniffle. “Daryl was gone and it was my fault and you hated me.”

“Well, none of that happened now, did it?”

You shake your head.

“No, that’s right. Daryl’s just fine, and I ain’t upset with you. You’re alright.”

You take in a few shaky, shuddering breaths.

He shifts, readjusting and tucking you closer to him. “Now, how come you didn’t come to me? Daryl said you were headin’ to the gates.”

You go a little rigid. “Didn’t think I was allowed. Didn’t want to wake you up for something stupid.”

“Oh, none of that now,” He nudges you away a little, taking your face in his hands. He needs eye-contact while he says this, “You need something, you come to me. I don’t care what it is, I don’t care what time it is. You come to me, you understand?”

You nod, lip wobbling a bit. “I understand.”

He thumbs your cheekbone. “Good. Now come on. Let’s get you back to bed.”

In the morning, the kids are a little surprised to see your rumpled form at the kitchen table, but both recover fairly quickly. Judith especially, who rejoices at the prospect of someone other than Carl or her father whom she can hold hostage with inane, ten year old questions.

But you never quite shake that haunted look in your eyes. Like there was something else— something more in that nightmare, something that dug its little claws in and stuck fast.

It’s all he can do but pray it doesn’t last.

—

It becomes an unspoken thing that wherever Rick is, you’re nearby. Kind of like a little puppy, following him about and hoping for a treat.

He indulges you, because he can’t really help himself in the face of those eyes.

He also knows it’s the easiest way to get you to smile, which he’s been trying to bring about more, since the nightmare. You’ve shaken that haunted expression for the most part, but every now and then, it’ll come back, if just for a few moments.

You’ve been absent most of the day today, off on a run, and he wishes it didn’t get under his skin so much to not have his favorite girl right there behind him.

You’re his stress relief, and you don’t even know it. Don’t even do anything really, just kind of linger about with your adorable little face and occasionally help with your cute little hands. He’s hopelessly obsessed.

You’re smiling when you get back, bee-lining straight for him.

“Well, well,” He says, resting his hands on his hips, “What do we have here?”

“I got you something,” You say, practically vibrating with excitement, slinging your backpack off and rifling through it.

“Oh, something for me? Can’t wait to see it.”

You pull an honest to god polaroid camera out of your bag.

“You said once that you wished you had pictures of your kids to carry with you, and I found this, and it still works, and it still has film in it. I checked.”

You thrust it out to him, and he extracts it carefully from your hands, holding it with an almost reverence.

A camera. A working film camera.

You shuffle in place, and he realizes he’s been staring at it in silence for more than a few minutes. “…Do you like it?”

“I love it,” He says honestly, voice just a little scratchy, because he doesn’t understand how someone can survive the zombie apocalypse, and still end up so damn kind, and so damn sweet. “I’m so touched, sweetheart.”

You beam up at him. If you had a tail, you’d be wagging it. He’s never understood cuteness aggression until this very moment. He just can’t. He wants to squeeze you as hard as he can or just punch a wall or some stupid shit.

God, he’s pushing forty, he needs to get this under control.

“I was really excited when I found it. Tara took a picture of me to test it.”

You pull out a little polaroid picture, film developed, and he takes that with reverence too. In the picture, you’re smiling, that same soft, little smile you do when you’re really happy about something and don’t know how to express it. Your hands show two peace signs, a knife clutched in one.

That’s my girl, he thinks.

“Might just have to keep this,” He says, dumb smile on his face.

“Really?”

“Really. You know, it’s good luck to keep a picture of a pretty girl with you.”

“Pretty?” You squeak, flushing. It’s so easy to make you flustered. He loves it.

“Mhm,” He says, tucking the photo into one of the compartments on his belt, keeping it safe. “Real pretty, I’d say.”

“Oh.” You say, more than a little breathless. “Um.”

Oh, your poor little brain.

“You need a minute?” He snorts.

“Maybe?”

He chuckles, patting the top of your head. “Oh, you’ll be fine. Better get used to it.”

“You’re pretty too,” You blurt, then your eyes widen comically. “No, wait, I meant—“

He laughs, a real, actual laugh. “Me, a grown ass man- pretty. That’s a good one.”

You bury your face in your hands, a tiny little whine escaping your throat.

“Aw, come on, now. Don’t be embarrassed. I’m very flattered you think I’m pretty.”

“S’ not what I meant.” You mumble.

“No?” He says, prying your hands off your face. “What’d you mean, then?”

You look away, unable to meet his eyes.

“You’re… handsome.” You whisper the last part, barely loud enough for him to hear.

“Aw, what’d I do to deserve a young thing like you thinking an old man like me is handsome?”

You mumble something again, a little too quiet for him to hear.

“…afe.”

He leans down. “What was that, now?”

“You’re safe.”

Oh.

That’s… not the answer he was expecting.

But he likes it.

Rick is a leader. A protector.

And you need him.

“I make you feel safe?” He hums, resisting the urge to step closer to you because you’re very much out in the open and he knows how you feel about wide open spaces, especially when there’s people in them. He’s torturing you enough as it is. “That why you linger around me, huh?”

Feeling bolder at his interest, you nod.

“You make me feel like… something special. Protected.”

Yes.

He’s always known that he needs to be needed. That he’s the kind of man who requires being a leader, taking care of what’s his, protecting.

To have verbal confirmation that he’s made you feel safe, protected, it’s.

Well it’s a lot more than he can unpack in front of the gates.

“Pretty little thing like you needs protectin’.”

You frown.

“Not because you’re incapable,” He amends, hands raised, “But because I rather like doing it.”

You lean closer, and he follows, heat rising—

“Please, save us all the pain of havin’ to watch, Rick.”

He grins, nose brushing yours, then steps back.

“Maybe stop creepin’ around, Daryl.” He calls to the other man, who just shrugs, ambling on by.

But Daryl does have a point. He doesn’t want an audience. You’re not that kind of girl.

Instead, he reaches down, snakes an arm around your waist and leads you away from the open space, towards his house instead.

“Come on, sweetheart. Think you’d rather be somewhere quiet for what I’m about to do.”

The heat radiating from your body and the shiver he feels under his palm is all the confirmation he needs.

His little fawn, finally his.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

2K notes · View notes

bookshelftreasures · 4 months ago

Text

Jealous Shadows

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Light Angst

Summary: Azriel's shadows have always been loyal, always obeyed him without question. Until now. Until they start misbehaving whenever another man so much as looks at you.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1,066

Notes: This is my first fic, I hope you like it! :)

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

The first time it happens, you don't think much of it.

You're at Rita's with the Inner Circle, nursing a drink at the bar while Cassian and Mor dance somewhere among the crowded space. The music thrums through the air, and the conversation hums around you when a male slides into an empty seat beside you.

"Didn't think someone like you would be sitting alone," he says, flashing a grin.

You don't even get the chance to respond before a flicker of something moves between you.

The male frowns, swiping at his hair, which has suddenly transformed from being neatly styled to sticking up in wild angles, as if an invisible force had run its hands through it... aggressively.

You blink in surprise.

He mutters a curse, trying to fix it, but the moment he smooths it down, the strands spring right back up. His frustration grows, hands swiping over his head repeatedly.

"I- what the hell?" he grumbles. "Is this air cursed or something?"

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting a laugh.

And then you feel it.

A cool, familiar brush against your wrist.

Slowly, you glance down—just in time to see a shadow curling around your fingers before slipping away.

Your stomach flips.

You don't even need to turn around to know exactly where Azriel is.

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

The second time it happens, it's harder to ignore.

You and Azriel are training in the House of Wing, and the session has drawn some attention—mainly from a visiting group of Illyrians who very clearly wanted to spar with you.

One in particular, a cocky warrior named Dain, is relentless. He lingers, circling the ring as Azriel corrects your stance, his gloved hands light against your arms.

"You sure you don't want a real sparring partner, sweetheart?" Dain calls, grinning. "I promise I'll go easy on you."

Azriel stills.

His fingers tighten ever so slightly before he steps back, shadows slithering at his feet. "She's training," he says evenly, but there's an obvious warning beneath the words.

Dain chuckles. "Training is nice and all, but I'd be happy to teach her a few things myself."

Something cold coils around your ankles.

Before you can react, the shadows yank. Not hard. Just enough to make you stumble backwards, right into Azriel's chest.

Your breath catches.

His hands steady you, fingers gripping your waist for a fraction of a second before he forces himself to let you.

You glance up at him, about to ask whether or not that was intentional, but his jaw is tight, hazel eyes locked on Dain.

Azriel's shadows have started to shift.

Not the lazy, fluid movements they usually have—but sharp, possessive flickers that wrap around you. One curls over your shoulder, while another drapes across your wrist, looping around like a claim.

You shiver, pulse skittering.

Dain seems to notice, too. His smirk falters, his eyes flicking between you and the swirling darkness. "Uh-"

The shadows snap toward him.

Not touching—just close. Close enough to make him step back.

You swear you hear them hiss.

Dain swallows hard. "Right. I, uh, should probably-"

Azriel doesn't blink. Doesn't move.

Dain takes the hint. He all but scrambles away, muttering under his breath.

And just like that, the shadows slip away, leaving you cold.

You whip around, crossing your arms. "What was that about?"

Azriel frowns, too casual. "What was what?"

"Oh, I don't know," you say dryly. "Maybe terrorizing a man into running for his life?"

His brow furrows, like he truly doesn't know what you're talking about. "I didn't do anything."

You narrow your eyes. Then one last shadow curls around your wrist before darting away like a child caught misbehaving.

Azriel glares at it.

Your lips part. "You have got to be kidding me."

His expression darkens as more shadows flick around you, playful now.

Azriel sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose. "They don't usually-"

"Get jealous?" You finish for him, holding back a smile.

Silence.

His throat bobs.

And then—quietly, almost too quiet—you hear his shadows whisper something.

A name.

Your name.

And you realize—maybe it's not just his shadows who are jealous.

Your breath hitches. Azriel's wings rustle. And he looks like he's about to bolt.

Which is just unacceptable.

You cross your arms, tilting your head back to study him. "You know, I think your shadows like me more than they like you."

Azriel exhales sharply. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" You smirk, glancing down as a shadow curl lazily around your wrist. You give it a little wiggle, and the shadow clings tighter.

Azriel scowls at it. "Traitor."

A laugh bubbles out of you. You can't help it.

The great and terrifying Shadowsinger, bested by his own shadows.

"Oh, this is too good," you say, beaming up at him. "All this time, and they've secretly been on my side."

Azriel mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a curse. His wings twitch again. His shadows flick in annoyance—except the ones still clinging to you, moving to curl around your waist like they never want to let go.

You bite back a grin. "I mean, it makes sense." You gesture vaguely at them. "They probably just think I'd be a much better master."

Azriel gives you a deadpan stare. "That's not how this works."

"I don't know," you hum, pretending to consider it. "They seem pretty happy right now."

As if to prove your point, one shadow playfully loops around your fingers.

Azriel glowers. "You're encouraging them."

You give him an innocent smile. "Would I do that?"

He sighs, but you catch it—the way the corner of his mouth twitches. The way his gaze softens, just a little.

And then, so softly you almost miss it, he murmurs, "They have good taste, at least."

Your breath catches.

Your teasing falters for half a second before you recover. "So, you admit they like me more?"

Azriel exhales, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

You grin. "And you love it."

He doesn't answer. But the way his shadows linger—curling, warm, content—tells you everything you need to know.

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

Cassian walks in moments later, takes one look at Azriel's shadows practically cuddling you, and immediately points.

"I knew it!" He boasts.

Azriel pinches the bridge of his nose. His shadows flick toward Cassian, clearly unimpressed.

And you?

You just laugh.

Because really—Azriel might deny it all he wants, but his shadows?

They don't lie.

#azriel x you #azriel x reader #azriel #azriel acotar #azriel one shot #acotar #acotar x reader #acotar oneshot #fluff #light angst #azriel fic #azriel fluff

2K notes · View notes

shinoko-oshi · 20 days ago

Text

Just Because’s - Simon Riley

It started small.

You brought him new socks.

That’s it — socks. Nothing fancy, just a twenty pack of black ones from the store because you noticed his were wearing thin.

That night, he went down on you without a word. No buildup, nor teasing, just dropped to his knees while you were brushing your teeth, pulling your shorts down like it was his next mission.

You didn’t even have time to ask.

When you tried to stop him, said something like, “Babe, you don’t have to—” he just looked up at you with that dead serious stare he got at times and said, “You got me something.”

Like that explained it.

The next time, it was a bottle of his cologne. He was running low. You ordered it before he even mentioned it, leaving it on the bathroom sink.

He kissed you that night, slow and sweet, like it was the last thing he’d ever do. And then he fucked you like it was the only way he knew how to say thank you.

But that wasn’t the part that made your chest ache.

It was later, when you sat on the couch beside him, wrapping up in a warm blanket, your head resting on his shoulder and he stiffened slightly, then turned to ask, with a almost cautious tone:

“What do you need?”

And you blinked, confused “From what?”

“Well your coming to me, what do you want me to do?”

You laughed softly at first, thought maybe he was joking.

But he wasn’t.

His shoulders were tense. Jaw locked. He looked ready to stand, like if you told him to go scrub the entire kitchen with a toothbrush, he’d already be halfway to the sink.

That’s when it hit you.

This wasn’t just gratitude. It wasn’t about being a good partner.

To him, love had a price tag.

Every nice thing came with invisible strings he thought he owed you for. If you cooked, he cleaned like it was owed. If you rubbed his shoulders, he wouldn’t rest until you were trembling from something he did to your body. You left a note in his lunchbox once, just a simple “hope you have a good day”, and when he came home, he barely let you make it to the bed before he had you gasping his name in the dark.

Not out of desire. Not always.

Sometimes it was out of obligation.

You saw it in the way he watched you afterward, waiting and tense, like he was checking to see if you were satisfied enough to let him breathe again.

One night, it broke your heart wide open.

You had made him tea. That was it. He looked tired so you put on the kettle.

And when you handed it to him, he didn’t smile. Just took it and stared into the mug like it had insulted him.

“I didn’t ask for this” he muttered

“I know,” you said gently. “You don’t have to ask.”

“I didn’t do anything to earn it.”

The words shattered your heart.

You sat beside him, slowly, and reached for his hand. He let you take it. He always did. But he didn’t relax or soften.

So you said it as plainly as you could:

“You don’t have to earn it, Simon, that’s not how this works. I’m not keeping a score. I’m not waiting for you to pay me back.”

His eyes flicked to yours.

“I love you,” you said, “and sometimes love looks like tea or clean socks or maybe a new cologne and that doesn’t mean you owe me your body, or your time, or anything.”

He was quiet for a moment, looking down at his hands.

“No one’s ever done that for me before.”

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his.

“Well, they should’ve”

And maybe he didn’t say anything else that night. Maybe he didn’t know how.

But he let you hold him.

And for once, he didn’t try to earn it.

Sorry for not posting, im finally back and out of the slump I was in lol

anywayyy what we thinkkk?

This idea was in my head for over three weeks now and I think I like it better now that I’ve written it, bit of angst and comfort, that I think fit Simon yk?

Master list

look at my cat

1K notes · View notes

mild-lust · 27 days ago

Text

"He's an idiot." Steve Harrington x Female!Reader

❥ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 6k

❥ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Sweet!Steve Harrington x Female!Reader

❥ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: After being stood up by Eddie Munson, you run into Steve Harrington on the walk home from the trailer park. He lends you listening ear and a ride—and instead of taking you home, he takes you to his.

❥ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: MDNI! 18+ content! Explicit language. Smut with undertones of fluff, and a little angst (if you squint). Unprotected penetrative sex, f!receiving oral sex, past casual relationship with Eddie.

❥ ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: My first post, nerve wracking as hell !! I think I got a bit carried away !

You stare at the phone blankly after hanging it up. It was a call that you had been all but unfamiliar with receiving, but it conflicted you all the same each time. And always went the same way. He would make fake niceties, ask you shallow questions about your day and try to keep up some small talk before, inevitably, asking the same damn question.

“Do you wanna come over tonight?”

You huffed in annoyance each time, making a half-hearted attempt to resist and trying to conjure up some lame excuse not to, but each time you would end the call with a reluctant ‘Fine, Eddie, I’ll be there.’ You hated yourself for being persuaded so easily. It was basically routine at this point, and it was stupid of you to even pick up the phone in the first place. As soon as you heard his voice on the other line, you should’ve hung up on him. You always think these things are so easy to do until you have to do them, until you hear his sultry voice pleading on the other end of the phone for just one more time. You let yourself think, in that moment, that maybe it’ll be different for once. It’s a stupid, short-lived belief.

Even so, you find yourself sat in front of your vanity again, brushing your hair and curling your eyelashes in hopes of impressing him. Maybe if your cheeks are a little more rosy, your eyelids a little more colourful, he might change how he feels about you. He might come to the revelation that he wants more than just sex this time. You know your efforts are futile, as long as your clothes are easy to take off he couldn’t care less about anything else, but it makes you feel better for a few moments to let yourself believe otherwise is true. You reluctantly slip on a matching set of underwear, lacy and baby pink. Very intentional. You know you look good, and you know that Eddie will appreciate it. You realize that this is the reason he expects the same thing every time—because you deliver it. You curse yourself for it. Shaking the thought from your head, you step into a short pink dress, throwing a cable-knit cardigan on top.

You try not to think as you walk down the stairs, out of your house, and down the street to his. You consider turning back about a million times, but you end up at his trailer before you can actually muster the courage to do it. You knock on the door a couple times, waiting patiently, stupidly, for a response. Then again when you don’t receive an answer, the action proving ultimately as useless as the first one. You raise onto your tiptoes to try peek through the window, and you find that the trailer is completely empty inside. Your face grows warm as you look around the trailer park, realizing no one is around or waiting for you.

Tears threaten your eyes, and you forcefully blink them away before they get the chance to well. You shake your head, promising yourself that you won’t be brought down by the behaviour of Eddie Munson. Not again. You turn and make your way back down the street, your shoulders slumping. The street is desolate and lifeless, the late hour clearing the pedestrians from wandering and leaving you alone on the road. That is, until headlights shine from behind you, casting your shadow on the concrete front of you.

A familiar burgundy BMW slows as it approaches, stopping beside you. The tinted window rolls down, and you’re met with the face of Steve Harrington. You brush a stray hair from your face, then attempt to clean the smudged mascara from beneath your eyes with the knuckle of your thumb.

“Hey, L/N,” he drapes his arm over the door, “what are you doing out here?” he asks, his eyebrow cocked as he looks up and down the dark street. You’re slightly surprised to hear the concern in his voice. Although, you suppose, you’ve seen him around and you hang around a lot of the same people. Besides, it’s kind of impossible to roam the halls of Hawkins High School and never hear the name King Steve. You’ve had quite a bit of interaction with this boy, but the significance of your friendship only really occurs to you the moment that he stops his drive to talk to you.

You shrug your shoulders, and you feel your cheeks grow rosy as you realize you have to find a way to avoid telling him the truth for the sake of your own dignity. He raises an eyebrow at you, “It’s late, you know,” he says, pointing out the obvious. You feign a small, agreeing smile, nodding your head as you avert your gaze to the ground. You open your mouth to speak, hesitating when you try to figure out what to say, “I know. I, um,” you shake your head, “I was just on the way home.”

He’s clearly dissatisfied with your response, concern still evident on his face when he tilts his head, his eyes narrowing. “That’s awfully vague,” he mumbles, almost to himself, “Here, you want a ride?” he asks, gripping the stick shift and switching back into drive, his gaze unwavering.

You blink at him, slightly surprised by the invitation, “No, that's okay, Steve.”

You purse your lips into a polite smile, and he gives you a disapproving frown along with a quick, dismissive shake of his head. He opens the door opposite to him, a gesture for you to get in. His tone is persistent but gentle, “Come on.” He cocks his head toward the empty seat beside him, “Let me at least get you off the street. You can chill at my place, just to… you know, not be alone.”

You carefully consider his offer, pulling your lower lip between your teeth in thought, a subconscious attempt to suppress the smile that tries to pull your cheeks. You dip your chin, soon decidedly trotting your way around the front of his car and slipping through the passenger door. His arm crosses your body as he shuts it beside you with a soft thud, before he returns his grip back to the steering wheel. You lay your hands in your lap, watching yourself fiddle with your fingers. It’s hard not to think about the fact that you’ve never been alone with this boy. The car is quiet for a beat, the low hum of the engine bringing ambience to the space. You realize that you feel a bit less lonesome now, being in this car with him. A wave of gratitude washes over you, and you wonder if he knows that he’s saved you from a harrowing, pitiful night at home alone.

“Thanks,” you mutter, needlessly ashamed to say it.

He shakes his head, “Don’t mention it,” he says as he turns to look at you, his expression curious once again. “Where were you coming from?”

You scrunch your nose and bring your gaze back down to your nervous, fidgeting fingers. “Nowhere,” you lie, the familiarity of embarrassment crawling up your neck.

He gives you a comforting half-smile, his eyes shifting back to the road now that he has you talking, the engine turning and thrusting the vehicle forward. “No, come on.”

You hide your face with your hands, an action you realize is meaningless as he’s not even looking at you anymore, “God, it’s embarrassing.”

He smiles amusedly when he senses your unease. He remains wordless, the quiet itself urging you to continue. “I went to… um, Eddie’s place.” The words leave your mouth reluctantly, humiliating and heavy on your tongue.

You see his eyes widen a bit as he processes what you’ve said. “No kidding,” He says with a scoff, disbelief heavy in his voice. “Munson?”

Your chest tightens, and you’re unsure if you’re more ashamed by your actions or Steve’s reaction. “Yes, Munson,” you huff, “but nothing happened.”

He seems to lose some amusement from your clarification, potentially hoping for a juicier outcome. To your surprise, he doesn’t press any further. You were glad to see him bring his focus back to the road, going back to quietly navigating the stark streets for the remainder of the drive. You watch the unlit houses go by through the window, cruising by streets you only faintly recognize. Before you know it, Steve is pulling into his driveway and leading you up the small steps to his front door. He coolly unlocks it and opens it for you, welcoming you into the darkness of his living room. Light creeps in from a small light in the kitchen, allowing you to just barely make out the outline of his furniture.

You squint your eyes, lingering in his foyer once you’ve hung up your sweater. He sets down his keys and heads towards his staircase. “Are your parents home?” you ask tentatively.

“Nope,” he replies, “they’re in Chicago for the weekend.”

He throws the words away, moving into his house without a second thought, apparently used to being alone. It’s only when he disappears into the kitchen that you think to catch up to him, finding him with a crisp can of Coke already opened. He leans against the open door of his refrigerator, his head tipping back as he takes a swig. You stand in the doorway, your eyes trailing up his exposed neck, moles sparsely trickling along his flesh and adams apple as it bobs with deep gulps. Your eyes snap back to his face when he speaks again, “Want something to drink?”

You shake your head and murmur a sheepish ‘That’s okay, thank you’. He nods and moves past you, travelling across the long distance between his kitchen and his living room. You follow behind him, your head turning every which way to take in his house. It’s spacious, tasteful, but you can’t help but notice its overbearing hollowness. The halls are empty and dark, any sign of liveliness or family apparently absent. You wonder how often his parents must be gone for the house to be this pristine, practically untouched. You clear your throat, taking a seat next to him on the couch, sure to keep a safe distance between the two of you.

“What were you doing at Eddie’s house?” Steve questions you again, breaking the silence and setting his elbows on his knees. You recognize an edge that suggests more than just innocent curiosity; an insistence that makes you wonder if he’s truly interested in your answer rather than simply enticed by the gossip.

“Um,” you wet your lips, “he wasn’t even there, actually.” Your mouth dries up as you say it, the reminder digging a pit in your stomach. He tilts his head to the side, clearly not understanding.

“Hm? Why not?”

You raise your shoulders, letting out a soft, defeated sigh. “He was supposed to be.”

Uncertainty flickers on his face, and his expression softens when he realizes the implication. “Oh,” he utters, his voice quieter now, “I see.” He leans back against the couch, looking down at his lap.

“It’s not a big deal,” the words tumble out, quick to reassure him. “We’re not, like, together or anything. Just… kinda sucks.” His eyes find yours as you speak, actively searching for any sign of doubt on your face. You press your lips together, “It’s fine.”

“Okay,” he nods slowly, not entirely convinced of your apathy. “Well, he’s a dick, you hope you know.”

Your lips curl, eased by his attempt to sympathize with your being stood up. You wave him off. “Oh, whatever.”

“Seriously,” he persists, rolling his eyes as he takes another sip of his Coke.

You shrug your shoulders, “It’s Eddie.”

“I guess. Still a dick move,” his voice softens. “I mean, no dude should get to stand anyone up.” He pauses for a moment, seemingly careful to choose the right words. “You don't deserve that. You’re… a really nice girl.”

“Nice?”

Steve keeps your gaze when he continues, “Yeah. He’s a moron.” He tsks. “If I had someone like you coming over…” He trails off, unsure of whether or not he should continue.

“What?” you ask curiously.

“I mean—look at you. I’d be waiting at the door."

“Really?” you say. As if you need to hear it again to fully understand what he means.

He swallows dryly, setting his can onto the coffee table and, in turn, settling closer to you. “Come on, you’re gorgeous.” He says simply.

His leg brushes yours, and he doesn’t pull away. You nod, mostly to yourself, and try not to smile too obviously as you look down at your lap. “Thank you,” you mutter quietly enough that you’re not sure if he hears it. There’s no indication even once you look back at him, but you realize that he hasn’t taken his eyes off of you. You feel your cheeks burn up, and you hope he doesn’t notice the pinkish-red that tends to slither up your neck when you get nervous.

“I’m sure you’ve heard that a million times, though.”

You purse your lips, somehow embarrassed not to have been told something when you have no control over whether or not you’re told. You try to shrug it off, “Not really.”

Steve is visibly puzzled by this. “No?” He asks inquisitively.

“You know,” you say, trying to feign indifference. “Eddie’s not really… a talker.”

“‘Not really a talker’? What does that mean?” he replies, as if there’s no way he could be interpreting this correctly. You fiddle with the hem of your dress, instinctually starting to feel defensive over Eddie, despite yourself.

“You know,” you say again, hoping he’ll understand before you have to say it. “Neither of us really talked. Not much opportunity for compliments.”

He scoffs, “That’s bullshit.”

You frown and swat him half-heartedly, “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not,” he raises his eyebrows and holds his hands up in a mock-surrender, “Just saying. Must’ve been real good for you to put up with all that.”

You laugh humourlessly, glancing away from him. “Yeah, you’d think so.”

His eyebrows furrow, trying to make sense of your crypticity. It only takes him a second, and his eyes flit back to yours. He cocks his head. “He wasn’t?” he asks lightly, trying to sound casual though the interest in his eyes isn’t exactly subtle.

You don’t want to offer anything more, admittedly embarrassed to elaborate. You figure he can read between the lines, but his gaze is unwavering, still curious. You hesitate before you continue, “I don’t know.” Part of you wants to protect Eddie’s intimate life for the sake of his privacy, while the other doesn’t really care after what he pulled tonight. Decidedly, you go with the better part. “It was never really about me.”

“What, you mean, he never, like… you never—” he breaks, his eyebrows raising as it dawns on him, “Oh.”

You’re grateful that he’s not judgmental about it, just surprised. Possibly even for your sake. Silence hangs between the two of you for a moment, not particularly uncomfortably, before he breaks it again. “Wow, that sucks.” All you do is tighten your lips and nod agreeingly. “You deserve, um,” he stops to weigh his words, “You should be with someone who knows what they’re doing.”

You’re not entirely sure what he means. He’s searching your face, as if he’s still trying to decide something, and his eyes dip to your mouth almost imperceptibly. He sets his hand onto your knee, gingerly, giving you the opportunity to pull away from him. You don’t.

You let out a nervous exhale as he leans closer to you, the distance between you closing further and further. Once his mouth meets yours, it’s drastically different from the hungry, lustful make-outs you’d shared with Eddie. He presses softly, his lips moving cautiously, still proposing a question. He breaks the kiss, just for a moment, only leaving an inch or two between you. Another opportunity to let you pull away if you wanted to. Once he sees that you don’t, his hand moves to cup the side of your face, and he kisses you again with more fervour. Though his lips are still moving with care, gentleness, there is more intent behind it. He’s eager.

You shift closer, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you rest your hand on his leg. His tongue brushes along your bottom lip, a silent request meant to coax it open. You answer it, slipping your tongue alongside his. You still yourself, suddenly unsure, and wonder if you’re moving too quickly. You’re not sure of how far he’s meaning to take it, or whether or not the kiss was supposed to mean anything at all. Your answer comes soon after when his hand trails carefully up your thigh, deliberate and certain. You lean into his touch, and he gently pulls you into his lap. Your knees settle on either side of his hips, and he places both hands on the small of your back. You sigh softly against his mouth, moving your hands to both sides of his neck and drawing him impossibly closer.

The skirt of your dress gathers around your thighs when your front presses flush to his, your legs spread across his lap. His hands travel to your bare thighs before he stops himself at the hem of your dress. He lets out a careful exhale, pulling his lips from yours and searching your eyes. Your noses still touch, his breath fans hotly against your face, and you bring your hands to cup his cheeks.

“It’s okay,” you whisper reassuringly, answering the question he hasn’t yet asked aloud.

“No, I…” he trails off, his eyes flicking to the ceiling. He swallows once, then utters quietly, “Upstairs?”

The single word earns a fervent nod from you, and you lift yourself from his lap, offering your hand to him. He hastily takes it, moving in front of you to lead you out of the living room and up his staircase. Once you’ve made it to his room, he shuts the door behind him with a quiet ‘click’. He crosses the room with only a couple strides, his hands again holding your face and bringing you into another kiss before you can even make it to the bed. He walks you backwards and only breaks away from your lips once the back of your legs bump against it, then he lowers you gently on top of his rumpled bedspread. As he crawls over you, his lips attach to your neck and kisses tenderly along your jaw.

He presses another gentle kiss to your lips, resting his forehead against yours to take a second to catch his breath. His hand rubs the fat of your thigh, hesitating when it traces the hem of your dress. You place your hand on his and guide it higher up your leg.

Steve sits back for a brief moment to swiftly pull his shirt over his head, tossing it aside and causing it to pile in a heap on the floor. He leans back down for another kiss too quickly for you to properly see him, so you resort to instead moving your hands to run delicately along his stomach and up to his chest. He grasps your thigh and hikes it up to his hip, opening your body against him. His hips rut gently against yours just once, and you can tell that he’s making an effort to restrain himself. The growing tent in his jeans rubs roughly against you even after he stops moving. His hand wanders further up your thigh, skimming the bottom of your dress and pausing, almost waiting for you to stop him. Yet again, you don’t. Instead, you raise your arms to allow him to peel it over your head and discard it to the floor, just as his shirt was.

Your face grows hot when you’re left bare underneath him. As he leans back onto his knees, you see his breath hitch in his throat when the lingerie that you initially put on for Eddie is revealed. His hands instinctively move to your hips, tracing his fingers along the lacy material that clings to your curves, his eyes still fixated on your body.

The longer he stares, the more self-conscious you feel, even if it only lasts for a second. “What?” you ask sheepishly, pulling your knees together in a half-hearted attempt to close yourself off.

“Nothing,” he responds quickly, his eyes darting back to yours, “It’s just… Eddie’s an idiot.”

You can’t help the smile that spreads across your lips, your hands reaching out to pull him back in for a kiss—partly to stop him from staring much longer. Obviously, that’d been the reaction you’d hoped for, but you’d gotten so used to being stripped so hurriedly that it was surprising to be given more than a few seconds before rushing to the ‘good part’.

His hands continue to admire your body when his eyes can’t, moving along your waist and eventually cupping your breast. His thumb brushes over the hardened peak of your nipple through the thin material, the sensation causing a shudder to run down your spine. Your back arches into him responsively, along with a quiet moan that’s muffled by his mouth.

His lips travel down to your neck and press hotly below your ear, tenderly making their way down to your chest. His erection rubs evidently against your inner thigh. Despite himself, he doesn’t grind or urge against you. He still takes his time to plant gentle, open-mouthed kisses along your skin, lower, lower, lower…

Faint pants escape from your lips, your chest rising and falling heavily. His lips press between your breasts, trailing down to your belly button, to the soft plush of your inner thigh. You gasp softly, a chill running through your body when he presses a feathery kiss to your clothed clit. He continues to pepper light kisses on your thighs as one hand roams along the side of your body, stopping when it reaches the lace of your panties. His eyes flicker to yours, and you answer the question he means to ask with a keen nod of your head.

A finger hooks the material, sliding them down your legs smoothly. Once they pass your thighs, knees, and ankles, he balls up your underwear and tosses it aside, then hooks his hands around your legs to pull you closer to him.

Your eyes flutter shut when he licks a long, slow stripe up your slit. Your cunt pulses desperately, the almost torturous pace he’s setting already making your head spin. He evasively pulls his tongue back into his mouth, and in its place, he slides his middle finger to glide along your folds. He slips it in tentatively, his eyes wide as he looks up at you for even a semblance of hesitance or doubt. All he’s met with is the soft gasp that’s drawn from your lips, a clear green light for him to continue. Pushing deeper into your soaking entrance, his finger curls and his lips attach to your clit, suckling. This earns another gasp, the pretty noises coming from your mouth growing more consistent once his finger starts to slip in and out of you.

His tongue swirls around your sensitive clit, and he slides his index finger alongside his middle, his thick digits already starting to stretch you out as they move with mesmerizing care. You have to make an effort not to tug too hard on his hair when your fingers thread through it, your knees draping over his shoulders. With his tongue lapping and sucking on your puffy clit, fingers curling expertly to brush against your sweet spot with every pump, you realize how badly you’d been lying to yourself about ‘not minding’ the lack thereof with Eddie. Because, Jesus, does this feel fucking phenomenal.

His free hand moves to grasp your thigh, encouraging your legs to stay open once they try to close around his head. You start to burn up from the inside, being pushed closer to the edge despite his pace that refuses to quicken to match your rapid breaths. It’s a bit embarrassing to near your orgasm so quickly before he’s even fully undressed, but it’s excruciatingly hard to focus on anything except the waves of pleasure that wade through your body.

“Steve,” you breathe, trying to grab his attention. You tighten your fingers in his hair, a weak attempt to break him away from you, but he persists. Your skin tingles with the sensation of his tongue working against you, and the lust that blooms in your lower tummy begs you to take this further. You squirm slightly underneath him as you mewl his name once again, “Steve...”

All he does is him in mindless acknowledgement, the sound being muffled by your cunt. Once you get him to finally pull away and look at you, he is a visionary. His lips are pink and wet, parted slightly as he gazes up to look at you. His dark hair is tousled by your eager grasp and a strand falls loosely onto his forehead. You brush it from his eyes. You truly don’t know how much longer you can wait to have him, and you find yourself driven by this burning impatience.

You urge him to move from between your thighs, pulling him to sit up. Tucking your lower lip between your teeth, you lay him down beside you and climb on top of him, settling your knees on either side of his hips. You reach behind your back and unclasp your bra, pulling it off and tossing it into the growing pile of clothes on the floor. This warrants a groan to erupt from deep in his throat, his eyes taking in your bare chest as if he’s immediately committed to memorizing it for future notice.

“So pretty…” he whispers, and it’s unclear whether or not he meant for you to hear him.

He attaches his mouth to yours again, wasting no time to slip his tongue past your lips and explore. There’s a newfound sense of urgency now, his movements still deliberate but considerably more driven. You shift backwards to give yourself enough room to start working on his belt buckle, your fingers fumbling as if you’ve never undone a belt in your life. Then he lifts his hips to help you tug his jeans down his thighs, and he’s left in nothing but his Calvin Klein briefs, the barrier between the two of you starting to dwindle. You can’t stand being naked where he remains clothed, even if it’s nothing but a pair of briefs, so your fingers move quickly to slide under his waistband. You wet your lips and tug delicately, just enough that his erection is revealed from beneath the fabric.

You almost salivate when he springs free and weighs heavily against his stomach, a drop of precum gathered at the pink tip. You can’t help but reach to wrap your hand around him, your fingers barely meeting around his girth. His reaction is immediate; his eyebrows creasing, his lips parting with a sharp inhale, and his head tipping back against the headboard with a faint ‘thud’. You swipe the bead of arousal at the head with your thumb, before moving your hand slowly down his length. You’re only granted a stroke or two, base to tip, before he stops you by grabbing your wrist. “Easy,” he breathes, seemingly concentrated on restraining himself from ending the night right then and there.

It’s unspoken, but there is a mutual understanding between the both of you that he needs to get inside you, like, yesterday. You lean forward, bracing yourself with one hand and arching your back somewhat purposefully, allowing you to hover above his cock. He shifts between your legs, his hand replacing yours at the base. You’re a bit embarrassed by the sheer amount of arousal that already coats his thick cockhead, though he seems to be in utter disagreement with you when he responds with a guttural groan. He aligns himself with your slick, carefully gliding the tip up and down without yet going in.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, despite the telling circumstances.

“Yes, Steve,” you respond firmly, almost exasperated by his unwavering hesitancy. “I want you,” you emphasize, hoping the slight whine in your voice is enough to soothe his uncertainty.

Luckily, those three words are all he needs to hear. Once he properly positions himself, all he says after that is a small ‘Tell me if you wanna stop’, and his hands move to steady your hips. Your eyebrows knot, and your chest swells with anticipation, even nervousness. His tender demeanor, the way he looks at you, it’s so overly different from how Eddie treated you. You wonder how you ended up here, with Steve, instead of in Eddie’s trailer as you always do. Coincidence, you suppose. If you had ended up there again, you certainly wouldn’t—

Holy fuck.

The thoughts are swept clean from your head once he guides you down onto him, your mind overcome instantly with the tantalizing stretch his cock brings upon entrance. Your nails go to grasp his shoulders, your jaw slackening with an audible gasp. Your eyes flutter open, your senses overwhelmed with the firm grip he holds on you, the grunt that falls from his lips, the air that punches from your throat with the first deep, experimental thrust.

He holds your soft hips tightly, enough that it seems he’s keeping you from moving any more. “Jesus christ,” Steve mutters, his voice strained. “You’re so—fuck.”

You give yourself a moment to adjust, partly for his sake, especially because it seems if you move at all he’s going to fucking explode. Once you see him relax, you set a controlled pace, rolling your body against his. His eyes fixate on where you’re connected, and you watch his expression change; the light crease between his eyebrows, the lower lip that he sucks between his front teeth, his jaw that tenses visibly. It’s not long before he’s drawing small, breathy moans from you, his cockhead dragging mesmerizingly along your inner walls.

Soon, you find yourselves in a rhythm, your bodies familiarizing themselves with each other and starting to work in tandem. Your hands slide up to the sides of his neck and you let your head fall back to look at the ceiling, your face starting to twist in pleasure. You can’t help the noises that drawl from your lips, his cock hitting the perfect spots inside you so easily. You don’t notice, but he can’t keep his eyes off of you. Sweat beading on his hairline, low groans coming from his throat as he watches your every move, the way your breasts bounce with every deep stride of your hips. He’s completely enthralled by you, your long nails clawing at his shoulders helplessly. You lean back down, your front pressed to his as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, trying uselessly to suppress the mewls that escape your mouth. You busy your lips by kissing along the sparse freckles on his sweat-slick skin.

“Oh, Steve,” you moan out. “Steve,” you repeat mindlessly, the word warbled by your breathlessness. There is a visceral reaction to your babbly moaning of his name, a shiver running through his body as he struggles to maintain a steady pace.

Panting, he threads his fingers through the damp hair on the back of your head and gently pulls you forward to look at him, his eyes darting along your flush face. He brings you in for a kiss, your ability to reciprocate lasting only momentarily before you end up doing nothing more than gasping into his mouth. He curses under his breath, his eyes squeezing shut as his hand falls back down to your hip, helping to guide your unstable pace.

With a tight grasp on you, he starts to thrust upward to meet your movement, pushing himself deeper inside you. The room fills with the sounds of skin-on-skin, and he starts to do most of the work to make up for your ever decreasing control. His thrusts don’t last long before they become erratic, his hips moving desperately and clearly starting to chase release. You cry out, your hands moving quickly to dig into his shoulders again.

“Fuck,” he grunts in response, knitting his eyebrows together, “That feel good?” You’re unsure if the question was rhetorical, the moans that rip from your throat more than enough evidence for him, but you answer anyways.

“Yesyesyes,” you murmur, “S’good.” You’re almost whining, the coil in your tummy starting to tighten rapidly. You turn into a hot, trembling mess on top of him, letting lewd noises wrack through your body.

“Holy shit,” he says with a strangled groan, heavy breaths causing his chest to rise and fall against yours, his chest hair scraping between your breasts. “You’re driving me crazy,” he pants, his tip brushing deliciously against your sweet spot.

You plead his name, pleasure blooming under your sensitive skin and spreading to the rest of your body. He surges forward to capture the noise with his mouth, the kiss only lasting a second before he breaks from your lips and presses his forehead to yours. You tense and arch almost completely against him, your thighs aquiver as you start to unravel around him, barely keeping the ability to hold yourself up on your knees.

He watches you fall apart intently, eyes blown-out with admiration. They then shut with concentration after he’s successfully ridden out your high, his face contorting blissfully as his hips stutter, a weak warning leaving his lips.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna—”

He abruptly pulls out, only a few pumps of his hand necessary before he erupts onto his own stomach, painting his cock with shiny, white streaks that run down his length. There's a collective moment where you’re both trying to catch your breaths, struggling to find composure. Licking his lips, Steve brings his hand to brush away the baby hair that sticks to your forehead. Without realizing, he bats his eyelashes as he studies your face; your parted, puffy lips, the rosy tint to your flushed cheeks, the heave of your chest. Truthfully, you look a bit ruined. Not that he’s complaining.

You turn over to lay flat beside him, your shoulders brushing, and stare blankly at the ceiling. You’re mildly terrified of what’s to come, how he’ll act after this. You wonder if you’ve just broken your whole dynamic by letting this happen. You trace the patterns of the small bumps on his popcorn ceiling with your eyes, and wonder whether or not he’ll treat you with the same sort of respect now that you’ve had sex with him. Going off of past experiences, you have reasonable doubt.

You feel his eyes on you, and you turn your head to meet them. As if he’s read your mind, his lips curl slightly, reassuringly, and he slides an arm behind your head to wrap around your shoulder. You let him pull you to your side, leaning your head into his chest and resting your hand close by. His thumb draws slow circles on the tingling skin just below your shoulder, goosebumps rising in their wake.

You catch a glance of the alarm clock across from his bed, the numbers 11:37 stare back at you in bright red. Admittedly, there’s no urgent reason for you to have to get home, but you don’t want to overstay your welcome. You mutter against his skin, not really making an attempt to move, “It’s almost midnight,” you say as more of an observation than an excuse, paying close attention to the reaction it garners.

In any situation with Eddie, this would’ve warranted a dismissive ‘why don’t you head out?’ or, on a good day, an ‘I'll drive you home.’ Amazingly, that’s not what you hear next.

“You don’t have to go yet, do you?”

This takes you a bit off guard, the softness in his voice. Nonetheless, you answer honestly. “No, I guess not.”

“Good.”

❥ MDNI banner by @cafekitsune

2K notes · View notes

monserelates · 14 days ago

Text

Love, Actually

⇨james potter x f!reader

⇨summary: Everyone knows James Potter is hopelessly in love with Y/N. So when he suddenly starts mooning over another girl, the entire school is left confused—including Y/N, who isn’t the type to sit around and cry. She's loud, proud, and absolutely not affected. Until she is.

⇨warnings/notes: stubborn!reader, outspoken!reader, use of y/n, cheeessyyy, fluffy ending, light angst, swearing, emotional angst, mutual pining, jealousy, protective Marauders, happy ending

word count: 1.6k

It starts with confusion.

James Potter has loved Y/N since third year. That’s not an exaggeration, it’s Hogwarts common knowledge. Professors are in on it. First-years whisper about it. There are unofficial bets in three different Houses about when he’ll finally make a move.

So when he shows up at breakfast grinning like a fool and sits beside Eleanor Buckerfield instead of Y/N—everyone pauses.

Then he leans into Eleanor's side and says, “Has anyone ever told you your eyes shine like the color of a summer meadow?”

Sirius chokes on his pumpkin juice.

Peter looks up. "What the bloody hell even is that compliment?"

Remus stares.

Y/N freezes, toast halfway to her mouth.

“What the actual fuck,” she mutters.

“Must’ve bumped his head on a Bludger,” Marlene says under her breath, glaring across the table.

“No,” Lily whispers. “Look at his pupils. Too dilated. Something’s off.”

“Obviously,” Y/N snaps, standing up and throwing her bag over her shoulder like nothing’s wrong. “Potter’s just being a fucking idiot again. What else is new?”

She doesn’t storm off. She walks like she could, but she won’t give anyone the satisfaction.

Not even him.

The worst part? He keeps it up.

All day.

Charms, Herbology, dinner. James follows Eleanor like he’s under a trance. He carries her books. Laughs at her jokes. Brings her a carnation from the greenhouse and tells her, “It matches your lips.”

Y/N doesn’t care. Of course she doesn’t.

She definetly does not want to bang her head into a wall or jump to the black lake.

In fact, it’s not like she ever liked James.

Sure, she used to laugh at his dumb Quidditch metaphors and ruffle his hair when he was pouting and take care of him when he's sick and know his favorite flavor of the Bertie Bott's beans ( Tutti-Frutti ) so whenever Sirius bought some she'd always set them apart for James and pretend not to notice how he stared at her when she wasn’t looking—but that meant nothing.

So when Lily gently says, “Are you okay?” that night in the dorm, Y/N just scoffs.

“Obviously I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be? He can fall in love with whoever he wants. It’s not like I ever gave a cared.”

Dorcas raises an eyebrow. “You just crushed your quill.”

“It was old anyway.”

“You stabbed it clean through the Transfiguration schedule.”

“It was an ugly schedule.”

In the corridor the next day, James walks by with Eleanor, hand in hand.

Y/N doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t say a word.

Just turns to Sirius and says, “That’s not James.”

Sirius frowns. “You think it’s Polyjuice?”

“No,” she says. “It’s him. But it’s not him. You know?”

And Sirius, who knows James better than anyone, nods slowly. “Yeah. I do.”

By Thursday, it’s not funny anymore.

James is paler. Slower. His laugh sounds forced. His eyes are always red-rimmed like he hasn’t slept.

And Eleanor? She’s smug. Too smug. Her hand never leaves his arm.

At dinner, he tries to feed her strawberries.

She giggles.

Y/N drops her spoon.

The clatter is deafening.

James doesn’t look up.

“He’s sick,” Lily says later that night. “You saw the way he stumbled. He didn’t even finish his dessert.”

Marlene nods. “Probably a love potion. But it’s too strong. It’s eating him alive.”

Y/N is silent.

Then: “How do you break a love potion?”

Dorcas looks up. “Depends on the spell. Some wear off. Some need antidotes. The powerful ones?”

She pauses.

“True love’s kiss.”

Y/N rolls her eyes so hard it could crack glass. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Lily pushes.

“Because I’m not the protagonist in a cheesy romance, Lils. He can rot.”

But she doesn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, James faints in the courtyard.

He hits the cobblestone hard, face ashen, lips cracked. Eleanor shrieks and drops him like a sack of potatoes.

Madam Pomfrey is summoned. She takes one look and says, “Someone’s cursed this boy.”

Up at the top of the stone staircase, Y/N stands frozen.

Then she sees Eleanor's—arms crossed, trying too hard to feign shock.

And Y/N snaps.

She storms down the steps, fury radiating off her like wildfire. Her wand is already in her hand before anyone can blink, Peter tries to stop her, but Sirius holds him back. "I've been waiting for this one."

“You,” she hisses.

Eleanor turns, smug until she sees the look in Y/N’s eyes.

“I didn’t— I don’t know what happened—”

“Cut the bullshit.” Y/N’s voice is low, dangerous. “You spiked him. You put him under something, and now he’s dying, you stupid cow.”

“I didn’t mean—he liked me—!”

“No. He never liked you. He barely tolerated you. He’s been in love with me since third year, and everyone knows it—except your delusional ass.”

Eleanor pulls out her wand.

"Talk about delusional, you're just mad little Jamie got over you."

Y/N raises her wand.

“Expelliarmus!”

Eleanor's wand flies out of her robe.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Eleanor stiffens mid-stammer and crashes backward into a bush, frozen.

There’s a beat of silence.

Someone claps.

Sirius mutters, “Hot.”

Remus elbows him.

"She ate that up, to be honest" Marlene said, whispering to Lily who nodded.

Y/N doesn’t wait. She throws her wand back in her pocket and bolts toward the Hospital Wing.

The Hospital Wing smells like mint and moonflower and antiseptic.

Y/N’s hands are cold as she sits beside James, who hasn’t stirred. His skin is too pale. His lips have lost that familiar flush, and his curls—usually a mess of warmth and chaos—are limp against the white pillowcase.

Madam Pomfrey had said the curse needed to be broken willingly. That something true, something pure, had to reach him through the fog.

But Y/N’s not thinking about that.

She leans down.

"James," she whispers. "C’mon. This is ridiculous."

She places a hand on his chest. Feels the irregular thump of his heart.

“You were mine first. Do you hear me? Mine. I’m the one who made you laugh in Potions and the one who goes to your parent's house every christmas break, helping your mother bake cookies—me.”

He doesn’t move.

She swallows. Her voice breaks. “You don’t get to leave me. Not like this. Not when we’ve spent years dancing around this thing like idiots.”

Still nothing.

And then—

It’s not desperate.

It’s gentle. Affectionate

Her lips brush against his like a promise kept, broken. Like she’s daring him to come back to her.

Like she’s always known he would.

It’s not a grand kiss. Not the stuff of legends.

It’s soft.

Warm.

Honest.

Like home.

For a breath, everything is still.

And James gasps.

Eyes flying open.

He stares at her.

“Y/N?”

She hugs him so tight his ribs might crack.

“You absolute dimwit,” she breathes into his shoulder. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

His voice is hoarse. “You were jealous.”

“I was concerned.”

“You kissed me.”

“You were dying.”

“You slapped me.”

“I did not?”

"Oh, that must've been Eleanor then."

"She did what? Does she really want to be hexed again?" You picked up your wand.

"M' just kidding, love. Wait. You hexed her?"

You smile sheepishly. "Maybe."

“I—bloody hell, I think I’m in love with you,” he mumbles, dazed.

Y/N grins, smug as ever, and presses her forehead to his. “Yeah,” she whispers. “I know.”

Meanwhile, in the staffroom…

Professor McGonagall slides a galleon into Professor Sprout’s palm.

Slughorn hums. “Told you the kiss would break it.”

Filius chuckles. “I bed she'd deck him or hex someone. I stand vindicated.”

Binns floats by. “They remind me of a young couple in 1642…”

Everyone ignores him.

Dumbledore walks in, eyebrows raised with amusement. “She hexed Eleanor.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Slughorn beams. “Brilliant, that one.”

Sprout nods thoughtfully. “That spellwork showed real control.”

Filius whistles low. “She managed a silent hex under that much emotional strain? Impressive.”

McGonagall smirks into her tea. “And with excellent aim, I might add.”

Sprout leans forward. “Next wager—when do they finally shag?”

McGonagall sputters mid-sip. “Pomona!”

Slughorn claps. “Put me down for next Hogsmeade weekend.”

Dumbledore smiles, eyes twinkling. “Ah, young love.”

Back in the dorm later that night:

“She kissed him,” Dorcas hisses, dramatically flopping onto her bed like it's breaking news while you laugh.

“Aw, he's like a puppy,” Marlene says through a yawn, “an over-excited one that just found its favorite toy.”

Lily sighs dreamily, arms tucked behind her head. “I’m just glad they finally stopped being so bloody oblivious.”

Dorcas rolls her eyes. “True love’s kiss. Classic.”

Marlene perks up. “And did you hear what Flitwick said on the way out of the Hospital Wing? ‘Pay up, Minerva. I told you she’d crack first.’”

Marlene snorts, then cackles. “I love this school. They should just shag already.”

From the hallway:

“I HEARD THAT!” James’s voice echoes from beyond the dormitory door.

Lily doesn’t even blink. “Good! Tell Y/N to kiss you again so we can start round two!”

Y/N, sitting on the edge of her bed, wrapped in a blanket and holding a mug of cocoa, freezes.

“What?! We’re just—best friends!” she says, way too quickly.

Three heads snap toward her in unison.

Dorcas raises an eyebrow. “You're a dumbass.”

Lily snorts. “You kissed him and hexed a girl for flirting with him.”

Marlene, deadpan: “You called him ‘love.’”

Y/N blinks. “Okay… but like… in a platonic way?”

Dorcas throws a pillow at her. “You’re the spell that needs breaking.”

Marlene leans over, whispering to Lily: “Five sickles says she’ll kiss him again before Friday.”

From the hallway, again:

“MAKE IT TWO!” James yells.

Y/N groans into her cocoa. “I hate all of you.”

Lily just smiles. “No, you don’t. You’re in love.”

1K notes · View notes

urfriendlywriter · 2 months ago

Text

Angsty Prompts

(feel free to use, tag me when yall write!!! mwah xoxo)

"You're okay, look at me--yes, my love, you're okay. I'm here now."

tight hugs, their hands cradling you and your heart close to theirs.

Their heart shattering with every ragged breath u take and every sob that escapes your lips

"Do u know.. it's incredibly brave of you to.." They pause, gently rubbing the tears stains off your cheeks, "Be vulnerable with me? It's my honor, to protect you, and be a safe place for you."

being hospitalized, and waking up to find them curled at the foot of your bed, holding onto ur hand.

Voice breaking as they whisper, their hand tightening around yours, "I-I thought I lost you.."

pressing your lips their forehead, as they break apart in your arms, clinging onto you. eyes full of pain, tears and rare vulnerability that bares open their entire being to you

^ caressing their face, unable to know what to say or do but whispering, "Let me hold you through this all. It's okay to cry, my love.." and they completely shatter.

Them curling up into ur chest, needing comfort, security and strength

"I'm so sorry--" "No, no, no. You did ur best, my soul, i---i am the one sorry."

2K notes · View notes

writingunderneathawillow · 3 months ago

Text

tight spaces (bucky barnes x fem!reader)

content warnings: fluff, a pinch of angst, bucky gets anxious because of tight spaces, suggestive, bucky gets a boner hehehe, lowkey manhandling I guess, also accidentally inspired by teen wolf word count: 930

The door of the supply room fell shut, sending you tumbling towards Bucky.

You had meant to keep it open, your foot propped against it while Bucky searched for the gun cleaning supplies. But it had rested heavily on you, leaving you straining and telling Bucky to get a move on.

Supply room was a generous term. It was basically a small closet made out of metal, barely big enough to accommodate one person, definitely not two.

You were pressed against Bucky’s chest after your stumble, feeling his hands at your waist to stabilise you.

“Sorry,” you muttered as you tried to get yourself in a more upright position.

“It’s fine,” he mumbled and let go of your sides. The warmth of his skin, that had seeped through your shirt, was gone so quickly, it felt as if the room’s temperature had dropped.

You went to reach for the door, stemming your weight against it as you pressed down on the door handle, but it didn’t move an inch.

At the same time, you were equally aware of Bucky’s gaze on you and the proximity of his lap and your ass. You tried pushing yourself more at the door, but it didn’t give in and didn’t allow for any more space between the two of you, either.

“Buck? We have a problem,” you said and twisted as much as possible to look at him. “The door won’t open.”

His eyebrows knitted together as his gaze flicked between you and the door.

“Can’t be, you just gotta try again,” he instructed and nodded encouragingly.

You sighed and repeatedly tried to force the door open, but it didn’t budge.

“I think it’s shut,” You replied, teeth gritted as you pushed again.

“Let me,” he said and tried to move past you. It didn’t seem intentional to you but the way he grabbed your shoulders, gently attempting to force himself towards the door by moving you out of the way, made your stomach flutter.

However, he wasn’t successful, stuck between you and the door with no way of positioning himself closer the exit.

He sighed and apologised as he simply reached over you, accidentally pushing you into his chest while his large hands fumbled with the door.

In the dim lighting you could still make it out the way his biceps flexed under his shirt and with the way you were sandwiched between him and the door, you could take in his scent effortlessly, practically drowning you in leather and a hint of citrus.

You tried to hold your breath, embarrassed by how lightheaded you became as his smell encircled you.

With a soft groan Bucky took a tiny step back, as much as the room allowed.

“God, we’re really stuck,” he murmured, and all your giddiness disappeared as you picked up on the trace of anxiety on his words.

Bucky and closed spaces did not go well together, especially ones made out of metal. Being entombed in a cold, tight room was sending shivers down his spine, and he was barely able to conceal them. You heard how his breath quickened and saw his eyes darting in between the walls of the room, searching for a way out.

“It’s okay,” you whispered; your hands rested on his forearms and you began to softly stroke up and downwards. “The others are gonna realise soon that we’re in here, we’re okay.”

His eyes met yours, the blue nearly hidden with his enlarged pupils. He nodded slowly, his gaze fixated on you as you continued your soothing motions.

“We’re okay,” he repeated as he watched you, almost entranced by your voice. After a few seconds his eyes began to wander again but instead of taking in his surroundings, they lingered on you.

The soft curve of your mouth, the gradual slope of your nose and the gentleness of your eyes captivated him, pulling him out of his state of panic.

“You have a scar there,” he mumbled, nodding towards your eyebrow. “I’ve never noticed it before.”

The words had stumbled out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

Only when he shifted slightly, he seemed to realise where you were. How you were glued to him, skin on skin with no room between the two of you.

All the blood that had pounded in his ears and head just seconds ago now rushed south.

You became aware of your situation again as well and desperately tried to find a place in the supply room that wasn’t taken up by him.

“Doll, you gotta-,” he groaned softly as he tried to adjust himself and get a little distance between both of you.

“You gotta turn around or something ‘cause, uh-“ he searched for words that wouldn’t make it so awkward but none came.

Your eyebrows scrunched up, confused by this, and tried to twist your body to face towards the door but then you felt it.

Warmth radiated from his lap along with an unmistakable hard sensation, straining against his pants right against you.

“Oh, uh, I’m sorry,” you stuttered, trying even harder to increase the proximity between the two of you.

He muttered something unintelligible and then said: “No, don’t be. I’m the one who’s sorry, sweetheart.”

A soft hiss escaped his mouth when you finally had managed to turn around, now facing the door with warmed cheeks.

A few seconds passed, your backside now pressed into him, until he broke the silence.

“Doll?” “Yeah?” “This is worse.”

You chuckled, pressing your hand against your lips and you could hear his faint laughter. --- part 2 now out

1K notes · View notes

kikufufuku · 24 days ago

Text

✶ you just got into a car accident. satoru is always one call away.

gojo x reader comfort drabble. requested by anon

Satoru’s halfway through a dumb meme, smiling as his thumb hovers on your contact—about to send it to you when suddenly, his phone rings.

Unknown number.

He almost ignores it. He was about to decline but something in his chest pulls tight. His eyes narrow behind his blindfold. He had a gut feeling, and his gut feelings are always right.

“…Hello?”

“Hi, I’m calling from the local police station.. Are you familiar with a,” the officer pauses before saying your name.

He’s already standing.

“Yes—yes. What happened?” His voice sharpens, all amusement gone in an instant. The usual relaxed expression in his face disappeared, instead replaced by narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw.

“There was a car collision a few blocks from,” the police officer tells him the place, “She’s conscious, not seriously injured, but shaken. We’re calling the emergency contact listed on file.”

He doesn’t wait for anything else. Doesn’t ask if it’s bad. Doesn’t breathe. The officer is saying something else, but Satoru doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t hear the rest.

The moment your name left the officer’s mouth, his cursed energy pulsed. The world warped around him, and he teleported to somewhere near you, in an alleyway where people couldn’t see him appear in thin air.

One blink and he’s there.

The sudden rush of wind, the smell of gasoline and scorched rubber. Flashing lights paint the street in reds and blues. There are voices, officers, an ambulance. Civilians murmuring and rubbernecking. He runs out of the alleyway, pushing his sunglasses up, and suddenly all the noise around him is muted.

Because he sees you.

Right there—sitting on the curb, a thin blanket draped over your shoulders, eyes glassy with shock. There’s a medic crouched beside you, gently speaking, but you’re barely listening. You’re trembling, knuckles white where your hands are clenched in your lap. Dried mascara tears streak your cheeks, and he remembers you telling him how you liked your cute makeup today. That you felt pretty, kissing him a goodbye before leaving him earlier in the morning. His breath hitches. Your lip’s bleeding. Not much—but enough for him to feel something in his chest snap.

Your head lifts slowly—like you couldn’t believe it.

“Satoru…?”

He’s already moving.

Gone.

Past barricades, past tape, past any official telling him to stay back. He’s already crossing the street, a force of nature, moving faster than anyone can register. Officers try to stop him, but his cursed energy flares just enough for them to feel him coming, and they step back instinctively.

He appears in front of you in the next breath.

Your breath catches in your throat. You hadn’t even blinked and suddenly he’s there, crouching down, hands trembling as he gently cups your cheeks.

“I’m here,” he whispers, voice too soft for someone usually so loud. “I’m here, angel. You’re okay.”

The medic is saying something, but he doesn’t care. Not when you’re in front of him looking like this.

“Satoru—fuck,” you sob, “It was so fucking scary, I thought- I thought I was gonna,”

He presses his thumb against your lips, hushing you before hugging you in his arms. Satoru knew what you were gonna say. That it was a close call. That you thought you were gonna die, and he didn’t wanna hear it. The simple thought of you, on the ground – head bleeding, made his heart clench in sadness and fury. What was the point of being the strongest if he couldn’t even fucking save you from a car accident?

Satoru tightens his grip around you. He kisses your forehead.

““I’m here,” he says, voice shaking, “God—I’m here.”

You break. You wail into his shoulder, and his fingers bury themselves in your hair.

“I was—Satoru, I was so scared—” you choke out.

“I know,” he breathes, his voice hoarse. “I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I should’ve been there. I should’ve—fuck.” His jaw clenches against the wave of helplessness threatening to drown him. “But you’re okay. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

You nod against his shoulder, still shaking.

He holds you so close you can feel the curse energy buzzing under his skin—wild, panicked, desperate. Because nothing hurts Gojo Satoru, except the idea of you not being safe.

“I’m not letting you go for a while,” he mumbles into your hair. “So don’t even try to stop me.”

You don’t.

You just stay there. In his arms, not minding the medic or the goddamn police, nor the civilians that were watching.

“I ruined my makeup,” you mumble into his shoulder, voice wet and shaky.

He lets out the smallest, incredulous laugh, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“You still look gorgeous,” he whispers, arms not loosening even for a second. “But next time, you’re not getting in a car unless I’m driving.”

“You’re a terrible driver.”

“Exactly. Which means I’ll keep us both alive out of pure fear.”

You let out a choked laugh, and it’s the best sound he’s heard all night.

He pulls back just enough to look at your face, brushing a thumb beneath your eye.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats. Softer this time. Like a promise.

“I got you. I’m here. I love you.” Satoru whispers, leaning closer. “I’m here for you. Always. I’m sorry.”

You nod, resting your forehead against his. You don’t doubt the words that come out of his mouth.

Because he found you.

Because he came.

Because he always will.

#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #comfort #light angst #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk comfort #jjk #(🍡) mochi works

1K notes · View notes

malereadermaniac · 4 months ago

Text

ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっPossessive & Jealous - Nate Jacobs x Male Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Plot: Nate doesn't wanna go public with your relationship, but he still gets possessive and jealous when guys flirt with you NOT A YANDERE FIC!! (;¬_¬)

Featuring: Top!Nate x Bottom!Reader

Warnings: Nsfw / MDNI ~ amab m!reader / FDNI

Nate was pissed. And that's putting it nicely. Nate was fucking seething at what he was watching. The small giggles he could hear, the hand on your shoulder, and that fucking look in your eye; it all just made his anger boil over more and more. The taller man was staring daggers at the scene before him; some loser was really laying it on thick, flirting with what was Nate's. That being you. You belonged to the quarterback, even if no one actually knew it.

Your conversation with your hot classmate was interrupted by your 'boyfriend'. Nate's rough hand gripped your shoulder with a little more force than necessary; he was clearly trying to make a point. His face was as douche-y as ever, his jaw sharp enough to cut, his eyes seductive, and a barely noticeable smirk on his lips. Few words were exchanged, a small 'hey' and some stupid excuse about needing to talk to you alone - but you could understand the subtext; Nate was pissed, as he so often was. As the two of you walked through the emptying corridors, you studied Nate, to guess what exactly you were in for. You walked behind the taller man, taking in his broad, tall figure; Nate was the star quarterback of your college, it made sense that his shoulders were wide and his back was muscular. His arms were built too, swaying slightly as he walked in front of you, his walk masculine and effortlessly dominant - damn, even though you were already getting annoyed at the man, you couldn't help but be very, very attracted to him.

After what felt like hours of awkward silence, the two of you finally reached wherever Nate wanted to take you. The boy's locker room; dirty as always, but quiet for once, the final bell having rang a good while ago. Immediately, you were backed up against a wall; the cool tiles of the locker room against your skin as you stared up into Nate's dark eyes, waiting for him to say something. The taller man looked you over in silence for a moment, his hands in his pockets and his jaw obviously clenched, his demeanour trying to stay cool; but you know him too well for his act to work on you.

"The fuck you think you're doin' letting that dick woo you 'n shit?" Nate spits out, his tone not obviously angry but rather spiteful

"Huh? He wasn't- Even if he were flirting with me, why's it my responsibility to stop him?" You rebuttal. Nate's jealousy was annoying, but you have to admit that you like it when he gets like this; you like pushing his buttons even more.

"Probably 'cause you're my fucking... 'cause you're mine." Nate hesitates, anger starting to seep through via the sound of his voice and his actions; his hands darting out from his pockets to make a 'what' gesture.

"Hm hm! You can't even bring yourself to call me your boyfriend! You're the one who wanted whatever this is to never go public, Nate." You say with a chuckle, emphasizing your situation by gesturing circles with your finger. "So don't get all pissy with me 'cause some guy is flirting with someone who's single in everyone's eyes!" You bark back at your boyfriend, your words calculated and shooting to kill.

"Stop being such a bitch, [Name]." Nate scowls, his eyes fixated on yours. He's back to his cool and collected self; not a good sign.

"Make. Me." You scowl back.

Without a second thought, Nate had already darted towards you; his hand grabbing your cheeks and forcing your face towards his, Nate's other hand resting on the wall above you in a fist. It was a blur, that's how fast the livid man was moving. Within milliseconds, Nate's lips were crashing against your own; his manly, rough hand squishing your cheeks to force your lips apart for him to explore your mouth with his tongue. The quarterback knew you like the back of his hand, his tongue toying with yours in a familiar rhythm, his other hand sliding down the wall to grab your waist; pulling your smaller frame into his massive, built body. Instinctively, your hands slide up Nate's body, feeling up the peaks and valleys of the jock's muscular abs and chest, then settling for gripping one hand on his shirt and another on his buff shoulder as you return the kiss. He must've just finished practice, his shirt damp with sweat and sticking to his bulging muscles. The steamy make-out session seemed to last forever; Nate's lips constantly pushed against your own, and his tongue practically colonised your mouth. But finally, the brunette broke away from you, his face just an inch away from yours as his rugged and uneven panting bounced off of your lips. Fuck. Nate looked so hot. You kept your eyes locked on his, looking up at your boyfriend expectantly as you waited for him to make another move. But Nate had other plans.

Abruptly, the close feeling of Nate's sweaty, jacked body on yours was gone - replaced by the cold, humid air of the locker room. You watched as Nate walked over to the shower cubicles, not moving to follow along.

"You fuckin' coming or what?" Nate probes as he turns to face you but keeps walking backwards into the cubicle; his poker face still in full effect, hiding the scorching anger and possessiveness beneath the surface.

With a roll of your eyes, you follow your boyfriend into the cubicle; shamelessly eyeing him up as he strips his varsity t-shirt off with one hand, his muscles flexing erotically. You follow suit and take off your top, but your hand is halted to a stop by your boyfriend's grip when you reach for your pants. You roll your eyes once more at Nate's childish behaviour but let him do what he wants; resulting in you being backed up once again against the shower door, Nate sliding down your pants and feeling up your thick thighs and ass. The two of you are back to making out, only that this time you're both naked - Nate gripping and kneading your asscheeks like dough, his large, rough hands juxtaposed against the smooth skin of your body. His tongue toyed with yours as small moans escaped your throat and were swallowed by Nate; his ego swelling up subconsciously, knowing that just kissing you is getting those sounds out of you. Wrapping your arms around your boyfriend's thick neck, your breath hitches in your throat at Nate's sudden lifting of your body - his strong arms holding your thighs up, your body squished between the shower cubicle and his buff body, Nate resting you on the hip so that he could grind into you as he kept passionately kissing you. Your arms tighten around Nate's neck, peaking down at him as your mouth continues to be dominated by the quarterback; your boner very obviously rubbing up on your boyfriend's six-pack as you let your body be taken over by excitement and lust.

Nate finally breaks the kiss. Forcing his lips away from yours and taking in the sight before him - his hot boyfriend panting like a dog in heat just from kissing him, a string of thick spit connecting your lips you his, and your face flushed light pink while your eyes glaze over lightly with tears and lust. You let out a whine as Nate starts to kiss your neck. Targeting the spots that he knows make your mind go numb, that will make you let out the noises Nate jerks off to. Mewl after whine leaves your lips, quiet but definitely there; the sounds you make and the way you move your head and contort your face, it's all so fucking hot to Nate. You can feel as the well-endowed man goes from gentle grinds of his dick to full-on dry-humping you - the feeling of his huge dick poking against your ass, it's one that you're now able to recognize within a second.

"You want this dick? Want me to fuck you right now? Stop being such a little bitch 'n I'll fuck you good, babe" Nate lightly grunts out against your skin as he continues to gently mark you.

"Ha ha... Seems like you want it more than me, sweetheart~" you tease

"You're so fucking difficult" Nate mumbles, making a point to bite your collarbone a little harder

"H-ah! -You fucking love it" you grunt out, the (pleasurable) bite interrupting what was meant to be a quick-witted reply.

After a little more foreplay, Nate's patience had finally worn thin; his dick was about to explode from how pent-up he was. So once Nate was satisfied with the state of your upper body (that being: your neck, shoulders and nipples being covered in hickeys and bite marks), he made his move. Nate manhandled into somehow only holding you up with one of his arms (holy shit this man is scary strong) and began undoing his pants with his free hand; dropping his draws as quickly yet as effortlessly as he could. With his Calvin Klein's and jeans around his ankles, Nate slipped a condom on easily and lined his 8-inch monster up to your hole; his tip pressing against your entrance, a feeling all too familiar to the both of you - you two fuck like it's a hobby! With no warning at all, in a jealous attempt at getting you back for being a flirt, Nate thrust his hips up into yours; his dick forcing all the way inside of you. Thank god that condoms come pre-lubed - 'cause HOLY SHIT THAT HURT. You yelp in pain and instinctively bite your boyfriend's muscular shoulder; stifling your moans of pleasure and trying to distract from the pain. Your eyes immediately flushed red, glazing over with tears as the sting of Nate's girthy, long dick pried your walls apart. Even with the condom on, you could still clearly feel Nate's veins, his dick pushing against your walls so snuggly that without even trying, the man was pressing against your prostate already. Your hands gripped the brunette's biceps harshly, your fingers digging into his skin as you try to register the intense feelings of pain and pleasure combining and co-attacking your brain. But you don't have very long to try and get used to your boyfriend's absolute weapon, 'cause he can only be so nice - thirty seconds of holding back is more than enough! He's still fucking seething mind you! Nate's jealousy is only getting grander, rather than lessening at the feeling of fucking you; he felt even more possessive, even more jealous, like a wild animal resource guarding what his.

Moans escape your throat involuntarily. Groans, pants, and whines getting forced out of your throat from the sheer impact of Nate's hips against your ass. Your legs tighten around your boyfriend's small yet muscular waist, your arms having moved from gripping Nate's arms back to wrapping around his neck; visible scratch marks forming all over the jock's massive, buff back. Nate's one arm is holding you up against the shower cubicle as his other hand is slammed against the door above your head; his fucking massive, rough, sweaty palm against the cold plastic cubicle door being the only thing kind of grounding the sex-crazed version of Nate in the moment. As his dick thrusts in and out of your tight, warm hole, Nate keeps mumbling different mantras to himself; nursing his bruised ego, the only thing he can think about is being you with other guys. A carousel of 'mine... all mine, mine, mine', '[Name]...', and 'fuckin' belong t'me' being on loop as your boyfriend fucks you like a mad man. The few moments of silence Nate did have were due to him going back to marking up your body as he continues to fuck you silly. His strong, sharp incisors pressing against your soft neck; sometimes much too harshly.

"Fuck! NATE you're biting too hard!" You shout, pissed off at the man. But your anger doesn't last very long, it can't when your boyfriend's thick dick is assaulting your prostate every other second; sending insane waves of pleasure through your core, and most importantly: your dick.

Your legs dangled on either side of Nate's waist; feet bouncing in rhythm with each one of the quarterback's hard thrusts. You didn't even have to hold yourself up anymore (not that you even could from the fucking you were getting), Nate's arms were able to hold your weight easily, and you were also literally squished up between the wall and Nate's sweaty, ripped body. You could feel Nate getting closer to orgasm, his usual tells showing up like usual; his eyes forcing shut as he focused on keeping his pace, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, his kisses getting softer and softer, despite his pace getting rougher and rougher. Finally, Nate was pushed over the edge - or more so he was fucking lobbed over the edge from the intensity of his orgasm. The brunette was moaning louder than usual, your name falling off of his tongue more than normal, amongst his usual 'fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck's. You weren't too far behind, between Nate's constant pounding into your prostate and the fucking HOT sight before you, it didn't take you more than a minute to follow suit and shoot your load onto your chest and Nate's. That man always made you cum untouched. He had the skills but it was mostly the way Nate looked that pushed you over the edge most of the time; c'mon, he always looked so hot fucking you like his life depended on it! And this time it was no different! His muscles gleaming with a sheen of sweat, Nate's arm flexing as he continued to hold himself up, his damp armpit hair showing ever so slightly; he just always looked so fucking manly, Nate really was your ideal guy...

"Haaa... Haa.... See? Don't need dick from any other guy- haaa- so stop being such a tease and fucking stop flirting with other guys" Nate grunted out. His voice rugged, panting as he tried to regain his breath.

"hngggg.... fuck~ I wasn't flirting! I'll tell guys to back off when you tell them that I'm your boyfriend" you retort, your breath still uneven and pleasure still tingling throughout your body.

Nate chuckles and looks into your eyes for a moment. You can tell he's thinking, something he rarely fucking does, but you don't know what thoughts are running through his head exactly. But here's a little snipped:

'Fuck I love him so much... FUCK WHY DO I LOVE HIM'

'He's mine. My boyfriend. Don't give a fuck about what people think'

'Shit... I do care what others think'

'Fuck it.'

'No'

'Yes'

'No'

'YES'

"Fine... Whatever you want, gorgeous~" Nate mumbles with the smallest smirk, and then leans down to give you a peck on the lips.

You smile back at him, hands gently cupping his face, and whisper a soft 'good'.

Bonus:

Nate's room was like your second home. You were there every other day, either sleeping 'round or just to hang out for a bit. Contrary to popular belief, your relationship with Nate wasn't all sex! You two did have a pretty wholesome relationship! It's just that you both loved having sex with each other as well, so most of the time something sexual was bound to happen.

Like any other day, you were in Nate's room. Your hunk of a boyfriend at his desk playing whatever fps he was into at the moment, and you on his bed scrolling mindlessly. Finally having had enough of your phone, you make your way over to Nate, wanting some attention as always. You rest your arms around his neck and hug your boyfriend from behind, head resting against his shoulder as you mumble an 'I'm bored' into his ear. You watch as Nate finishes his round, his long fingers gliding over the controller; why the fuck was it turning you one...?! Once he's put his game away, Nate takes your hand and has you stand between his legs, looking up at you from his gaming chair with a soft, very small smile.

"What's up?" he asks.

Your hands instinctively cup your boyfriend's cheeks. His sharp jaw resting in your palms as he closes his eyes. You admire the man in front of you, his messy hair, his attractive features, but mostly how different he's become since you met him; he's so much kinder, less hurt than he seemed before.

"Just wanted some attention" you mumble, biting your bottom lip ever so slightly as you keep admiring Nate.

"Well... Depends what kind of attention ya want~" Nate teases, his typical horny smirk plastering across his face as his big, manly hands slide up the back of your thighs and reach your ass. Nate gently holds your plump cheeks in his rough hands, gently squeezing as he looks up at you expectantly.

"What did you have in mind, baby?" You playfully respond, knowing that the pet name had an effect on your boyfriend.

Nate pats his lap and gestures for you to sit, which you do. His hands keep cupping your ass as Nate's lips make their way to yours; soft kisses, the kind that really make you feel at ease. Nate slips his fingers under your waistband and slowly slides your shorts and underwear under your cheeks; gripping them softly and spreading them as he continues to softly kiss you. Bringing a hand up to your face, Nate gestures at you to suck on them; doing this by obscenely poking his cheek with his tongue as he smiles with his eyes. You do as you're told, too lazy to put up your usual battiness.

After a brief moment of sucking on your boyfriend's two fingers as if they were his cock, Nate takes them out of your mouth and brings them back down to your hole. It's a feeling you're used to; one that you particularly enjoy. Hey! Nate's good with his fingers, what can ya do? As the two of you continue your previous kiss, Nate's fingers slowly push past your rim; your tight hole accepting them with ease. Knuckle deep, Nate reaches your prostate immediately, causing you to break the kiss and let out a small, quiet moan. Nate chuckles as you rest your head on his shoulder, gripping onto his sweatshirt as the quarterback continues to work your prostate to perfection; drawing out muffled moans and whimpers despite your best efforts to hold them in.

Just as things were getting good, your dick twitching against Nate's abs as the man milks your prostate, you hear the door to his room open... Nate's dad walks in, acting like nothing was going on; because he couldn't see Nate's finger's knuckle deep inside of you. All that poor man could see was his son's boyfriend hugging his son in his lap - perfectly normal! Nate tries to play it cool but scrambles to get his dad out of his room as you try not to move; wanting to die the whole time. But as soon as Nate's dad left the room, that delayed orgasm hit you like a brick wall~

1K notes · View notes

sorryimananti-romantic · 6 months ago

Text

The Leaders | Masterlist

"this is the underworld that no one escapes from"

ot8!ateez x f!reader

mafia au

genres and warnings: slowburn, angst, fluff, eventual smut (mdni!) poly!ateez, smoking, drinking, gambling, illegal businesses, politics, violence, heavy themes, mild gore, multiple pairings, more specific warnings in the chapters

estimated word count: approx 200k

synopsis: in eden 1970, you join the inner circle of the crescent company by sharing information that could crumble the very foundations of eden itself. amidst the dark world of manipulation, connections, dirty politics and illegal dealings, you navigate with eight seemingly-refined gentlemen who have your back as the war with the elites begins.

timeline | maps | character book

chapters:

status: ongoing (updates every 2 weeks)

taglist: apply here!

2K notes · View notes

simp-ly-writes · 6 months ago

Text

How Could You Refuse?

─────── · ·

Pairing: Jayce Talis x Shy!Assistant!Reader

─ · · SUMMARY: When assigned as the lab assistant to Jayce, you were first intimidated to work under someone of such genius inventions but the longer you work alongside one another, the more comfortable you feel and the more you feel for Jayce.

─ · · TAGS: female pronouns used, light angst, fluff, touch as a love language, jealous! and protective!Jayce, reader is mentioned to have hair.

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 1,662

─ · · SERIES MASTERLIST

─ · · A/N: The way in which I hated Jayce so incredibly much to being in love with him in season 2 deserves to be studied. Let me know if you like this!

─────── · ·

─ · · You had been working under Jayce for as long as recent memory could remember. As soon as he got started working his brilliant mind within the Academy, you were assigned to help the genius (and to keep him alive as well)

─ · · At first you were intimidated and worried to work with the man, often staying in your own corner of the room, running over with tools before taking a few too many steps back- allowing him space or not speaking as to not disturb him but the longer you worked together, the more comfortable you felt. Sitting beside him, sharing meals and ideas together, hands brushing against one another when passing tools and diagrams. The jokes you two shared when your minds were foggy and not quite running right as you laughed at anything at all before the cleaners kicked you both out for the night

─ · · Working for Jayce as you both grew and aged meant getting woken up at odd hours of the night and early morning to be a comforting presence and to ensure he remember to drink liquids other than coffee and the caffeinated tea he unsuccessfully tried to "out-smart" you with

─ · · If Jayce was the brain, you were practically an extension of his body, moving around with him, always knowing what tool or paper he would be next. And if he was ranting or trying to summarize his key points before presenting in front of the Professor, you would be standing in front of him, notebook and pen in arms capturing his every thought. And when you would run out of paper, you would simply start writing up and around your arm

─ · · It would be an uncommon sight not to see you covered in Jayce's diagrams, equations, or quotes as you two walked down the halls together arm in arm. At first, you insisted upon walking slightly apart yet Jayce was having none of that, grabbing your arm and parading you down the hall with a large goofy smile as you did your best to hide your face from the on-coming stares as you glared at his shoes. But now you embraced the mutual comfort you both found in your friendship

─ · · One time Viktor decided to come into the laboratory early and was surprised to see you both asleep at the desk, your head resting on Jayce's shoulder as his arm wrapped around your side, cuddling you both together. Opening a window to let the cool morning breeze, out of the corner of his eye Viktor watched as you both came back to your senses. Stumbling away from one another as you patted down your hair and Jayce stretched himself out as your eyes darted all the way around the room, doing your best to not look and met Viktor's curious stare before he too turned around and began working. "coffee, anyone?"

"please," Jayce replies, grabbing your hand gently as you nod, dropping it and turning out of the hall, only catching the start of his next sentence to Viktor.

"I think I haven't been the most truthful..."

─────── · ·

─ · · As Jayce's diagrams became more complex, his position within the Academy rose and with his growing partnership with Viktor as well, all eyes were on these two men you had the pleasure of working alongside and you couldn't help but receive a few curious glances your way as well.

─ · · It was no shocker to anyone seeing your beauty under your ink filled arms and messy hair that you tugged at endlessly while trying to crunch numbers after numbers with a sleepy Jayce leaning on your shoulder, overlooking your work. He would often press a kiss to your hand, forehead, or cheek, praising you as your cheeks heated up before you squeezed his hand in thanks and returned back to your work

─ · · Now that you think about it, you both had been way more physically affectionate to one another in recent moments yet that was only a testimony to your long-term partnership, nothing more, nothing less.

─ · · You had actually received many offers from other brilliant minds and even sponsors asking you to work for them, and you denied every time knowing that your place was working with your boys but that didn't mean Jayce didn't get annoyed to your surprise.

─ · · His eyebrow furrowed as yet another person came forward, trying to charm your pants off and get you to work for them. He trusted in you, trusted in your working friendship but there was always that smaller, inner voice within him that thought otherwise. That you would leave him for something "bigger" and "greater" that pushed him to do his best- to impress you- to get you to stay

─ · · You were worried about just how far Jayce was pushing himself, striving for greatness as you spent an equal time sitting at the desk, often falling asleep at his side no matter how many times he asked you to go to bed. And more often than not, when you would reawaken in the morning, you would fine a simple note from Jayce as he had carried you back to your room.

─ · · When Jayce became a councillor, you were immensely proud, crying the entire duration when one of your collegue's told you before heading back to the lab where Viktor was already tinkering away. Might as well get closer to Viktor now that it'll just be us two from now on, you tell yourself. Sitting near Viktor as you pass him tool after tool, write down his notes, and provide him coffee

─ · �� Work carries on as it usually does, the only difference is not seeing Jayce in the last couple of days yet that was to be expected with his promotion. You were happy to work alongside Viktor but more so than you had been in the past. You both shared a love of blunt and dry humour.

─ · · Jayce was confused as to why he hadn't see you yet, you were his assistant, were you not? He thought to himself near the tail end of a council meeting before heading to the laboratory to find you and Viktor asleep at the same desk, ankles intertwined, heads on a blanket of blueprints and sketches.

─ · · In a feeling of deja vu, Jayce opens the window, allowing the cool morning breeze to drift through the room as you both stir away. You blink, eyes and mind hazy as you stare at the broad man standing in front of you, hand resting on the back of your head. "I've missed you," the voice calls out as you hum, you shake Viktor awake as he groans, pushing your hand away before rubbing his eyes. "Jayce... is that you?"

"yes, it is, and this is where you've been the whole time?" Jayce asks, arms crossed like his eyebrows as he stares you down, his stare making you feel small.

"uh, yes. I've been helping Viktor continue his plans for the new gauntlets for the miners..." you trail off, looking over to find the chair beside you empty, your frown noticeable as Jayce gently turns your head back to face him.

"I need you by my side." And how could you refuse? with the puppy dog eyes you received.

─────── · ·

─ · · That very same day, you apologized to Viktor who only shrugged his shoulders, hand shooing you away and back to Jayce as you followed him in his shadow between meetings with the usual notes in your arm and tray of coffee in the other. Jayce huffed, stopping as you walked into his back, "nothing has changed, you still are my dearest friend, you know that?" Jayce looks down at you, expression serious as you nod your head firmly and take a step beside him, feeling as he takes the tray from out of your hand and wraps his arm under your own. "Much better."

─ · · You felt very out of place, standing to his side during council meetings as he would ask for your opinion as if you were back in the lab, except this time, a dozen eyes were watching your every move as you leaned in to whisper into Jayce's ear your answers.

─ · · The same feeling could also be said for the various events you accompanied him to as well. His arm always a staple around your waist or arm as he guided and introduced you to socialite after politician and you were becoming seriously overwhelmed, this was not a part of the original job description, you thought to yourself while freshening up in the washroom, another councillor Mel, joined you soon afterwards

"You and Jayce appear... close" you flush underneath her curious gaze, eyes darting around the mirror to anywhere but her gaze. "Yes... we have... worked together for quite some time now," you explain, picking at the skin near your fingertips.

"Just working partners though?" Mel presses forward, the hint of a smile appearing on her lips as your mind races at a mile a minute, you think of his mouth whispering into your ear, his large hands gripping your waist, his groggy morning voice as you wake him up with a hand on his shoulder as he smiles lazily at you before pressing a kiss to your temple. Your heart races as you shake your head of these thoughts, "we are nothing more than that," you clarify.

"So that means you wouldn't be mad if I tried something?" Mel asks, extending her hand in an equal silent ask as you stare at the gold jewellery running up her arm doing nothing but already compliment her immense beauty, they would look good together. "No, go ahead."

─────── · ·

─ · · SERIES MASTERLIST

#fanfic #fanfiction #simp-ly #simp-ly-writes #x reader #arcane x reader #jayce x reader #jayce talis x reader #jealous #protective #fluff #light angst #love language #physical touch #arcane #How Could You Refuse?

1K notes · View notes

softaestluv · 4 months ago

Text

Guard Dogs

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Neighbor!Reader

Pt. 1, Pt. 2 , Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5

Tags: Angst, Fluff, & Eventual Smut

Summary: You were a proper good girl. Just like in his fantasies when he was a little boy. Ghost only looked to protect you from the evils of the world just like Riley. Your two personal guard dogs.

But maybe this is where he belonged, on the other side of the glass, staring at you from afar. Even if Riley wanted more.

Ghost, who won’t admit it, gets a dog because when he’s not on assignments he gets lonely. His home feels terribly empty all by himself; the silence deafening, borderline painful. Adopted him from the local shelter, a German shepherd who he names Riley. Tells everyone that he needed a guard dog to protect his belongings when he’s not home, but everyone knows his prized possessions are far and few in between. Could hold all of them in his palms, carries them with him all the time anyways.

He trained Riley rigorously just like he did in the military. Treated him just as he did his trainees. Until he was obedient and well-behaved, listened to his every command. A perfect sidekick for him. Kept him company in his home that felt too large to be alone in. Always at his feet or curled into his side on the couch. A couch he probably shouldn’t let him on or bed sheets he shouldn’t be tangled in, but Ghost had a soft spot for him. Broke the rules for him because he was his dog after all, made the silence and loneliness a little bearable. Made his home a little more warm.

Riley who seemed to take a liking to you— the pretty bird who lived across the street. Made him think that maybe Riley was more like him than he realized; his own eyes had been drawn to you multiple times. He was usually well-behaved, didn’t approach strangers or jump on them for their attention. Ghost had trained him better than that. However, the first time he crossed your path on a walk, he pulled Simon by the leash, pressed his nose against your calf eagerly in interest.

You stopped in your tracks with a soft noise of surprise, “Oh! Well, hi there!” Your focus shifted to Simon, “Is it okay if I pet him?”

Simon hummed nodding his head in response. You gave him a small smile before squatting down eye level to Riley. Pet down his back and scratched behind his ears, Riley wagging his tail swiftly behind him, would probably purr if he was a cat. Dog hair covered your black shirt as he snuggled into your touch, but you didn’t seem to mind too much.

Cooed baby voiced praises to him that had him whining happily, “What’s your name, sweet boy?”

“Riley.”

“Riley,” You repeated softly, caused him to bark loudly in response. Snickered quietly at the noise, “Nice to meet you too, Riley.”

“Sorry, he doesn’t usually bug people like this,” Simon apologized, tugging on his leash lightly to pull him away.

You stood up at that, shaking your head, “Don’t worry. I don’t mind at all he’s a sweetheart.”

“Got dog hair all over ya now.” Gestured to the hair decorated on your clothing.

You exhaled a chuckle, brushing the fur off as best you could, “No worries, I live up the block. On my way home, anyways, just on a run.”

“Think I might live across from you. Moved in a couple months ago, but haven’t really been around.”

“Oh, yes! Wondered who lived there for a while now,” Held your hand out for him to take, “Nice to finally meet you.”

Riley whined when Simon pulled him away, tried to follow after you when you continued your jog. Sat and watched you run away despite Simon’s tugging or lack there of.

After that there wasn’t a day they didn’t run into you. Simon always woke up too early, military sleeping schedule beat into his mind. Didn’t have pleasant enough dreams to keep sleeping most nights anyways. At least that was the excuse he created in his mind to validate his actions.

Maybe Riley was his wingman, pressed his nose against your calf every time he passed you. Caused you to stop and greet them both, gave Riley endless pets and scratches before you turned your attention to Simon with a pretty smile. Drenched in sweat and frizzy hair from running, but each look from you had his mouth drying. Didn’t care that he wore a balaclava, didn’t even ask, chose to focus on his eyes instead.

It became his favorite part of his days, looking forward to the small interaction he would have with you. No matter how insignificant it was, but nothing seemed to be that way with you. Asked how he was, how did his day go yesterday, and how was Riley doing? How was work? Tiring, of course. Maybe you should sleep more instead of waking up so early!

He would if he could, but then he wouldn’t get to see you. His pretty neighbor, too sweet for her own good.

The only other time he got to see you was through your windows in the evening. It’s not like he was watching you, really, he wasn’t a stalker. He just so happened to be by his living room window everytime you came home from work. 6 o’clock on the dot, 5 on Fridays, started your weekends early.

Watched you slip out of your car, different sundress every time, dressed just like a pretty doll. Flowy and ruffled, hid your figure well enough. Didn’t flaunt it, but he knew what was underneath it all. He had seen your silhouette through the dimly lit curtains, shadows of you peeling layers off to shower.

Simon wasn’t a pervert, he wasn’t desperate for these small glimpses every night. But didn’t you know you should be more careful sweetheart? There were perverts out there, you were lucky he wasn’t one. He only kept looking to protect you from the evils of the world just like Riley. Your two personal guard dogs.

The evils of other men that you never brought home. No boyfriend in sight. Never stayed out late, even on weekends. Stayed snuggled on your couch or cooked for most of your free time. A proper good girl. Just like in his fantasies when he was a little boy.

Cooking he wanted desperately to try, spent hours in your kitchen preparing god knows what. It’s not like Simon would even know what you were making, his countless store bought meals buried in his trash were evident enough. Hoped he might get a taste one day, melt on his tongue because he knew it would be delicious.

But maybe this is where he belonged, on the other side of the glass, staring at you from afar rather than enjoying the warmth of your home and cooking. So he cherished what he could get, the small greetings every morning, and the clockwork of watching you every night. Even if Riley wanted more.

973 notes · View notes

madebycloud · 7 months ago

Text

You're here that's the thing

jinx/powder x reader — 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

summary: home isn't a four walls and a roof nor the material things that fill in it. it's the warmth in jinx's eyes whenever she smiles at you, it's the little hands clinging to your shirt as they cross the street. home is right here. (requested by anon) warnings/themes: FLUFF!! domestic ig, vulnerability (???), slight angsty at the end but happy ending <3 words: 5.7k notes: i'm glad nothing bad happened at the ending and they all live happily ever after :D

You're chowing down on a steaming bowl of seafood at Jericho's. The flavors explode in your mouth. Delicious, delicious happiness.

A hooded figure quietly slides into the seat beside you. You catch a glimpse of blue hair before she lowers her hood.

“Bad day?” you ask, and the bluenette doesn't respond and steals your bowl from your hands. “I was eating-”

“-And you still are, it's fine,” she interrupts.

Life in Zaun is tough, especially after Silco's death, leaving room for chem barons to fight for power. What's new? Absolutely nothing.

You frown at her and watch her eat your food. “How was your day?”

She scoffs. “Shitty.”

“When is it not?”

She shrugs. “True.”

Then, a kid catches your eye. You nudge Jinx, nodding at the kid in the far corner. “Who's that?”

“Dunno. She's been following me.”

You look at the young girl who's been staring at you both, squinting at her as your gaze shifts back to Jinx. She takes notice of your questioning look and quickly says, “She's not mine.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You sure?”

She rolls her eyes. “She's not mine. Don't look at me like that.”

You glance at the kid again, watching as she slowly slinks into the shadows, hiding from view. “You hungry, kiddo?” you call out, gesturing towards the seat beside you.

The girl's eyes peek out from the shadows, widening as you catch her gaze. She hides again but emerges just a few seconds later, hesitantly creeping forward. Her eyes flit between you and Jinx for a few seconds before landing on the bowl of seafood.

She tries to hop up onto the stool, though it's a bit high for her, and you help her up. You order her a bowl of seafood like you and Jinx were having. She then begins eating, her hands stuffing her face.

You share a look with Jinx before looking back at the girl eating the bowl of seafood. You watch as she slurps down the food, barely noticing the juice running down her chin.

“Uh, so kid, where are your parents or guardian?” you question. “Shouldn't you be with them?”

She chews a bit, staring at you in response, then shakes her head.

“No one, huh?” you ask. “You don't have any family?”

She shakes her head again.

“No friends either?” Your question earns another head shake from the girl.

You and Jinx finish your food and pay Jericho, then head out into the busy lanes with the girl trailing after you. The kid sticks close to Jinx's side, eyeing any person who passes by.

You turn towards Jinx. “Can she stay with us?”

She looks at the child and back at you. “Do we even have a room for her?”

You consider the practical aspects of taking the kid in. The answer is likely ‘no’, but you're not about to leave a random kid on the streets, and you'd really prefer it if someone didn't die today.

“She could use your room,” you suggest. “I mean, you found her first.”

But Jinx isn't having it. “Nah, you're the one who brought it up, so it's your room.”

You and your parents once owned a house. Thanks to the all and mighty Piltover enforcers who played a role in your parents' disappearance, leaving the house unoccupied.

Seeing an opportunity, you claimed the house, not only for yourself but also for your close friend who, without it, would have nowhere to sleep comfortably.

“It's my house.”

“Our house,” she corrects, smirking. “Considering most of the stuff there comes from me, it's not just yours. So that means-”

Your brow furrows, and you stop in your tracks, planting your hands on your hips as you stare at her. “By ‘comes from you,’ do you mean the stuff you've stolen?”

“Finders keepers.”

You sigh, knowing you're not winning this argument. “Fine,” you relent. “She can sleep in my room. I'll take the couch.”

You then crouch down to meet the kid's gaze, Jinx standing beside you with her arms crossed. “What's your name, little one?” you ask, but the child remains wordless.

You glance at Jinx for help, but she's already thinking of names. “How about Pompom?”

You scoff at Jinx's suggestion before turning back to the kid who's eyeing you both with a frown on her face, shaking her head at the name 'Pompom.'

“No?” Jinx asks, and the girl shakes her head again. “Not into that one, huh? How about Pinky? or- or... Sparkles?”

Each time Jinx suggests a name, the little one shakes her head. You're both getting nowhere at this rate.

“You're going to be a pain, aren't you?” Jinx murmurs, crouching down beside you to see the kid at eye level. “No, no, and no to the names?”

“How about ‘Isha’?” you suggest.

The moment the name leaves your lips, the child's eyes light up.

“Isha, it is then.”

The kid—now called Isha—nods her head, and the look in her eyes is one of happiness. Who knew this kid was such a picky one? You think you see a small smile at the corner of her mouth.

“She likes ‘Isha’ more, huh?” Jinx says, a bit pouty. “Figures, it came from you.”

“What? It's a nice name.”

“Yeah, whatever.” She turns to Isha, poking the girl on the nose. “Well, Isha, you're stuck with us now.”

Isha's eyes dart between you and Jinx.

“More like we're the ones who are stuck with her,” you reply, chuckling, as you playfully ruffle the girl's hair.

—

It's been a full month since Isha started living under the same roof.

It's a rare sight to see Jinx with a soft expression, but whenever she's around the child, her face has a certain amount of… softer edges.

But not now, apparently.

You've walked into the living room and found Jinx making Isha hold a gun, teaching her how to shoot. You scoff, raising an eyebrow as you watch Jinx make the girl practice holding the weapon straight.

“Seriously?” you ask, crossing your arms.

“What? It's a fake gun,” she defends herself, adjusting the toy in the little girl's arms.

“That's not the point. She's just a kid.”

“Pft, ‘just’ a kid.” Jinx rolls her eyes. “It's harmless, I promise. Just a little fun.”

“If you're looking for something fun…” You reach into your bag and pull out a coloring book and colored markers. “I found these in the lanes,” you explain, offering the items to Isha. “Much better than play-shooting,” you suggest, giving a pointed look to Jinx before she can protest.

She watches as Isha's face lights up, her attention immediately shifting to the coloring book and markers. “But-”

“No buts. She's coloring now,” you cut her off, giving the book and markers into Isha's waiting hands.

Jinx lets out a sigh, dissatisfied, but she doesn't protest further. She pouts and leans back against the wall, watching as Isha happily colors in the book.

You join Isha, sitting next to her. Her hands grip the markers tightly as she fills the pages with colors. “Making something nice?” you ask, peering over her shoulder to see her work.

Isha nods, her tongue sticking out of her mouth as she carefully adds some color. She glances at you, offering a shy smile before returning to her drawing.

Once Isha is finished with her drawing, she proudly holds it up for you and Jinx to see. The drawing shows three stick figures on a bright blue sky. The two tallest figures, with one that has what looks like braids, are holding hands with the small one in the middle. The three figures smile under the sun.

“Wow, look at that! It's us, all together.”

Jinx, though reluctant at first, can't help but crack a smile too. “Why are my eyes so big?” She snickers, pointing at the large eyes drawn on her figure.

Your eyes catch a look at the squiggly line below your drawn figure, and you point a finger out. “And what's that supposed to be, hm?”

Isha giggles, a blush creeping up her face.

Jinx leans in to get a better look before letting out a snort. “It's your shadow, duh.”

“In that case, my shadow looks like it ate too much and grew extra limbs.”

“Well, if your shadow's a glutton, mine's got tentacles.” She points to her shadow drawing, which indeed looks like it has several wriggly appendages attached to it.

“You know, I think this is fridge-worthy,” you grin, holding up the drawing. “What do you think, Isha? Do you want to put this on the fridge?” You turn to Isha, who nods excitedly, clapping her hands together.

You hand the drawing to Isha, who eagerly takes it to the fridge. You follow her, lifting her up so she can stick the drawing against the fridge. She smooths out any wrinkles and carefully adjusts it until she's satisfied.

“Ta-da!” you say, as the drawing now has a permanent place of honor on the fridge.

“Not too shabby, squirt,” Jinx says.

Isha grins at the compliment, preening at the words of approval.

Jinx chuckles before gesturing towards the drawing. “Maybe one day we'll see this piece in a Piltover museum, valued at a million golden hexes.”

“Only a million? I think it's worth a lot more. Maybe we should start an auction right here and now.”

Isha giggles, her small fingers tracing the colors on her drawing again.

“Alright, alright, don't go getting ideas. We don't need some fancy Piltie art collector trying to buy this and hang it in their mansion.”

“Come on, Jinx.” You nudge her. “Don't you think it'd be hilarious to see this hanging in some fancy mansion surrounded by all those fancy Piltover paintings? Maybe we should get Isha to make more of this and turn this whole place into a gallery.”

—

You meant ‘place’ not your face.

Lying down on the couch, you squint your eyes open as you feel a moist sensation along your face. When your vision clears, you see Isha, giggling, marker in hand, and running away as fast as her legs can carry her.

“Isha-” you call out, sitting up, touching your cheek. It's covered in... marker? “You little rascal, come here!”

The sound of a door opening makes you pause. Turning, you see Jinx standing there, half-asleep and clearly irritated.

“What the hell is going on here?” she grumbles, rubbing her eyes.

A snicker escapes Isha's lips.

“Looks like you've got a new makeup look, Jinx.”

“What?” she asks, her voice still groggy from sleep.

Silence.

Jinx looks at you, at Isha's hand, at the streak of color on your cheek, and finally, places her own hand on her cheek. A wet mark of color spreads on her fingertips.

“Isha.”

You and Jinx exchange a glance. Grins matching hers. Without hesitation, you both rush after Isha, who breaks into a run.

Just as she turns a corner, you quickly change direction and outstretch your hands, successfully scooping her up into your arms and spinning her around, her hands grasping at your shirt and arms around your neck as she continues to giggle.

While still holding Isha, you see Jinx's eyes as her hand darts towards a nearby marker and begins to draw on Isha's face.

Isha squirms and laughs in your arms, trying to escape your grasp. Jinx continues to draw on her face, not holding back as she draws lines across the girl's cheeks and chin.

“Come on, lemme finish it.” A few more ink-blots make their way onto the girl's face before she's set down. “Ta-da!” Jinx declares, wiping her hands on her pants.

Isha, still giggling, runs to the nearest mirror. She turns her head from side to side, admiring her new ‘makeover’ from Jinx.

A tug at your heartstrings, and you steal a glance at Jinx, watching her smile at Isha.

Her hair is messy from sleep, a few strands falling into her face and framing her cheeks. Her eyes are still heavy with sleep, heavy-lidded and bleary.

Even in the first light of the sun, even just after waking, she's beautiful.

You look away, hoping Jinx didn't notice you staring at her with that expression written all over your face.

But Isha doesn't miss that. She looks between you and Jinx, her mind catches up and connects the dots, and a sly grin slowly spreads across her face.

Oh. She knows something that you'd prefer to keep hidden.

—

Isha's been down with a cold.

Today, you made her a bowl of porridge. Jinx volunteered to help.

You stand at the stove, stirring the porridge, with Jinx by your side, carefully cutting up some fresh fruit to mix into the meal. You ladle the porridge into a bowl, checking to make sure it's just the right temperature for Isha's sore throat.

You look down at the bowl, satisfied with the consistency and temperature, before moving it onto a tray along with a spoon, a glass of water, and the bowl of fruit.

You walk towards Isha's room, with Jinx following close behind. Pushing open the door gently, you enter the room to find Isha sitting up in her bed, her blankets piled around her. Her face is flushed from the fever, and she looks tired, but her eyes light up when she sees the tray in your hands.

“Here's your porridge,” you say, setting it down on the bedside table.

Jinx moves to the other side of the bed, sitting down next to Isha and placing a hand on her forehead. “You're still a bit warm.”

Isha nods weakly, trying to suppress a cough.

“But that porridge should help,” you add, sitting down on the edge of the bed and offering the bowl to Isha. “Slow sips, okay? don't want you getting a tummy ache on top of everything else.”

Isha accepts the bowl and sips the porridge carefully.

“There you go.”

Once she's done, Jinx continues to check on her, fluffing her pillows, adjusting the blankets, and giving her the occasional pat on the head.

—

It's late evening.

Jinx sits cross-legged on the floor, her back resting against the footboard of the bed where Isha is lying down. The little girl's eyes are focused on Jinx, her hands covering her face partially as if trying to stay up a bit longer.

Jinx tells a story she learned from Vander, one that he used to tell her when she was a child. A story about miners getting stuck in a mine and rescued by a mysterious, wisp-like woman that guided them to safety.

When Jinx finishes the story, she glances at Isha, expecting her to be asleep by now. But she just lies there and watches Jinx.

Peeking through the door, you expect to find Isha asleep, but she is still wide awake. Jinx looks like she's wracking her brain to think of more stories, still determined to get the little girl to sleep.

You chuckle as you settle down on the floor next to Jinx. “She's not tired yet, huh?” you whisper.

“No, not yet,” she replies. “I've run out of stories to tell and she doesn't seem even a bit sleepy.”

“She's just like you.”

“Hush,” she says, trying to suppress a smile. “I'm not the one keeping her awake right now.”

“Well, neither of us are helping,” you point out, looking at the little girl who's staring at you both. “Isha, it's time for bed. You need to close your eyes and sleep.”

Isha pouts, clearly not wanting to go to sleep just yet. She looks at Jinx and then at you, her eyes pleading for another story.

“Come on, kid,” Jinx says. “It's well past your bedtime. No more stories.”

Isha's pout deepens, her bottom lip jutting out stubbornly.

You sigh and stand up from the floor, walking over to a nearby bookshelf where you keep various children's books and comics. After a quick rummage, you find a colorful comic book that should interest Isha.

You return to the bed, carrying the comic book, and sit down next to Jinx again. Isha leans forward, her eyes immediately drawn to the book in your hands.

“Found one,” you say, holding up the comic book for the little girl to see. Her eyes light up when she recognizes the vibrant cover.

Flipping open the comic book to the first page, you begin reading aloud about a group of animals in a forest. Isha listens intently, snuggled up in bed, her eyes darting between the images and your face as you read the story.

“Every day, these animals would wake up early,” you read, pointing to the drawing of the animals waking up and stretching. “Some would eat breakfast, some went to play, and some went to search for food.”

“One particularly lazy squirrel woke up late.” You turn over the page to reveal a picture of a sleepy squirrel yawning and rubbing his eyes as the other animals were already out of their nests.

“By the time he woke up, all the nuts were already gone.” You flip over the page again to reveal an image of the squirrel, now wide awake, searching for something to eat but finding nothing but empty trees and bushes.

“The squirrel was shocked and saddened that the nuts had run. But then,” you change your tone dramatically, “one of the rabbits heard the squirrel's cries and decided to help him!”

You turn the page again. “The rabbit, seeing the squirrel's plight, decided to share his own breakfast with him.”

“The squirrel was delighted and grateful,” you read, and you turn the page to show an image of the squirrel happily sharing the nut with the rabbit. “The two of them ate and ate together, until their tummies were full and they fell asleep in a heap on the forest floor!”

You glance up from the book and see that Isha has finally fallen asleep. Her small head is now lying on her pillow, and a smile graces her lips, as if she were dreaming about the animals from the comic book.

You close the comic book and set it down, but then there's a weight on your shoulder.

Looking to the side, you see Jinx, who has fallen asleep. Her head rests on your shoulder, and her hair tickles your neck. Her mouth slightly open, softly... wait, is that snoring?

It's an odd but endearing sight, your heart might have just skipped a few beats.

A strand of blue hair falls over her eyes. Your fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and brush the hair away from her face.

Don't. It would be a small action, but you know that it might wake her up, and the last thing you want is to deal with a grumpy face and her snarky comment.

But your hand moves as if it has a mind of its own. Inch by inch, your fingers close the gap, gently brushing a strand of her blue hair back behind her ear.

Jinx lets out a sigh, her head instinctively leaning into your hand, craving, demanding your touch.

Your eyes trace her face. You want to remember every subtle curve, every freckle, every lash.

There are no words for how much you want her, long for her. It's a feeling like an ache, a need for something, and that something is Jinx. It's a hunger, a need that no food can satisfy.

To love her is to be consumed.

You want to pour out all the words you've ever known, every poem, every line, every phrase, just to try to describe the feelings that have taken root within your heart.

‘Love’ has such a simple, mundane, and tame definition, it doesn't even come close.

Perhaps there's a word to describe your feelings in a distant language long forgotten or even a language yet to be discovered.

Until then, you burn for her.

Perhaps it's for the best that those words exist only in your mind because those words are yours and no one else's.

Until then, you burn for her.

Perhaps it's best that you're the only one who knows this burning, that this aching and desperate desire does not fall on any other ears than your own.

Until then, you burn for her.

Perhaps one day she'll look at you the way you look at her.

Until then, you burn for her.

And for the fire to burn, there must be something for it to devour.

You want to be that something. You want to be that flame she feeds upon. You want to be the match to her gas, the gasoline to her explosion, the tinder to her flame.

To love her is to be consumed.

You're tempted to brush through her hair again, but you hold yourself back. You don't want to risk ruining the moment, ruining her. You pull your hand back, away from her face, and settle on resting it against your thigh instead.

Then Jinx slowly stirs from her sleep. She lifts her head from your shoulder, her heavy-lidded eyes meeting yours, then your mouth, then back to your eyes again.

She swallows hard, her throat bobbing slightly, causing you to question your own sanity. Are you hallucinating? Is it just your imagination? You wonder if your mind is playing tricks on you. Your thoughts are fogged by the way she's looking at you.

Finally, Jinx breaks the silence. “You're staring.”

You blink. “I–” you start to respond, then realize how stupid and obvious it sounds. “Just making sure you didn't drool on me.”

She snorts, her hand pushing your face away from hers.

“Hey!” you say, putting a palm to your face.

You watch as Jinx stands up, heading towards the door, opening it slightly, and pausing to look back at you. “Good night.”

“Night, Jinx,” you reply, one hand still resting on your face.

Just before the door closes, you catch a glimpse of her face—eyes averted, cheeks flushed, and a small smile on her face.

You hear a soft, barely suppressed giggle coming from Isha's bed. Confused, you turn to look at her, only to find her looking at you with a wide grin.

“Isha,” you say, surprised, “I thought you were asleep!”

—

“You could have warned me,” Sevika grumbles. Isha continues to focus on coloring her hat.

“Fat chance,” Jinx responds, turning to face Sevika. “About what?”

Sevika glares at her, obviously displeased. “Your stunt at the checkpoint.”

“No idea what you're babbling about.”

“That wasn't you?” She scoffs.

Jinx pauses, realization crossing her face. She glances at Isha with a knowing look, noticing the smirk on the child's face.

The conversation with Sevika continues, with Jinx growing more and more restless as it does. Once the discussion is over, Jinx rises from her spot. “I gotta go bother someone,” she says, before walking out.

You notice the look on Isha's face. Disappointment.

“Let's go, Isha,” you say, already grabbing a bat and some small balls. You don't wait for a response, signaling for her to follow as you head to the door.

—

It's late, the sun having set and the moon now high in the sky. You and Isha had spent the previous hours playing, but Jinx still hasn't returned. Concerned, the two of you look for her.

Isha rides on your shoulder, her small hands gripping your hair. She looks at the surroundings for any sign of Jinx. After some time walking and climbing, you end up on a rooftop. You both climb carefully, making sure not to fall.

You spot Jinx, perched on the edge. She's sitting with her knees against her chest, looking out at Piltover.

You gently place Isha down, giving her a subtle nudge, gesturing towards Jinx. Isha catches your cue, nods quietly, and slowly approaches Jinx. The kid carefully settled herself down beside the bluenette. Her legs dangling off the ledge of the rooftop.

You take a seat on the other side of Isha, settling down with a soft rustle of fabric.

Jinx continues to stare out at the city. “You guys found me, huh?”

Isha shifts her position, moving closer. You notice that she's looking up at Jinx, her head resting against her arm. Jinx glances at the child. She reaches over to ruffle Isha's hair affectionately.

“Couldn't stay away.”

“Yeah,” she mutters, “I guess you two are pretty stubborn.”

You chuckle. “You sound like you're surprised that we'd look for you.”

“You never give up, do you?”

“Nope,” you reply. “Not when it comes to you.”

You reposition yourself, shifting your body so that you can lean back and rest a hand on the cold, gritty rooftop. Jinx moves herself into a more relaxed position, leaning back and placing her hand on the rooftop next to yours. With her other hand, she pats at Isha, gesturing for the child to lie down.

Isha obliges, her small body now sprawled out across Jinx's lap. She fidgets a bit, beginning to tire.

Watching over the city below while the moon hangs low in the night sky, a familiar touch breaks the silence, fingertips seeking yours. There's a gentle pressure, a gentle caress, that causes your hand to twitch involuntarily, yet you don't pull away.

You stare down at her hand, at her slender fingers, her knuckles.

You know what those hands are capable of. You've seen the destruction they can cause, the destruction she can cause. And yet, here they are, resting against you with a gentleness and vulnerability.

Your eyes return to Jinx, watching her watch the glowing lights of Piltover.

“Your hands are cold,” she says as she continues tracing lazy circles with the pads of her fingers. You hadn't even realized how cold your hand had felt until she pointed it out, and now it seems to be burning under her touch. “Ever thought about wearing gloves?”

“Gloves?” you repeat.

“Hm, I guess not.” Her fingers suddenly stop their tracing, and for a moment, you feel disappointed. But she quickly resumes, her thumb brushing over your wrist.

Your eyes dart down to follow the action, watching as her skin meets yours. You hear her huff softly, but you're too busy watching her hand at work to look up and see what kind of expression she's making.

“I can feel it.”

“Feel… what?”

“Your heart.” Her hand stops its circular motion, and instead her forefinger starts tracing your veins. “It's beating fast. It's like...” she trails off, and her finger pauses on your pulse point, like she's counting something.

Then Isha shifts in Jinx's lap, her body stirring slightly. Both you and Jinx turn your attention towards the girl. Jinx lifts her free hand and pats Isha's head reassuringly. Her touch is soft and careful, not wanting to disturb the sleeping girl. With Isha settled, Jinx turns her attention back to you.

She studies you for a moment, her eyes roaming your face, then she suddenly releases your hand. The sudden absence of her touch feels like a loss.

Jinx sits back, creating a bit of space between the two of you.

You blink, confused and disoriented, but you don't move from where you're sitting. “What's on your mind?”

“Just thinking.”

You frown. “About what?”

“About you.”

“Me?”

Jinx glances down at the sleeping Isha, a smile at her lips. “Yeah, and Isha,” she says, her hand absently playing with the child's hair. Her eyes then dart back to you. “Mostly you, though.”

“What... what about us?”

“I've got a habit of bringing trouble wherever I go. I just-” she begins. “I don't want anything bad to happen to either of you... because of me.”

You look at her, your eyes softening. You reach out a hand but stop before you touch her, unsure if she even wants you to. “Jinx...”

Her eyes search yours before she looks down at Isha. “I'm not sure what I'd do if something happened to you… either of you.” She pauses. “I care too much,” she blurts out, looking back up at you. “And honestly, it scares me. I don't want to mess everything up. Everyone I've ever cared about has gotten hurt by me or because of me.”

“That's not true. You wouldn't mess anything up. You-”

“Don't.” That single, quiet word cuts you off, her face hardening. “Don't say that.”

You can't seem to find the right words. What do you say to someone who's been abandoned and never had anyone until now? It feels like you're walking on thin ice, and you don't want to break anything.

So you stay quiet for a moment. Then, you try again. “I… we are not going anywhere.”

“You don't know what could happen.”

“Yes, I do,” you murmur. “I know there's a chance we might end up hurt. Or worse. But that's a risk I'm willing to take. Because being with you, right now, is worth it.”

For a while, she doesn't look at you, but her eyes dart over to Isha, her expression softening before she turns away. Her eyes then meet yours.

“You trust me.”

“Yes. I do.”

You reach out slowly, giving her enough time to pull away if she wanted to. But she doesn't, and your fingers find their way to her cheek, gently cupping her face.

“I care about you too,” you murmur, your thumb tracing a path over her cheekbone. “I care about the person you are, not just the person you think you are. I see the good in you, the good that you struggle to see in yourself.”

Your thumb continues tracing the contour of her cheek, her face so close that you could count the freckles and the flecks of lighter blue in her eyes.

“You're afraid. You're terrified of the possibility of me or Isha getting hurt. I understand. But you need to realize,” you pause, your fingers drop down to her chin, coaxing her to look at you, which she does. “You're not a curse. You're not a jinx. Bad things happen, but that doesn't mean it's your fault. It's not your fault-”

“I know.” She trembles under your touch. Her eyes glisten.

“No, listen to me. It's not your fault.”

“I know-” she croaks out, her eyes averting to your hand on her face, then to Isha, then to the city below.

“It's not your fault,” you repeat. A single tear manages to escape her eyes, trickling down her cheek. “You were just a child.”

“But I should have known. I should have—They're gone because of me. It's my fault.”

“No, no, no, it's not your fault. You were just a child. You were doing what you thought was the best to help them, to protect them.” Your thumb gently wipes the tear away, but it's quickly replaced with another one.

“It's not your fault,” you repeat again, your fingers leaving her cheek to brush over her bangs. “That was not your fault, and none of it was your fault.”

She looks at the city, refusing to meet your gaze as her eyes water.

“Please,” you murmur. “Look at me.”

She doesn't respond, but she slowly turns her head to meet your eyes.

“You are not defined by your past, by your mistakes. You are so much more than that. You are loved.” Your fingers move to trace her jawline before moving slowly upwards to her temple. “By me, by Isha. And by many more people than you realize.”

She leans into your touch, her cheek pressing against your palm. She grips your wrists weakly, her hands trembling. The tears flowing down her cheeks get worse, and it hurts you to see her like this.

“It's okay, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere,” you say. “No matter what happens, you hear me? I'm here to stay. We're here to stay. You're stuck with us.”

Slowly, the tears begin to subside. Her breathing steadies. Her body calming down.

You let your fingers slowly shift from her tear stained cheeks to her hair, playing with the strands. “I'll do everything in my power to keep both of you safe.” Your hands move down to her shoulders, giving her a gentle squeeze.

“I'm not some damsel in distress,” she mutters.

You laugh. “I know you're not. You'd probably kick my ass if I tried to treat you like one. But even the toughest people need someone to have their backs, right?”

Jinx huffs, though you can see the edges of a smile on her face. “That's a cheesy line.”

“Maybe,” you admit. “But it's still true. You don't have to face everything alone.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, her hand resuming its gentle stroking of Isha’s hair. “You're annoyingly stubborn, you know that?”

“And yet?”

“And yet somehow I tolerate you.”

Sensing the change in atmosphere, Isha mumbles incoherently, shifting slightly.

“Looks like someone's stirring,” Jinx coos.

With one final pat on Jinx's shoulder, you withdraw your hand, silently communicating that the moment is over, for now. Her shoulders tense at the loss of your touch, disappointment or perhaps longing in her eyes. But she quickly composes herself.

The little girl slowly opens her eyes, blinking sleepily and looking around. She rubs one eye with a fist, then glances up as if just realizing that she's in Jinx's lap. Isha grins brightly when she sees Jinx, her tired eyes lighting up. She wriggles a bit, stretching her limbs and looking surprisingly cheerful despite being woken up.

“I think we should head back. It's getting late.”

Jinx nods, carefully shifting Isha in her arms as she stands up. The child wraps her arms around Jinx's neck, clinging to her like a monkey.

“Alright, kid, time to head home,” she tells Isha, bouncing her up in her arms. The girl giggles and buries her head into the crook of Jinx's neck. “Ready to go?”

You nod, gesturing for them to lead the way. Isha stretches out a hand towards you, wanting to hold onto you too.

“Looks like you've got a fan.”

“Nah, she just likes me that much.”

“That so?” Jinx huffs. “Or is she just using you to get to me?”

“You know she'd choose my company over yours any day.”

“Oh, so that's how it is, huh?” She pokes Isha gently in the stomach, causing another giggle from the child. “Traitor,” she mutters before addressing you again. “I'm wounded, really.”

“You'll survive,” you assure her. “Somehow.”

The warmth of Isha's grasp on your hand. The giggle that escapes her every time Jinx spins her around. The way Jinx's eyes soften when she looks at the child.

This, you realize, is what it feels like to have a home.

notes: im so excited for act 4 on saturday!

2K notes · View notes